‘They’re denying they told you anything.’
‘Ah,’ said Strike.
He wasn’t surprised. Daz and Mandy’s immediate, reflexive reaction to being called on by police a second time would, he was certain, be to deny everything, without pausing to consider that they could be storing up far more serious trouble for themselves in continuing to deny that they’d hidden evidence from the police.
‘And one of them let it slip that you’d given them money.’
‘Which they took, in exchange for the information. Does the Met think I shower banknotes on people with nothing to tell me?’
‘I’m just warning you,’ said Wardle, ‘that’s the line the team’s taking, that you’re trying to build up your rep by pretending to have found stuff they didn’t.’
‘So nobody’s following up Oz and Sofia Medina?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ said Wardle. ‘One of the women on the team – name’s Iverson – thinks Daz and Mandy told you the truth and that it’s worth looking into the Oz bloke. Murphy knows Iverson,’ he added. ‘Knows her bloody well, actually.’
Strike felt a flicker of interest unrelated to the case.
‘Yeah?’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ said Wardle. ‘They had a good grope in the pub a while back.’
‘How long ago was this?’ asked Strike, trying to sound casual.
‘Back when he was splitting up with his wife,’ said Wardle, and the tiny shoot of – not exactly hope, but something resembling it – withered and died inside Strike. ‘I told you before, he was a proper arsehole when he was drinking, nothing in a skirt was safe. He’s been in a bloody bad mood lately, apparently. Iverson says, if she didn’t know better, she’d think he was drinking again. Mind, he’d have good reason.’
Much as Strike would have liked to believe Murphy had fallen off the wagon he thought that was too much to hope for.
‘Why’d he have good reason?’ he asked.
‘He was on that gangland shooting, with the kids.’
‘So I heard.’
‘Well, he was the one who fucked it up. He arrested the mother’s boyfriend, who’s admittedly a violent, vengeful fucker with a record, but Murphy had sod all evidence.’
Strike, who assumed Robin already knew all this, knew that even if she didn’t, he’d only make himself look like a prick if he brought any of it up, so he didn’t pursue the subject.
‘Anyway, I checked out that Calvin Osgood’s alibi for you,’ said Wardle. ‘It’s sound. He really was in Manchester when he said he was.’
‘Thought so, but wanted it confirmed,’ said Strike, shoving one of the plastic containers towards Wardle. ‘Have some, it’s good.’
The policeman helped himself to chicken Madras. He looked as though he’d lost weight recently, and, unlike Strike, he hadn’t had much to spare in the first place. Wardle had been boyishly good-looking when he and Strike first met, but he seemed to have aged far more than the seven years that had passed since, and was now very grey around the temples.
‘This Iverson,’ said Strike, ‘has she looked at Oz’s Instagram account? Because Robin found out a missing girl was in communication with him, name of Sapphire Neagle.’
‘Dunno,’ said Wardle. ‘She probably thinks I’m too matey with you to give me much. I know the team’s seriously fucked off at Truman, though. Did you know he’s a Freemason?’
‘I did, yeah,’ said Strike, glad Robin wasn’t present to hear this.
‘There’s a lot of muttering that Truman wanted that body to be Knowles, to turn attention away from where the killing happened. Nobody needs a bloody Freemasonry-in-the-Met story… Did you know they’ve ruled out those four blokes in Wild Court?’
‘I did, yeah.’
‘So now they’re trying to work out how Wright and his killer got to the shop, because there doesn’t seem to be camera footage of them anywhere.’
‘A Peugeot was involved, wasn’t it?’
‘That the silver car they think picked up the killer at three in the morning?’
‘Yeah. I assume they’ve tried to trace it?’
‘Yeah, but no dice. They’re combing through camera footage, but it disappeared into a residential area and got lost.’
Strike had just picked up his knife and fork again when his mobile rang and, seeing that it was Robin calling, answered at once.
‘Hi, are you free to talk?’ she said. Cheered by the fact that she’d called him instead of emailing, Strike said,
‘Yeah, of course, give me a minute.’
He got up from the table and pointed at the front door, signalling to Wardle that he needed privacy for this conversation.
‘Right,’ said Strike, who’d now let himself onto the landing outside Wardle’s flat, ‘fire away.’
‘I’m in casualty – I’m fine,’ she added quickly. ‘Plug’s here, with his son. The son’s been injured, badly, on his face. Bitten. Strike, I think I know what’s going on.’
‘What?’
‘Dogs. Dangerous dogs. The boy was bitten in that house in Carnival Street where they put whatever animal was in that allotment shed. They were both unmarked when they went in. Twenty minutes later, Plug half-carried his son out, with blood all over his face.’