‘I won’t tell the police,’ Robin reassured her again.
‘Well, Tyler was there and I didn’t realise. Someone must have told him what I was saying and he came up to me, and he was really angry. And a week after, when I was walking home up Wellsey Road, in the dark, a car came up onto the pavement. It missed me by, like, a few centimetres.’
‘Could you see who was driving?’
‘No, the headlights were too bright.’
‘But you think it was Tyler?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Did you recognise his car?’
‘No, but he works in a garage. He could’ve borrowed any of them cars.’
‘Right,’ said Robin. ‘What exactly had you been saying about the crash, Zeta?’
‘The same everyone was saying. Tyler used to boast about sato – sabotaging cars if he didn’t like the people who brought them in his garage. Everyone knew.’
‘I see,’ said Robin.
‘Don’t tell the police,’ said Zeta.
‘I won’t,’ said Robin. ‘D’you—?’
‘Bye then.’
Zeta hung up.
A great listlessness rolled over Robin as she walked on. She was sick of bullying, callous, deviant men, but she had to show Murphy a cheerful face when she arrived in the pub for what was supposed to be a celebration of their offer on the house being accepted, because it wasn’t Murphy’s fault if Tyler Powell used his driving prowess to terrify young women, or if Lord Oliver Branfoot and Dino Longcaster enjoyed humiliating those less rich and influential than themselves, or if Craig Wheaton policed his girlfriend’s emails and texts. It couldn’t be laid at Murphy’s door that Niall Semple had abandoned his new bride shortly after her miscarriage, or that Jim Todd had raped a schoolgirl, that Larry McGee was so addicted to porn he couldn’t stop watching it, even at work, or that an unidentified man, or men, were using Robin’s own rape to intimidate her. Checking over her shoulder yet again, and touching the homemade pepper spray in her bag for reassurance, Robin reminded herself that millions of males, Murphy, her own father and brothers among them, weren’t depraved, violent or sadistic, but kind and decent people. The trouble was that kind and decent men rarely cropped up in criminal cases. Her job, she knew, was in danger of warping her worldview, and she thought how nice it would be to take some time off, to get away from bitterly cold and dark London, and not have to think about the grubby underbellies of men’s lives – but not yet. Not now. There was too much to do.
Murphy was already sitting at a wooden table with a pint in front of him when Robin entered the pub.
‘You look gorgeous,’ he told her.
‘You’re a liar,’ said Robin, kissing him. ‘I look like I feel. Wrecked.’
Having been on her feet all day it was a relief to sit down, and Robin ordered a glass of wine hoping, as with the whisky on Christmas Eve, that it would make her feel more celebratory.
‘Listen,’ said Murphy, once they’d toasted the new house, and Robin had taken a large gulp of wine, ‘I’m not having a go here, all right?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me they’ve ruled out Jason Knowles as the body in the silver vault?’ said Murphy. His tone was light, but his gaze was searching. ‘You knew, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, I knew,’ said Robin, too tired to lie. They were moving in together; she needed to be honest with him, at least wherever honesty was practicable. ‘Kim Cochran told us the team working the case had ruled him out. I didn’t tell you because I know you didn’t want us to investigate the body in the first place, and you said that thing about “showing up the Met”, so I felt awkward about mentioning it.’
‘Right,’ said Murphy. ‘So, d’you know who it was, in the vault?’
‘No,’ said Robin, with a slight ripple of guilt as she thought, again, of Dick de Lion and Lord Oliver Branfoot.
‘Would you tell me if you did?’
‘Ryan, come on. You think we’d hide information like that from the police?’
‘No,’ said Murphy, ‘I don’t think you’d hide it from the
‘Well, of c—’
‘Because I know I’ve been an arsehole about it,’ said Murphy.
Robin reached for his hand and squeezed it.
‘I understand how you felt,’ she said. ‘I know why you didn’t want us barging in. The case was really sensitive. I get it.’
Murphy took a sip of his beer, then said,
‘I heard Strike tipped them off that Knowles’ body went to “Barnaby’s”.’
‘Yes,’ said Robin.
‘Have you found out what Barnaby’s is? Or who it is?’
‘No,’ said Robin, reminded yet again that she still hadn’t bought her new nephews presents.
‘Who’s this contact Strike’s got, who knows all this inside stuff?’
‘I couldn’t tell you even if I wanted to. I don’t know his real name.’
‘He’s clearly well informed,’ said Murphy.
‘Yes,’ said Robin.
‘A crim, obviously.’
‘Yes,’ said Robin again. She drank more wine, still holding Murphy’s hand.
‘Well, I’ve got some info for you, if you want it,’ said Murphy. ‘About that Peugeot. The getaway car.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yeah. It’s going to be made public – their first step in admitting Truman fucked up. But you can have it early.’