‘You mentioned other possible contenders for Wright,’ Robin said to Murphy.
‘Yeah, there were a couple,’ said Murphy. He picked up his notebook again and turned a page. ‘Nearly all of them were ruled out. There were two blokes who couldn’t be excluded, because they couldn’t get DNA.
‘One was called Tyler Powell. His grandmother called the helpline. Apparently he got himself into some kind of trouble at home in the Midlands and told Gran he’d got himself a job down south. He was the right height and in the right age range, but there’s no other reason to suppose it was him.’
‘Couldn’t they swab the grandmother to check the DNA?’ asked Strike.
‘Powell’s adopted.’
‘Who was the other possibility?’ asked Robin.
‘Man called Niall Semple. He’s been in the press, because he was an ex-paratrooper with mental health problems who vanished from his house in Scotland and cut all contact. Again, no blood relatives. They’d just cremated his mother when he disappeared. His wife contacted the police. He was the right height and blood group, but otherwise nothing to say it was him.’
‘And nobody thought Wright might be Rupert Fleetwood?’ asked Robin.
‘My source only mentioned Powell and Semple,’ said Murphy.
‘And that male prostitute thing…’ said Robin.
‘What’s this?’ said Strike, looking up from his notebook.
‘Just a bad joke that snowballed,’ said Murphy. ‘The body was naked, that’s where it started.’
‘This might be an odd question,’ said Robin, ‘but was anything carved onto the body’s back?’
‘How the fuck d’you know about that?’ said Murphy sharply.
‘I saw it online,’ said Robin, nettled by his tone, especially in front of Strike. ‘Someone commenting on the story said he had the letter “G” carved onto him.’
‘My contact told me it was a hallmark.’ Murphy closed his notebook. ‘And that’s all I’ve got.’
‘Well, thanks, Ryan,’ said Robin. ‘This has—’
‘So now what?’ said Murphy. He was looking at Strike rather than Robin.
‘We wanted to find out whether the Met had a definite ID,’ said Strike, ‘and now we know. They don’t.’
‘You can’t go fucking around with the Knowles family,’ said Murphy.
‘Not intending to. We haven’t got forensic labs, we can’t analyse DNA.’
‘So you won’t be taking the case?’ said Murphy.
‘Robin and I will have to discuss that,’ said Strike.
‘Does anyone want more—?’ Robin began.
‘It’s Knowles,’ said Murphy, glaring at Strike. ‘You’d just be stringing this woman along, pretending there’s a chance it’s her toyboy.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ said Strike, deliberately calm. Let Robin watch Murphy getting aggressive and trying to dictate what the agency investigated. ‘There are a lot of similarities between Rupert Fleetwood and the body, he had good reasons for wanting to lie low for a while, and he had a valuable bit of silver to sell.’
Robin, who knew perfectly well Strike didn’t believe Rupert Fleetwood had been William Wright, assumed he was saying this because he’d been as aggravated by Murphy’s dictatorial tone as she was.
‘Anyway,’ said Strike, setting down his plate and getting to his feet, ‘I’d better get going.’
‘Already?’ said Robin, disconcerted. ‘There’s more pizza. And pudding.’
‘I’m meeting Bijou,’ said Strike, looking Robin straight in the eye. Though she’d have given anything not to, Robin felt herself turn red. ‘Thanks, though,’ Strike added, looking down at the clearly fuming Murphy. ‘This has been extremely helpful.’
13
Robert Browning
The work rota was so arranged that Strike and Robin didn’t meet again until Friday, which was cold and cloudless. Central London was now fully decked in its Christmas finery, and eleven o’clock found Robin in Mount Street in Belgravia, standing beneath one of the extravagant banners of silver lights that stretched across the road, pretending to be talking on her phone while the ex-wife of their professional cricketer client shopped in Balenciaga.
Though she was gloved and coated, the chill nipped at every exposed bit of Robin’s skin. She felt low and tired, because she was still not sleeping well. Strike’s visit had left an uncomfortable undercurrent in its wake. Murphy had returned to the subject of the body in the vault the following morning, outlining the dangers of provoking a man who’d already ordered his own nephew killed and reminding Robin, yet again, that more people than Strike would be put in danger if Lynden Knowles came to believe he was being investigated for Jason’s death. Robin had tried very hard not to sound defensive or angry as she reiterated that neither she nor Strike had any intention of going near Jason’s uncle, and assured him that the secret of the plainclothes man was completely safe with them.