‘Worked for a hospital trust,’ said Kim, ‘and now it’s all “you left me when I was at my lowest”. I mean, there are other jobs, Ray. Just grow a pair and send out your bloody CV, hahaha. Oh dear God, look at her…’
Kim’s eyes were following the reflection in the mirror over the bar of a tall, willowy woman who’d clearly had a lot of cosmetic work done to her face. Strike was reminded of Charlotte’s mother, Tara, whose picture, the last time he’d seen one, had shown extensive overuse of fillers.
‘Why do they do it?’ Kim asked. ‘What’s the point? Look at her neck and her hands… you’re not fooling anyone… would
‘What, have plastic surgery?’ asked Strike, knowing full well what she meant.
‘No,’ said Kim, laughing as she nudged him, ‘
All he had to do, Strike thought grimly, was get through the next couple of hours. He ordered another drink, so Kim did, too. She gabbled on and on, and though Strike paid as little attention as he could, and his responses were perfunctory, he unwillingly learned far more than he’d ever wanted to about his newest subcontractor. Ray, she told him, had been the husband of a friend also on the force (‘well, ex-friend now, obviously, hahaha’); their relationship had been the main trigger for Kim leaving the Met (‘it’s all politics, anyway, I’d had enough’); she’d also had two long, complicated affairs in her twenties, both with married policemen. Strike found it strange, to put it mildly, that she was telling him all these things unbidden, although she seemed to assume that he took her tales as sophisticated and exciting, rather than tawdry.
‘… wanted kids, which I don’t, so that was the end of that…’
Judy Garland was singing ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ over hidden speakers. Strike’s thoughts drifted back to Robin. A good long road trip to Scotland to interview Jade Semple would mean an overnight stay four hundred miles away from Murphy, which was exactly the kind of situation he’d been hoping this case would provide. He had to put pressure on Jade Semple. Robin and Murphy might be viewing the house he’d seen on Robin’s phone at this very moment. What if there was a ring-shaped Christmas present in Murphy’s gym bag?
‘… literally offered me money to stay. Can you imagine?
‘… glad to be working over Christmas, to be honest… I’ll go and check whether we can get in there yet,’ said Kim, and she slid off the barstool and walked back off towards the ballroom, her rear view attracting plenty of attention from men in the bar.
Strike ordered a third whisky, picked up his phone again and, in search of distraction, opened the website Truth About Freemasons and began to read answers to the many questions people had come on to the website to ask. GI-67: Can Jewish people be masons? Stolkin: Yes, masons can be any religion although Catholics aren’t allowed to join by their own church. AustinH: Is it true Freemasons protect each other? Gareb 7: In a brotherly sense, yes. If you’re thinking of concealing crimes, no, that’s the mafia.
‘Doors are open,’ said Kim’s voice in Strike’s ear. ‘She’s pissed and dancing.’
Strike paid the barman and followed Kim back out into the lobby. As they approached the double doors into the ballroom, Kim slid her hand under Strike’s arm, chattering and laughing, and they passed into the gala without challenge.
Tall vases full of white flowers and crystal icicles stood on the circular tables. Uniformed waiters and waitresses were winding through the party, clearing away empty bottles. The dancefloor was crowded, but Strike spotted Mrs A on its edge, dancing face to face with the woman in the gold dress to ‘Shout Out to My Ex’.
‘How fucking appropriate is that?’ said Kim jubilantly, already gyrating to the music. ‘Shall we dance?’
‘Not my forte,’ said Strike. ‘Leg.’
‘OK, I’ll go it alone,’ said Kim, and she sashayed away from him towards Mrs A and her friend, affording him another look at that long, bare expanse of back.
‘What,’ said a frigid voice beside Strike, ‘are
Strike looked down to see a pale, petite brunette with large dark eyes, who was wearing a strapless black dress.
‘Friend invited me. Good cause,’ said Strike.
‘Bullshit,’ said the Honourable Nina Lascelles.
He’d slept with her twice, six years previously. She was pretty enough, but that wasn’t why he’d done it; she’d simply helped him gain important evidence in a case. It had seemed rude at the time not to have sex with her, because she’d clearly wanted it, but their awkward, if minimal, history was far from the only reason to deplore Nina’s presence here tonight. Nina happened to be the cousin of Dominic Culpepper, the journalist Mr A suspected his ex-wife of sleeping with, and Nina had clearly drunk enough cheap champagne to make her disinhibited.