Strike deposited his BMW in a multi-storey car park close to the middle of Hereford and set off in search of an early lunch, because breakfast felt a long way behind him. A short walk brought him within sight of a restaurant called the Beefy Boys, which he chose out of an angry self-sabotaging impulse, because what was the point of trying to compete with Murphy in the leanness stakes now? Having settled himself at a table outside so that he could vape and ordered the house speciality, the Dirty Boy Burger, he called Danny de Leon, who didn’t pick up. Strike therefore left a voicemail message warning de Leon that the detective agency had now identified the flat where Branfoot was covertly filming oblivious drunks being screwed by porn stars, and that he would shortly be confronting Branfoot with the information. Danny would therefore have to suffer the consequences of not having spoken to the press, which would have mitigated the risk to himself of Branfoot’s revenge.
Strike then reached into his coat pocket for Jim Todd’s book,
He was about to turn this page, on which Todd had only written
Strike sat, phone in hand, wondering whether he should apologise to Robin even in the absence of a first text from her. He knew perfectly well that punishing her for not reciprocating feelings he’d never voiced was the behaviour of a total arsehole. He was still trying to formulate a message that didn’t seem to carry an obvious undertone of ‘I just hate you being with Murphy’ when his burger arrived and he set his phone aside with relief.
The ingestion of a huge cheeseburger, complete with bacon and fried onions, gave Strike’s spirits a slight boost. Having eaten his last chip, he picked up his phone and texted Robin.
I’m sorry about what I said. I’m knackered but that’s no excuse.
He sat watching his phone for a minute, hoping to see the three dots that meant Robin was typing, but nothing appeared.
Having drunk a coffee, paid his bill and had a pee in the Beefy Boys’ bathroom, Strike set off for what Google Maps told him would be a short walk to the Golden Fleece.
On entering the pub Strike found a narrow, cramped and corridor-like interior, and a large television screen showing Sky Sports. Strike bought himself a zero-alcohol beer and was about to take a seat when the barman leaned forwards and said,
‘You Cameron Strike?’
‘Yeah,’ said Strike.
‘You’re to go up there,’ said the barman, pointing towards the door at the rear of the pub.
It transpired that the barman had meant ‘up there’ literally. A very small external paved area contained no tables, but a steep metal staircase leading up to the roof. Strike assumed that Rena Liddell wasn’t aware he had a false leg. He hauled himself upwards with the aid of the handrail, his pint slopping over his hand.
He emerged onto a rooftop space where a few tables and plastic palm trees in square tubs stood on artificial grass. Cross of Saint George bunting wound around the railings, beyond which Strike could see the tall spire of St Peter’s church.
Only one table was occupied. Facing Strike with a half-smile on his lips was the tall, salt-and-pepper-haired, square-jawed Ralph Lawrence, allegedly of MI5. He wasn’t wearing a suit today, but jeans and an open-necked shirt beneath a dark green cashmere sweater, and his blue eyes were concealed behind a pair of Aviator sunglasses.