Robin flicked through the pictures on Strike’s phone. Rena Liddell’s posts were often cryptic and occasionally garbled. She seemed fond of random pictures of clouds, doorways and blurry shots of the backs of passers-by, but not of selfies. Her profile picture on all three accounts was a cartoon picture of a purple and blue bat.
‘Zubat,’ said Robin.
‘What?’ said Strike.
‘Her avi, it’s a Pokémon called Zubat. My brother Jon was mad about Pokémon when he was a kid. But she’s calling herself @Mirbat, not @Zubat.’
‘That’s one of the things that made me almost certain it was her.’
‘
‘No,’ said Strike, ‘Mirbat’s a coastal town in Oman. There was a battle there in 1972: nine SAS guys versus two hundred and fifty Communist rebels. The SAS won.’
‘
‘Best of the best,’ said Strike, just as he had in Ironbridge. ‘Wouldn’t be surprised if Rena heard about the battle from her brother, hence the name.’
Robin scrolled down through Rena’s chaotic and garbled output. A preoccupation with Muslims and the danger Rena felt they posed to the UK were very evident throughout her posts. A few of her tweets had been reported and taken down. Judging by those that remained, Robin suspected they’d been extremely Islamophobic.
‘I think we’re talking serious mental illness, addiction or both,’ said Strike. ‘She posts in spurts, with hiatuses for months, but she’s been writing less and becoming more incoherent lately. However, if you look back to 2015, she managed to say something when she might’ve been on the right meds…’
Robin scrolled backwards and saw:
there telling me my brother\s dead I don’t think hes really dead. don’t believe it.
‘’Course,’ said Strike, ‘if Richard de Leon’s telling the truth and he hasn’t heard from Danny since June the eighteenth last year, Rena Liddell becomes irrelev—’
Strike’s mobile rang in Robin’s hand.
‘Wardle,’ she said, handing it back.
‘I’ll take it outside,’ said Strike, with a glance at the group at the next table.
The walking stick, Strike had to grudgingly admit, was helpful and enabled him to get out into the courtyard more speedily than he would have done without it.
‘What’s up?’ he asked Wardle.
‘Hi,’ said the policeman. ‘Nothing urgent. I just wanted to ask… were you serious about a job at the agency?’
‘Yeah, of course. We probably couldn’t match the salary you’re on, though.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Wardle. ‘I’m thinking about it. Like I said, with Mum dying, I can still see Liam right.’
‘We could use you as soon as you want to work,’ said Strike, although it occurred to him as he said it that he hadn’t yet discussed this with his detective partner. Absent-mindedly turning to face the high street, he saw Richard de Leon exit the Rue des Laches, glance around, spot Strike watching him, and beat a hasty retreat back down the track from which he’d just emerged.
Meanwhile, in the pub, a barman had just arrived at Robin’s table with two pizzas.
‘On holiday?’ he asked, as he set them down.
‘Not really,’ said Robin. ‘We’re looking for a man called Danny de Leon.’
‘Danny?’ said the barman cheerfully. ‘He’s up at Helen Platt’s, just seen him. Clos de Camille, on Rue de La Seigneurie. He’s doing her garden.’
84
Robert Browning
Pizzas eaten, Strike and Robin emerged half an hour later from the Bel Air and set off up the Avenue beneath a sky still threatening rain, and following the verbal directions given to them by the helpful barman. As they passed the small, low-built shops that were either empty or closed, Strike said,
‘What would you say are the chances our friend Richard was trying to sneak off up the road to warn his brother we’re after him?’
‘High to very high,’ said Robin.
‘Why didn’t he just phone him?’
‘Maybe he has,’ said Robin. ‘Or maybe he waited for you to go back into the pub so he could dash up there. He might be waiting for us at Helen Platt’s. Hope he hasn’t brought his log.’
Strike laughed, but didn’t quip back, because even with the stick he was finding the Avenue harder going than he would have done had it been tarmacked, and didn’t want to look or sound like a man struggling with the terrain, not when Murphy would probably be vaulting gates if he was here, the limber fucker.
‘I don’t understand why this place is British,’ said Robin, as they turned right into Rue de la Seigneurie. ‘All the place names are French and we’re nearer France than Britain.’
‘I don’t think it