He found only two vaguely relevant threads. The first, dated 2015, was discussing how many decorated soldiers were Freemasons. K of the East: Paddy Mayne, one of the founder members of the SAS, definitely was. Died in a collision with a parked tractor in Ireland, after a masonic dinner. Jeroboam9: Pretty sure Austin ‘Fuzz’ Hussey (also SAS, Battle of Mirbat) was a mason. Harry O’Dim: Not true about Hussey, but Johnson Beharry VC definitely is.
The only other mention of the army Strike could find was a further short exchange. St Geo: Is it true a Sublime Prince of the Royal Secret died in Op Toral? DeMolay: Yes St Geo: ‘a combat of two religions, meeting head to head, like two goats of darkness on the bridge of the Infinite’ - Pike
Strike re-read the quotation. Something was nagging at him… bridges…
His mobile rang and he saw the number of his friend and longest-standing police contact, Eric Wardle.
‘Hi,’ he said, answering. ‘What’s up?’
‘You got photos of the silver shop body,’ said Wardle.
‘Ah,’ said Strike. Unlike Robin, his pulse didn’t start racing on learning that the Met knew this. ‘Problem?’
‘Well, the team working the case is seriously fucked off at you,’ said Wardle. ‘Guy who leaked them to you’s been suspended.’
‘For the record, it was done on a subcontractor’s own initiative. Not saying I’m not pleased to have the pictures, though.’
‘She’s a shit-stirrer, that Kim Cochran,’ said Wardle, whose tone was flat. ‘She’s caused trouble on every job she worked, from what I’ve heard. Man-eater.’
Strike chose to pretend he hadn’t heard that.
‘What are they more worried about, that I’ve got the pictures, or that they fucked up, claiming the body was Knowles?’
‘Both. And they probably think you’re about to upstage them. Again.’
‘It’s not them I’d be upstaging if I identify that body, it’d be Malcolm Truman,’ said Strike. ‘Are they going to own the mistake, or keep pretending it was Knowles?’
‘Dunno. Just thought you should know, they’ll be looking for any reason to clobber you, if you get under their feet.’
‘Warning noted,’ said Strike. ‘Any line on what happened to Knowles’ body yet?’
‘No idea. I’m signed off work.’
‘You ill?’ asked Strike.
‘Not really,’ said Wardle. Then, evidently feeling this required explanation, he said, ‘Doctor says it’s depression.’
‘Ah,’ said Strike, ‘right.’
Wardle had lost his brother to a hit-and-run a few years previously. Strike knew he’d been trying to act as a surrogate father to his four nephews and nieces ever since. Meanwhile, Wardle’s wife had left him, taking their own three-month-old baby with her.
‘Thinking of getting out, actually,’ said Wardle.
‘Of the Met?’ said Strike, keen to clarify what Wardle meant. Men sometimes took a different way out. He’d known a couple.
‘Yeah,’ said Wardle. ‘I’m just… fucking tired.’
‘Job at the agency, any time you fancy taking it,’ said Strike. ‘Change of pace. Friendly team – if you don’t count me, obviously.’
‘Huh,’ said Wardle, in a forced laugh.
‘Fancy a pint when I get back to London?’
‘Yeah, all right. Where are you?’
‘Scotland,’ said Strike. ‘I’ll call you when I get back to town.’
‘Right,’ said Wardle, though he didn’t sound enthusiastic.
Call finished, Strike looked out of the window, feeling even more depressed. The rain was falling more thickly outside. He pulled out his vape, caught the censorious eye of the waitress, put it back in his pocket and ordered a second coffee.
62
Ubi honor non est
Ibi contemptus est
Ibi injuria frequens
Nulla
Robert Browning
It was half past six and dark on the industrial estate. Most of the people moving in and out of the units surrounding God’s Own Junkyard had disappeared, though a few stragglers remained, for which Robin was grateful, because it made her own presence seem less odd.
Finally, the door of Unit Twelve opened, and Robin saw the neon blaze of the interior again, and watched as the three models exited, talking and lighting cigarettes as they reached fresh air, each wrapped in a coat. At last, when the racks of clothes had been rolled into one van, and the photographer and his assistant had packed away their equipment, Valentine Longcaster emerged, pausing to light a cigarette and chat with the models. Feeling it was now or never, and so cold she no longer really cared if she met a rebuff, Robin approached the group.
‘Mr Longcaster?’
Valentine turned.