‘Or,’ she said, looking up, ‘you could start watching him for
‘That’d certainly be a neat solution,’ said Strike.
‘You agree, then?’ she said.
‘Yeah, I think we could shake on that.’
She got up, took a pen out of the pot on Pat’s desk and wrote her mobile number on a Post-it note.
‘I’d like weekly updates,’ she said, tearing it off and handing it to him.
‘Fine,’ said Strike.
They shook hands. Hers was cold.
‘I didn’t think it’d last,’ she said. ‘Men don’t change, do they?’
‘Well… not often,’ said Strike.
She glanced over at the aquarium.
‘I think your fish is dying.’
Strike waited on the landing until he heard the street door open and close, then called Wardle.
‘Let her go,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t your fault. She’s smarter than him, that’s all. Come up and have a drink if you want one, I’ve got whisky open.’
Five minutes later, Wardle arrived in the outer office, to which Strike had already brought his bottle of Arran Single Malt.
‘Does that happen often?’ Wardle asked, when Strike had told him what Mrs Two-Times had said.
‘First time for me,’ said Strike.
‘Nah, I won’t,’ said Wardle, waving away the offer of whisky as Strike raised the bottle. ‘I was doing a bit too much of that, alone, a few months back. I’ve knocked it on the head for a while.’
‘Ah,’ said Strike, pouring himself a treble. ‘Good for you.’
‘Is that fish all right?’ said Wardle, looking at the gasping black lump at the surface of the tank.
‘No,’ said Strike.
‘Mash up a pea,’ said Wardle.
‘What?’
‘It’s probably gulped down too much air at the top. Greedy little bastards, goldfish. Scoop it out and feed it a mashed pea. Sometimes works.’
‘The hell d’you know that?’
‘My niece keeps fish. Three different tanks in her bedroom. Just got on to Bettas.’
Having no idea what Bettas were, and zero interest, Strike sat back down in Pat’s computer chair and said,
‘So how long’ve you been off the booze?’
‘Since the night after you came over for that curry. Funnily enough, it was you mentioning me working here. Made me think about… you know… making some changes. I could do a coffee, though,’ said Wardle. ‘Got any decaff?’
‘If we have, it’ll be in one of those cupboards,’ said Strike, who’d never knowingly drunk decaffeinated coffee in his life. As he gulped down more whisky, his mobile buzzed and he looked down to see a text from Midge.
Plug’s gone home. No stabbing tonight.
‘What?’ he said, under the vague impression that Wardle had just said something.
‘I said, “did you hear Murphy’s fallen off the wagon?”’
Wardle had found some decaffeinated coffee and was now making it. Strike, whose heart rate had just increased as though he’d broken into a sprint, said, trying to mask the interest in his voice,
‘You told me someone thought he might be drinking again.’
‘Yeah, well, they were right, he is. He was caught necking vodka at his desk. He’s in a shitload of trouble, one way or another. Probably smarm his way out of it, though,’ said Wardle with a curling lip. ‘Iverson still thinks he’s fucking misunderstood.’
‘Iverson,’ repeated Strike. His brain felt sluggish.
‘The woman on the silver vault case. The one he groped a few years back.’
‘Oh. Yeah. I met her. Redhead.’
‘Yeah,’ said Wardle, as the kettle came to a boil. ‘What’re you going to say if Murphy gets kicked out and wants to come and work here?’
‘Cross that bridge when I get to it,’ said Strike.
‘Probably try and persuade Robin to leave and set up Ellacott and Murphy, Inc with him, if you don’t take him on,’ said Wardle, his back still to Strike. ‘Or Murphy and Murphy, if he gets his way.’
‘What?’ said Strike again.
Wardle headed back to the sofa holding his coffee.
‘He’s gonna propose.’
‘That a guess?’ said Strike sharply. ‘Or d’you know?’
‘He told Iverson the other week, and she told me, when I told her I was starting work here,’ said Wardle. ‘He probably told her he was going to pop the question to get her to back off. Looked like she was gonna cry when she told me.’
‘Right,’ said Strike, who felt as though he’d turned to ice from the neck downwards. ‘Ring bought and everything, is it?’
‘Dunno,’ said Wardle, taking a sip of coffee.
Mainly because he was afraid his expression might give away his thoughts, Strike turned back to his phone. Midge had texted a second time.
got pictures of his co-conspirators
Strike, who had a blank whine in his ears, typed back great, then had to say ‘what?’ again, because Wardle had definitely just spoken.
‘That Kim Cochran. Heard something very interesting about her the other day. Reason she left the force.’
‘Yeah?’ said Strike, still thinking about Murphy and Robin. ‘Well, she’s not my concern any more.’
Whether because Wardle had noticed his colleague’s abstraction or not, he said,
‘So what d’you want me to do, start following Two-Times tomorrow?’