‘No,’ said Jade, ‘’e ’ad burns on ’is back as well as a sort of dent on the back of ’is ’ead. I never knew ’ow it ’appened because he never told me what ’e was doin’ on operations. But ’is best friend in the Regiment, Ben, got killed same time Niall got injured. They ’ad to keep tellin’ Niall before ’e took it in. “Where’s Ben?” “’Ow’s Ben?” Ben was Niall’s bes’ man,’ said Jade, with another sob. ‘Everyfing went wrong… I go’ pregnant, an’ then we go’ married, an’ then I lost it, and then, like a monf later, ’e was injured. When ’e come out the coma – after Ben dyin’ – I felt so fuckin’ lucky… and then ’e fuckin’ disappeared…’
‘I’m sorry,’ Strike repeated.
Accidental pregnancies, miscarriages: he was again unwillingly reminded of Bijou Watkins, and of Charlotte, who, in the dying days of their relationship, had claimed to have lost a baby he’d never been certain existed.
They walked slowly back to Jade’s house, making desultory talk, the mud-covered Strike in mounting pain. As they approached her front door she paused and said awkwardly,
‘I’d ask you in, but I’ve gotta go ou’ in a minute.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Strike, who was certain this was a lie, and that she didn’t want him meeting Ginger Moustache. ‘I’ve got a car, I’ll clean up at my hotel. Thanks for meeting me.’
He couldn’t offer her his hand, because it was covered in mud, so made a vague salute and turned away. He’d been limping for thirty seconds or so when he heard a shout behind him.
‘Hey, Cameron!’
She’d caught up with him, her mobile in her hand.
‘I took a picture of tha’ note Niall left me, on my pillow. If you wan’ it, you can ’ave it. I’ll text it you.’
‘That’d be great,’ said Strike, ‘thanks very much.’
‘OK, well… good luck findin’ out ’oo that body was,’ she said, then turned, walked back to her husband’s house, and the new man who was waiting for her there.
60
John Oxenham
Four hundred and fifty miles away, Robin was standing in an industrial estate in Walthamstow, watching the entrance of a large storage unit that housed God’s Own Junkyard. This was a combination of shop, hire service and museum containing hundreds of neon signs, some reclaimed from old businesses, others made to order. Robin had got a glimpse of the blazing Technicolor interior while the models, photographer, make-up artist and assorted underlings had been taking in racks of clothes and accessories. She’d also caught a brief glimpse of stylist Valentine Longcaster, who she recognised from the pictures she’d found online. He had dirty blond hair with a long fringe and was wearing black jeans, a red shirt and a multicoloured waistcoat. Valentine had posted a few arty shots of neon signs on his Instagram the previous week, and, in response to a question from somebody who seemed to be a friend, had said he was ‘prepping for photoshoot Tues’.
Robin’s excitement about what she’d found out that morning from Tia Thompson had somewhat dissipated, and not only because it was bitingly cold, and awkward to be standing amid pallets and parked vans while curious car mechanics passed her, one of them scratching the two inches of buttock visible above the waistband of his sagging jeans. No, the main reason for Robin’s increased misery was that she’d recognised one of the models who’d entered the storage unit: Ciara Porter, tall and angular-looking, with milk-white skin and white blonde hair. The papers never failed to remind readers of gossip columns that Ciara had a degree in English from Cambridge, but to Robin, she’d forever be one of the women Cormoran Strike had slept with. London was littered with them, apparently: possibly she’d sat opposite one of them on the bus just now, or been served coffee by another before boarding it…
Robin doubted she was going to get anything at all out of these hours of surveillance in the cold. She couldn’t enter God’s Own Junkyard, because it was closed to the public for the photoshoot, and when Valentine eventually emerged, all he had to do was get into a car and drive away from her; she had no way of forcing him to talk to her about Rupert Fleetwood. However, she was still glad – if this resentment and misery could be called gladness – to have found a pretext to avoid that damn Lake District hotel.
There was a mechanic a short distance away, tinkering with a car. He was wearing a bandana over the lower half of his face, like a bandit. Robin wished she had one, too, even if it might look odd. She could no longer feel her lips or toes.
Her phone rang: Murphy.
‘Hi, Ryan.’
‘I need to ask you something,’ he said, sounding angry.