‘All right, well, like I say – give us a few days,’ said Richard. He heaved a deep sigh. ‘Mum thinks Danny’s been working at a Savile Row tailors. He’s been telling her about all the celebrities he’s been measuring up for fucking tuxes.’
86
Matthew Arnold
‘Shall we find somewhere to sit down?’ were Robin’s first words, once Richard de Leon had returned inside Clos de Camille. Though the gash made by the spade had stopped bleeding, the left side of Strike’s swollen face was turning purple as the bruises rose to the surface.
‘I’m fine,’ he said, well aware he must look anything but.
‘Well, I could use a coffee or something, after all that,’ said Robin.
To her relief, because she’d feared they might have to return to the Avenue to find somewhere, an establishment on Rue de la Seigneurie was open for custom, though this necessitated an upstairs climb to the Captain’s Bar, where portholes were painted on the sloping eaves. No longer in a fit state to appreciate nautical décor, Strike slumped into a seat by the window and on being informed by Robin that the place didn’t serve coffee, asked for the beer he really wanted.
‘Alcoholic,’ he added, because in the absence of painkillers he was happy to improvise, and Robin was immediately reminded of Christmas Eve, and Murphy’s sudden rage because she’d questioned him on the alcohol content of his pint.
‘So… that’s it,’ said Robin, when she rejoined Strike at the table with his beer and her own tonic water. ‘De Leon’s out. He was your favourite for Wright, as well.’
‘He was, yeah,’ admitted Strike. ‘I could see a reason for him being polished off in the vault, but I can’t see why the hell Powell or Semple—’
‘Or Rupert—’
‘Or Fleetwood, if we must – had to die there.’
‘Nor can I,’ said Robin. After a moment or two she said, ‘D’you think the dead man was someone else entirely, who was killed for reasons we don’t know?’
‘I think that every other hour,’ said Strike. ‘But if it
Rain began to fall again as they sat beside the window and each sipped their drinks.
‘So, it turns out there
‘Doubt Danny wanted to tell him,’ said Strike. ‘Probably thought he might need Richard as back-up, if Branfoot’s henchman turned up.’
‘They’re fond of each other, though, you could tell… Have you seen Al lately?’ she asked, referring to the only half-brother with whom Strike had contact.
‘No,’ said Strike. ‘Still pissed off I didn’t want to reconcile with Rokeby after finding out he had prostate cancer. We haven’t talked since.’
‘I like him,’ said Robin, who’d met Al only once, but retained the memory of someone who seemed both fond of and impressed by his older brother.
‘So you keep telling me.’
‘You do, too,’ said Robin, smiling.
‘He’s all right,’ said Strike, with a slight shrug. ‘We’ve just got fuck-all in common.’
‘Like Martin and me,’ said Robin, who then clapped a hand to her forehead and gasped, ‘oh, bugger.’
‘What?’
‘I forgot to call Mum back yesterday, about Dirk.’
‘About what?’
‘Dirk, Martin’s son. My newest nephew. He was supposed to be going home yesterday. There were some problems with the birth; he’s got a paralysed arm.’
‘Shit,’ said Strike.
‘They think it’ll resolve,’ said Robin.
‘Your family’s been doing a lot of breeding lately.’
Robin experienced again that slight inner wince that was now accompanying all mention of babies and pregnancy, unaware that Strike had noticed a slight external flinch.
‘Listen,’ she said, keen to get off the subject, ‘I doubt we’re going to be able to get a takeaway for dinner, I haven’t seen anywhere that’s open. Why don’t I go and buy some food we can cook at the Old Forge this evening?’
‘It’s raining.’
‘Which is why it’s lucky I’m not made of papier mâché.’
‘OK, I’ll come,’ said Strike, picking up his pint with the intention of downing it.
‘No,’ said Robin. ‘You stay here and rest your leg. Don’t look at me like that, we’ve still got to walk to the B&B afterwards. Just let it settle down a bit, I’ll be back soon.’