She’d just started running a bath when her phone rang yet again. This time it was Strike. After a brief explanation of the surprise visit to the office from Mrs Two-Times the previous evening, he asked whether Robin could possibly forfeit her day off to cover Two-Times, because literally every other detective at the agency was busy, either keeping watch over Plug and his possibly murderous cronies, who hadn’t yet attacked the man who’d had Plug’s monstrous dog put down, tracking the movements of Lord Branfoot, trying to catch Uber driver Hussein Mohamed at home or following Albie Simpson-White. Robin thought she heard a note of exasperation when Strike mentioned the last of the names, and assumed she was being reminded, none too subtly, that she was the one who’d added this extra burden to the rota.
When Robin explained that she really couldn’t get out of lunch with Murphy’s parents five minutes after agreeing to it, Strike said shortly,
‘Fine. Better hope Mrs Two-Times doesn’t get pissed off we’re not doing as she asked, and go to the press, then.’
As this was the first time in years that Robin had declined a job for personal reasons, and as she’d been bearing a heavier workload than all subcontractors lately, she considered Strike’s impatient tone quite unwarranted, but before she could say so, he’d hung up.
Now cross in addition to exhausted (whose fault was it that the agency was currently vulnerable to bad press?) Robin took her bath. Once dried and dressed, she opened her bedroom curtains and saw – her eye was drawn to him instantly, as if she’d been expecting him – a man in a green jacket standing on the opposite pavement. He’d turned quickly as the curtains opened, as though to hide his face, even though she couldn’t have seen it from this distance without binoculars. Her conscious mind tried to tell her she couldn’t be sure, but her gut instinct told her a different story: same green jacket, same build, same height as the man who’d worn the gorilla mask to threaten her with the masonic dagger.
Heart pounding, Robin watched as he sloped away, keeping his face averted. She was certain he’d been watching her windows.
The repeated wearing of the jacket in which she’d already seen him up close didn’t argue a very bright man. Nevertheless, Robin knew very well that stupid males could be just as dangerous as intelligent ones. She went to check her bag for her rape alarm and pepper spray, telling herself he wouldn’t dare do anything on such a busy street, by daylight, and reminding herself that it was a very short walk from the building’s front door to the Land Rover. She considered calling Strike, but decided against, given how grumpy he’d just been on the phone. In any case, there was nobody free at the agency to come and give her assistance. Now she wished, for the second time in as many months, that she didn’t live alone, before reminding herself that if she’d been living with Murphy, she’d be in an even bigger quandary. He still knew nothing about the man in the green jacket, nor about the small rubber gorilla or the masonic dagger hidden in her sock drawer.
Did Green Jacket have a car? Would he follow her to Murphy’s? Had he done anything to the Land Rover while she’d been asleep, or having her bath? She’d need to check it before she got in, but her pepper spray would be in her hand as she did so. Thus resolved, Robin put on her coat, re-checked the contents of her bag, and left her flat.
The day was cool, clouds sliding across the sun. Robin looked all around and behind her as she walked briskly to her car, but there was no sign of the man in the green jacket. Pepper spray in hand, she bent low to check the underside of the Land Rover, but saw nothing, nor were there scratches on any of the paintwork. She got inside quickly and locked the doors. Now feeling safer, she left her bag open on the passenger seat, pepper spray within easy reach, and set off, checking her rear-view mirror constantly.
The trouble with Blackhorse Road was that it was always very busy. Robin knew that Green Jacket would have had time, if he had his wits about him, to get into a car and follow her, especially if he knew where Murphy’s flat was. She had no idea what car Green Jacket might own, whereas she didn’t doubt he knew exactly which Land Rover to follow.
Robin arrived at Murphy’s flat shortly before midday, still unsure as to whether she’d been tailed. Murphy’s flat door was opened by his beaming mother, a well-dressed, attractive beige-blonde in her early sixties from whom Murphy had clearly got his good looks; she had the same bone structure and full upper lip.
‘How