‘Yes, I’m in a pub,’ said Robin, checking Albie in the mirror.
‘My old SIB mate, Hardy, is going to be in town for a family wedding next week and he thinks he can wangle us a private tour of Freemasons’ Hall. Want to come and see Temple Seventeen?’
Robin hesitated. She had a great curiosity to see inside Freemasons’ Hall, especially on a private tour, but she remained angry at Strike.
‘No, we’re overstretched as it is. You stick with Semple and I’ll keep going on Tyler Powell. I’ve actually just had a message from Chloe Griffiths, Tyler’s ex-neighbour. I’ll forward it to you.’
‘OK,’ said Strike, who was disappointed about Freemasons’ Hall; he’d been certain she’d want to see it. ‘You’re seeing the new Land Rover this afternoon, right?’
‘Yes,’ said Robin. ‘I’d better go, I’m handing over to Kim in a minute.’
As she said it, she saw the subcontractor enter the pub.
‘Bye,’ Robin said to Strike, and hung up.
‘Albie’s the blond guy sitting on his own,’ Robin told Kim without looking at her, as both stood facing the bar, though apparently unconnected to each other. ‘You’ll be able to get nearer to him than I c – ah,’ said Robin, watching the mirror. A good-looking young woman with shiny, near-black hair had just entered the pub and waved at Albie.
‘We’re very interested in a girl called Tish Benton,’ said Robin quietly to Kim, as the newcomer bought herself a drink at the far end of the bar. ‘That could be her. If you can get near enough to hear her name, that’d be great.’
‘Yes, I think that’ll be within my capabilities,’ said Kim.
‘Glad to hear it,’ said Robin tartly, and she left.
72
Albert Pike
Unbeknownst to Robin, Strike was currently preoccupied with an investigative problem he considered even more pressing than the identity of the body in the silver vault.
Having racked his brains for the best way to throw off the surveillance under which Bijou’s former lover had placed her, and for a discreet venue suitable for the provision of DNA swabs, he’d decided to call again on his extensive knowledge of London’s five-star hotels. On the same cold, damp morning he’d arranged to meet his old friend Graham Hardacre for a tour of Freemasons’ Hall, Strike hung around in his attic flat until ten past nine, by which point he thought it reasonable to suppose that Bijou would be awake but still at home, without eavesdroppers or passers-by to listen in. He reached for Ted’s fisherman’s priest and sat weighing it in his hand as he waited for her to answer, which she did within a few rings.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s me,’ said Strike. ‘I’ve got a plan for the DNA test.’
‘Oh, thank God,’ said Bijou fervently. ‘Today?’
‘Day after tomorrow,’ said Strike. ‘But you cannot tell
‘I won’t!’ said Bijou shrilly. ‘For God’s sake, do you think I
‘Right, well, I’ve booked a room at the Savoy,’ said Strike.
‘The hotel?’
‘No, the cabbage,’ said Strike irritably. ‘Of course the bloody hotel.’
‘We can’t meet at a hotel, that’ll look—’
‘
‘But—’
‘What’s the likelihood of us meeting to fuck in an expensive hotel, in the city where both of us have flats, when you’ve got a baby with you? You’re there to meet an old American friend who’s only in town for twenty-four hours, on business, but wants to meet the baby. You’re having coffee in her room at four o’clock. That’s what you say, if you need a story.’
‘OK,’ said Bijou uncertainly.
‘Have you got a pen?’
‘Yes,’ she said, and he heard her rummaging. ‘Go on.’
‘You’re going in the front. No furtiveness, you’ve got nothing to hide. Go straight through the lobby, down the steps, turn left and then right. That takes you to the red lift.’
‘Red lift,’ repeated Bijou, who was clearly making notes.