Strike sat back in his computer chair, thinking not so much about what the article contained, but what it didn’t. The lack of detail on the incident that had left Semple so severely injured it had ended his military career was particularly interesting to him. He opened Facebook, found Jade Semple’s account easily enough and scrolled back to the date her husband had disappeared. A clutch of photos from the twenty-sixth of May all featured a fancy dress party. Jade was an identical twin: he couldn’t tell whether she was the one dressed as Princess Peach from the Nintendo franchise, or the one dressed as Rosalina. There was no sign of her husband in any of the party photos.
From that day onwards, Jade had posted only requests for information on her missing husband and links to news stories about his disappearance. The very last picture posted showed Jade holding a small orange puffball of a puppy, captioned #NewFurBaby.
Strike sent Jade a private message explaining who he was, that he’d been hired to look into the body found in the silver vault and giving her his mobile number. He then opened email and began searching for the message he’d received months previously from his former SIB colleague and friend Graham Hardacre, which he’d neglected to acknowledge or answer. He’d just found it when a text from Kim arrived.
Where do you want to meet this evening? Kx
Strike noticed the casually attached kiss and didn’t much like it. He texted back:
Outside Dorchester, 7
He’d only just sent this when his mobile rang with a call from Barclay.
‘There’s somethin’ up,’ said the Scot in a low voice, before Strike could speak. ‘Plug’s visiting some kinda compound, wi’ two men.’
‘What d’you mean, “compound”?’
‘Waste ground, high fences, sheds… we’re a good way north of Ipswich. Middle o’ nowhere. Ah can hear guard dogs. There’s somethin’ up,’ repeated Barclay. ‘If Ah stick around till after dark, Ah might be able to get in there.’
‘What about the dogs?’
‘Ah’ll change out o’ my sausage trousers.’
‘OK, but for fuck’s sake don’t get caught. Last time Midge trespassed on private land, she got chased off by a bloke with a riding whip.’
‘Aye, but that was the aristocracy,’ said Barclay. ‘The look o’ this lot, it’ll be knives.’
‘We haven’t got health insurance, Barclay.’
‘Ach, I used tae drink in Barlanark in the nineties,’ said Barclay. ‘No evenin’ complete wi’out a bit o’ light stabbin’. Talk later.’
When Barclay had hung up, Strike returned to his email to Hardacre, over which he took some care, remembering to ask after Hardacre’s wife and two sons, whose names he managed, with a significant degree of effort, to recall.
At half past five, he locked up the office and went upstairs to shower, eat a sandwich and change, prior to heading out to the Dorchester. His bad mood was worsened by the fact that he considered the evening’s activities – infiltrating a gala dinner in benefit of a children’s charity – entirely pointless. Mrs A was to be in attendance, and the client was insistent that his wife should be kept under surveillance there, even though Dominic Culpepper was currently in Lancashire. Mr A thought his ex might ‘talk about shagging him, when she’s got her guard down’.
Showered and changed into his dinner suit, Strike debated whether to walk to the Dorchester in the interests of counterbalancing his earlier fish and chips or get a cab, because his leg was still aching, and compromised by setting out on foot and waiting for a cab to present itself, which happened on Shaftesbury Avenue.
The night was chilly and the combination of London’s gaudy Christmas illuminations and the cheery end-of-working-week revellers thronging the dark pavements seemed to mock Strike’s mood. As the cab slowed in front of the Dorchester, which was decorated with much greenery and thousands of twinkling ruby-red lights, he saw Kim Cochran standing alone beside the steps in a clinging crimson dress, high-necked and long-sleeved, through which her nipples were clearly visible. She was very obviously braless.
He got out of the cab and paid the male driver, who, understandably, was staring at Kim rather than at the large, bent-nosed man shoving fivers into his outstretched palm.
‘Evening,’ said Strike, when he reached Kim.
‘Wow, you brush up well,’ said Kim, smiling.
‘Likewise,’ said Strike, out of politeness.
Many other men in black tie were making their way through the twin revolving doors at the front of the hotel, accompanied by thickly made-up women in silk and sequins. As Kim moved ahead of Strike to enter via the revolving door, he saw that the dress was backless; it revealed a long expanse of smooth skin and a single mole, slightly to the right of her spine.