‘Isn’t she police?’ said Strike, who dimly remembered what Kim had told him in the Dorchester.
‘Yeah. If she’s that fucking worried about her kids, you wouldn’t’ve thought she’d want to be arrested right after their dad died, would you? My neighbours came out onto the landing, he pulled her off me, and his wife called the cops. I had to give a statement. Then I get outside to my car and find out she’s keyed it and smashed in all the windows. I had to get a taxi here. I don’t know how I’m going to follow Mrs Two-Times home.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about that,’ said Strike. ‘She’s not going to shag anyone else tonight.’
‘Oh God, you’re so nice,’ Kim said, and she leaned into him before draining her glass of whisky. ‘Can I get another one?’
Strike had some misgivings about ordering her a second drink, but he raised his hand nonetheless. If he hadn’t ordered food he’d now be on the way home, but he was starving and wanted his chips.
By the time his food and Kim’s fresh Ardbeg had arrived, she’d twice more leaned into him, pressing her right arm into his left, with breathy little laughs. She seemed understandably shaken by the news that her ex-boyfriend was dead, but he didn’t like the flirtatiousness that was creeping into her behaviour, either on its own terms, or in the context of recent bereavement. Meanwhile, he’d been given only three calamari rings, which didn’t seem much of a reward for staying put. He helped himself to chips.
‘There he is, that’s Ray,’ said Kim, showing Strike a photo on her phone, though he didn’t particularly want to see it. Ray had been a good-looking man with the same kind of thick, prematurely grey hair as Barclay. Strike wondered whether he was being shown the picture because Kim stood beside Ray in a very revealing handkerchief top.
‘That was in Ibiza,’ said Kim, with a catch in her voice, turning the screen back towards herself and examining the picture. ‘Oh God,’ she said, with sudden emotion, scrolling through pictures. ‘He did it in his car. Exhaust fumes. I don’t know why I’m…’
She began to cry. Strike, who didn’t want to make any physical gesture of comfort, and was struggling to marshal his thoughts, given his tiredness and the large amount of whisky he’d drunk, said,
‘’S a shit thing to happen.’
Exactly as he’d feared, Kim now slumped into him and stayed there, sobbing, as Johnny Kidd & the Pirates began singing over the speakers.
‘Oh shit!’ she said, with poorly feigned embarrassment, flipping over the mobile. ‘I don’t know what I’m…’ Turning her shining brown gaze fully on him for the first time, she uttered a little gasp. ‘Wait – what happened to
He was too slow to stop her touching him lightly on the side of the face.
‘Spade,’ he said, reaching for the last of his chips.
‘A
‘Yeah. Look, I’m going to have to—’
He raised his hand for the bill, and as he did so, Kim slid a hand onto his thigh.
‘You’ve been so nice. Thank you.’
He reached down, took her wrist and threw her hand back into her lap.
‘Don’t.’
‘What?’
‘You know what. We’re not going to fuck,’ said Strike, more forcefully than he’d have done had he not drunk so much. ‘Ever.’
‘What? I didn’t—’
‘
He was hyper-aware of Kim sitting rigidly beside him as he paid his bill. He didn’t doubt she felt angry and humiliated, but he didn’t care. Having paid, he got up with difficulty, pins and needles in his legs, and said, without looking at her,
‘See you at the office.’
He left, and only by a miracle of luck did he avoid tripping over the rug for a second time.
89
A. E. Housman