She was old, no longer the beauty who’d enchanted blue bloods and rock stars in the early seventies before marrying the safe bet: Sir Anthony Campbell, with his solid family money behind him, and his castle on Arran, but the way Tara was sparring with him held a spark of her vanished allure. Her fearlessness, her arrogance, her casual cruelty, in combination with her staggering beauty, had once held men captive, but Strike had been inoculated against that faint whisper of dangerous charm through prolonged contact with the daughter who’d so resembled her. Strike and Charlotte had once wondered whether their mothers had ever met; there was a photograph of Tara with Jonny Rokeby, after some concert or other: had he screwed her, too? ‘Maybe we’re brother and sister,’ Charlotte had said, an idea Strike found repulsive rather than exciting.
‘Did Rupert tell you why he wanted to go abroad?’
‘Because Dino was after him, obviously.’
‘Did he tell you he’d been at Sacha’s birthday party?’
Tara took another drag on her cigarette.
‘
‘Did Sacha say why?’
‘Presumably because he doesn’t often get to hang out with the beautiful people,’ said Tara.
‘Not good-looking enough for a front-of-house job, then? Dish washing, is he?’
‘I’ve just told you, I don’t know where he is and I don’t know what he’s doing.’
‘OK,’ said Strike, getting to his feet. ‘I won’t trouble you any longer. Mind if I have a slash before I go?’
‘Yes,’ snarled Tara.
‘No need to get up,’ said Strike, as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘I remember where the bog is.’
111
John Oxenham
Preferring to leave the environs of Heberley House well behind him before he took a break for something to eat, Strike drove south to the city of York. Sitting in his parked BMW, and looking forward to a late pub lunch after he’d got this unpalatable duty out of the way, he phoned Decima Mullins.
When he’d finished giving an account of his interview with Tara, Decima said in a high-pitched voice,
‘No – that can’t be true. He’d
‘She’s got the nef,’ said Strike, ‘and frankly, I feel stupid for not remembering that there was an ex-wife who’d be delighted to piss off Dino Longcaster, isn’t strong on ethics and has money to burn. She claims not to know which hotel Rupert’s working in, but I think she’s telling the truth about him working in one of them. She pulled strings to get him and Tish Benton jobs with the chain. I’m sorry, I know this isn’t the answer you were hoping for, but—’
‘So you’re going to call round all the Clairmont hotels, when he’s not even
‘I think he
‘Wh – you’re walking out on me?’
‘There’s nothing to be done now that you can’t do yourself, so it would be wrong to keep billing you. I’m sorry,’ he repeated. ‘I know you didn’t want to believe Rupert’s alive, but—’
‘It’s not that – how can you say that?’ she cried. ‘Of
‘Sometimes we’re mistaken about people, however well we think we know them,’ said Strike, still striving for patience. ‘I’m sorry, but as far as I’m concerned, the job’s done. I wish you luck,’ he concluded lamely, ‘and – better times.’
This call ended, Strike left the BMW and, limping slightly again, set off in search of food. While walking, he called Robin and told her the story of his trip to Heberley.
‘… so it’s over,’ he concluded. ‘The job of identifying William Wright returns to the Met. We’re out.’
Strike wasn’t surprised that a shocked silence followed these words.
‘But why did Rupert leave like that?’ said Robin at last. ‘Why do it so cruelly?’
‘I can only assume the easiest explanation is the right one,’ said Strike. ‘He didn’t want a baby and took the coward’s way out. Anyway, I’m starving and there’s a pub ahead, so I’ll talk to you later.’
The name of the pub, the Old White Swan, reminded Strike unhappily of Ironbridge, but as he didn’t want to have to walk any further he entered to find a pleasant space with white and blue painted walls. He’d just bought himself a pint of alcohol-free beer and ordered fish and chips when his Met contact, George Layborn, called him.
‘Hi,’ said the policeman. ‘I got your email about Wade King.’
‘Ah,’ said Strike, sincerely hoping that this would wrap up the entire silver vault case completely. ‘So…?’
‘He was in France from the sixteenth to the eighteenth of June last year.’
‘France?’ repeated Strike, frowning.
‘Yeah, driving a lorry full of Scotch from Speyside to Cannes.’
‘This is cast iron, is it?’
‘Fully corroborated, yeah.’
‘Shit,’ said Strike. ‘No – I mean, that’s good to know. Cheers, I owe you one.’