‘Nobody’s been in touch with me, except you, OK?’ said Zacharias, now looking panicky.
‘Look,’ said the detective, with a carefully calculated air of circumspection, ‘I only want information on Rupert. If the police think I’m messing with their investigation, or warning suspects—’
‘What d’you mean, “suspects”? Why – suspected of what?’
‘When did you leave for Kenya?’
‘Why?’
‘Because if you left after the murder was all over the British news, I can’t be accused of giving you details you already knew.’
‘I – what?’ said Zacharias, clearly thrown. ‘Wait – is this that silver shop thing?’
‘How did you know that?’ said Strike sharply, as though Zacharias had suspicious inside knowledge.
‘Because Decima said something about it, but that’s bloody ridiculous, I looked it all up online and the police found out it was some thief—’
‘There’ve been developments since then, but I probably shouldn’t – thanks for your time, anyway.’
Once again, Strike stretched out his hand to close the window.
‘Hang on! They – what? They actually think that body was Rupert? That’s just – that’s bullshit!’ said Zacharias, now looking thoroughly panicked.
‘D’you have a concrete reason for thinking that?’ asked Strike. ‘Have you been in touch with him since the body was found?’
‘No, but that doesn’t – it
‘Were you aware Rupert had an antique silver ship he wanted to dispose of?’
‘No,’ said Zacharias, looking genuinely confused.
‘He stole it because he needed cash to get Dredge off his back, after you fucked off to Kenya.’
‘I never told him to nick any bloody silver ship!’ said Zacharias, now turning slowly purple. ‘If he did that, it’s on him!’
He reached out of shot for a glass of what might have been water or gin, and took a large swig.
‘So it’s news to you Rupert might’ve got his head bashed in, because you don’t pay your debts?’
‘I don’t even know who this Dredge—’
‘Spare me the bullshit,’ said Strike. ‘We both know you’re not in Kenya for the scenery. When did you last hear from Rupert?’
‘Not since we moved out of our house.’
‘Any idea where he might’ve gone, if he wasn’t the body in the silver vault?’
‘I dunno – back to Switzerland, maybe, gone to be a ski instructor or something? He speaks German and Italian. It’s what
‘Probably not much demand for ski instructors in May, which is the last definite sighting of Rupert,’ said Strike.
‘He could’ve stayed with his aunt and uncle in Zurich, before the season started.’
‘His aunt says Rupert’s in New York.’
‘Well, then, he probably is.’
‘Did he ever talk to you about getting a job in New York?’
‘No, not that I can remember – look, if he’s run off somewhere, it’s nothing to do with me, OK?’ said Lorimer. ‘I never made him steal anything! He was all over the fucking place, in that fucked-up relationship – she’s nearly forty, that Longcaster woman! I think he had a fucking Oedipiddle complex, or something.’
‘Oedipiddle complex?’
‘Yeah, you know, when you want to screw your mother,’ said Zacharias. ‘I’m telling you, he was going weird in the head before I left. Ripping up his clothes and shit.’
‘What d’you mean, ripping—?’
‘Tish not told you about that?’ said Zacharias, with a sneer.
‘This is your girlfriend?’
‘Ex-girlfriend. She probably knows where he is, go ask her, they were cosying up by the end.’
‘They were romantically involved?’
‘No,’ said Zacharias, scowling, but Strike suspected a different kind of betrayal; perhaps that the pair had bonded over mutual fear of Dredge’s displaced revenge.
‘What’s Tish’s surname?’
‘Benton, Tish Benton,’ said Zacharias with a promptitude that suggested a vengeful hope that Strike would redirect his unnerving attention towards his ex.
‘Have you got a number for her?’
‘Not a current one.’
‘Any idea where she’s living?’
‘No,’ said Zacharias. ‘Try her parents, they’re in Hampshire.’
Strike made a note, then said,
‘What was that about Rupert ripping up his clothes?’
‘Not his
‘When did Rupert tear up his T-shirt?’
‘I don’t know, not long before I left…’
Zacharias glanced at something out of the frame of the shot, possibly an approaching employer, because he next said,
‘I’m going to have to go, I’ve got work to do.’
‘What are you up to, over there?’ asked Strike.
‘Eco-lodge tourism stuff,’ said Zacharias dourly.
It was, Strike thought, the twenty-first century equivalent of shunting off the unsatisfactory son to the colonies. Possibly the ease with which Zacharias’s family had provided him with a comfortable sinecure accounted for the throwaway suggestion that Rupert Fleetwood might have disappeared to the Alps to become a ski instructor.
‘Can I ask one last question?’ said Strike.
‘What?’ said Zacharias ungraciously.
‘Did either you or Rupert know a man called Osgood, or Oz?’
‘No,’ said Zacharias.