‘My name’s Robin Ellacott. I’m a private detective and I wondered whether I could have a word with you about Rupert Fleetwood.’
Robin was very aware of four pairs of eyes fixed on her. Ciara Porter in particular – so pale she seemed illuminated in the dark – was goggling at her, and one of the other models, who had a short black pixie cut, gave a little gasp and said in an audible whisper to Ciara:
‘Wait…
‘I think it must be, yeah,’ drawled Valentine, exhaling smoke.
Convinced he was going to refuse to talk, Robin was taken aback when he said,
‘OK. Let’s talk about Rupert fucking Fleetwood.’
The model with the pixie cut laughed.
‘There’s a restaurant not far from here,’ said Robin, who certainly wasn’t going to interview Valentine in front of an audience. ‘We could talk there, if you like?’
‘Doubt there’s anything to “like” in Walthamstow,’ said Valentine. ‘Fine. I’ll follow you in my car.’
‘I didn’t come in a car,’ said Robin. ‘It’s a short walk. Just a couple of minutes.’
‘Then I’ll see you there,’ said Valentine. ‘What’s it called?’
‘Arte e Pasta,’ said Robin. ‘It’s just round the—’
‘I’ll find it.’
‘Right,’ said Robin. ‘I’ll wait for you there, then.’
She turned and walked away. Behind her, she heard Valentine make some unintelligible comment, and a burst of laughter.
The small restaurant, which lay three minutes’ walk away, had a mural painted on the outer wall. Robin was far too cold to wait for Valentine outside, so headed indoors and secured a table for two beneath a high ceiling that was partly corrugated iron. Coloured lanterns hung from iron bars above the tables and children’s drawings were pinned up on the wall. Robin doubted it was Valentine Longcaster’s kind of place.
Twenty minutes passed with no sign of Longcaster. Robin ordered herself a mineral water and checked her email. Pat had sent a message to both Robin and Strike saying that the local paper had refused to give contact details for the Mohamed family, which made no sense to Robin until she saw the attachment about Hafsa, the nine-year-old Syrian refugee. Hafsa’s picture showed a little girl with a sweet, heart-shaped face and enormous, thick-lashed eyes. Robin was still examining this when she sensed someone looming over her and looked up to see Valentine.
While silhouetted by the neon glow of God’s Own Junkyard, Valentine could have passed for twenty-five, because he was thin and moved energetically. His thick dirty-blond hair was cropped at the sides but with a floppy, boyish fringe, and his clothes were quirky and youthful. However, when he sat down opposite Robin, she thought he looked his full forty years. There was a softness at the chin, bags beneath the bloodshot eyes, of which the pupils were so dilated his blue eyes looked almost black. There was also a cluster of small yellowish pimples at the corner of his mouth, which he’d attempted to conceal with make-up.
‘So,’ he said, shrugging off his black jacket, ‘where’s Decima?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Robin.
‘Uh huh,’ said Valentine sarcastically. ‘I s’pose she thinks if she stays in hiding long enough, Fleetwood’ll get worried she’s done herself a mischief and come back?’
A young waitress appeared at their table.
‘What’s safe to drink?’ drawled Valentine, looking up at the girl.
‘Oh, well, we’ve got—’
‘Peroni,’ he said.
‘I’m fine with this water,’ Robin said, before the waitress could ask.
The waitress departed to fetch Valentine’s beer. Robin took out her notebook.
‘So, could I ask when you last saw Rupert?’ she asked.
‘You
‘OK,’ said Robin. ‘When did you last—?’
‘On May the twenty-first last year, as you already know, because Sacha told Corporal Brokeby.’
Robin chose to ignore the insulting nickname for Strike.
‘And you haven’t had any contact with him since?’
‘Of course I bloody haven’t.’
‘Why “of course”?’
‘You can drop the Miss Marple thing, you’re not going to catch me out.’
‘What d’you—?’
‘Decima’s already told you I think Fleetwood’s a conniving little shit on the make, I’m sure. The family’s glad to see the back of him.’
Robin’s mobile rang. She pulled it out of her pocket, saw her mother’s number, and refused the call.
‘You argued with Rupert on the twenty-first of May, right?’ she said to Valentine. ‘What was that about?’
‘He’d gatecrashed Sacha’s party, and I don’t like freeloaders.’
‘Why did Rupert turn up there, do you know? He’d stolen that nef from your father, so it seems odd—’