Northmore’s eyes flickered towards the recording device. Strike knew perfectly well he was suddenly worried about what Strike might be about to say on tape, which was precisely why he intended to say it. If they wanted to intimidate him with the possibility of negative press, they needed to know he had stories of his own.
‘As we’re talking about coincidences, and the corruption of murder investigations,’ Strike continued, ‘I’m not sure it’s public knowledge yet that Malcolm Truman’s a member of the Winston Churchill Masonic Lodge, is it? Funnily enough, that’s the same lodge Lord Oliver Branfoot joined a couple of years ago. He’s been taking a keen interest in me lately, so I’ve made it my business to return the favour. I generally do return favours,’ he said, looking Northmore straight in the eye.
‘We’re going to take a short break,’ said the latter, looking up at the clock on the wall. ‘Pausing our interview at one twenty-five.’
He pressed the ‘off’ button on the recording device, got to his feet and caught Iverson’s eye. The pair of them left the room.
Strike sat alone for twenty minutes before the investigators returned, Northmore even grimmer-faced than when he’d left.
‘You said you like to return favours, Mr Strike,’ said Iverson.
‘You know, I’d feel safer if we were still recording,’ said Strike, folding his arms. Veiled threats to smear him to the papers and the very real possibility that he was about to be charged with breaking and entering didn’t incline him to make deals that could be reneged upon.
After a short pause, Northmore switched the device on again, announced that it was now a quarter to two and repeated the names of those present.
‘You said you like to return favours, Mr Strike.’
‘Whenever I can, yeah,’ said Strike.
‘We might be prepared not to press charges on the breaking and entering charge, given that you thought one or both of the Jamesons might have been capable of being saved.’
‘Very decent of you,’ said Strike, with no hint of a smile.
‘But you’ll be receiving a caution for the improper use of skeleton keys.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Strike.
‘Should any information we’ve shared with you tonight be made public, it would of course compromise our investigation,’ said Iverson. ‘The same goes for any personal details you might think you have about DCI Truman—’
‘Oh, I’m completely confident about the details,’ said Strike. ‘I’ve got photographic proof he attends the Winston Churchill Lodge.’
Northmore failed to disguise a slight wince.
‘Even so—’
‘Can’t see why I’d need to share that information with anyone else,’ said Strike. ‘It’s not fun being done over by the tabloids, as I know.’ For the benefit of the recording, he added, ‘And, as I think I’ve already proven by passing you all relevant information our agency’s unearthed, I’m far from wanting to derail police investigations.’
He enjoyed Northmore’s scowl.
‘All that being so,’ said Northmore, ‘we’d be glad to know what, and where, “Barnaby’s” is.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Strike. ‘There’s a scrapyard called Brian Judge’s on Carnival Street in Haringey. Fires up its incinerators and crushes vehicles at odd times of night. Marco Ricci, brother of Luca, was there a few hours ago, dropping off a filthy transit van.’
Northmore and Iverson exchanged glances that gave Strike the feeling that suspicions might have been raised before about the scrapyard or its owner.
Iverson looked again at the clock on the wall.
‘Interview concluded at seven minutes to two.’ Having turned off the tape she said, ‘All right, Mr Strike. You’re free to go.’
Strike was tired, hungry, his leg was throbbing and he’d been forced to leave his BMW in Harlesden. Nevertheless, he felt he’d come through the night on the profit side of the ledger.
94
A. E. Housman
At five a.m., Robin, who’d barely slept, decided there was no point staying in bed, and got up to make herself coffee.
There were three missed calls from Murphy on her phone, all of which she’d ignored, and several texts, which she’d read as they’d come in. One of them had a video clip attached; Murphy had filmed himself pouring away bottles of vodka down the kitchen sink. Robin wondered what the point of that had been. Did he imagine she thought his hidden stock comprised the entire world’s reserves?
His pleading, apologetic, explanatory texts were full of information of which she’d been unaware. He’d been placed under investigation at work and been spoken to by a superior about his drinking, after a colleague had ‘ratted him out’, knowing he was consuming vodka at work.