‘There was no pestering,’ repeated Strike. ‘I was trying to get a message to you, because I wanted to talk to you about the UHC.’
‘The fuck for?’
‘Because I’m conducting an investi—’
‘You keep the fuck away from my wife and my sister, all right?’
‘I’ve got no intention of going near either of them. Would you be prepar—?’
‘I’ve got nuffing to fucking say about nuffing, all right?’ said Reaney, now almost shouting.
‘Not even pigs?’ asked Strike.
‘What the fuck – why pigs? Who’s talked about fucking pigs?’
‘Your wife told me you have nightmares about pigs.’
A presentiment made Strike move the mobile slightly away from his ear. Sure enough, Reaney began to bellow.
‘THE FUCK DID SHE TELL YOU THAT FOR? I’LL FUCKING BREAK YOUR LEGS IF YOU GO TALKING TO MY FUCKING WIFE AGAIN, YOU FUCKING COCKSUCKING—’
There ensued a series of loud bangs. Strike surmised that Reaney was bashing the handset of the prison phone against the wall. A second man yelled, ‘OI, REANEY!’ Scuffling noises followed. The line went dead.
Strike put his mobile back into his pocket. For a full ten minutes he stood vaping and thinking, watching the door of the McDonald’s. Finally, he pulled out his phone again and called his old friend Shanker.
‘Awright Bunsen?’ said the familiar voice, answering after a couple of rings.
‘How’s Angel?’ asked Strike.
‘Started treatment last week,’ said Shanker.
‘Did she get to see her dad?’
‘Yeah. He didn’t wanna – cunt – but I persuaded ’im.’
‘Good,’ said Strike. ‘Listen, I need a favour.’
‘Name it,’ said Shanker.
‘It’s about a guy called Kurt Jordan Reaney.’
‘And?’
‘I was hoping we could talk about that face to face,’ said Strike. ‘Would you be free later today? I can come to you.’
Shanker being amenable, they agreed to meet later that afternoon in an East End café well known to both of them, and Strike hung up.
Having handed over surveillance of the Franks to Midge, Strike took the Tube to Bethnal Green station. He’d gone barely ten yards along the road when his ever-busy phone vibrated in his pocket. Drawing aside to let other people pass, he saw yet another text from Bijou Watkins.
You less busy yet? Cos here’s what you’re missing.
She’d attached two photographs of herself in lingerie, taken with a mobile in the mirror. Strike gave these only a cursory glance before closing then deleting the message. He had no intention of ever meeting her again, but those photographs might tend to weaken his resolve, because she looked undeniably fabulous in a bright red bra, suspender belt and stockings.
Pellicci’s, which lay on Bethnal Green Road, was an East End institution: a small, century-old Italian-run café where the art deco wooden panels gave the incongruous feeling of eating chips in a compartment on the Orient Express. Strike chose a corner seat with his back to the wall, ordered coffee, then reached for an abandoned copy of the
Skipping the usual discussion of the Brexit referendum, he paused on page five, where there was a large picture of Charlotte with Landon Dormer, both of them holding glasses of champagne and laughing. The caption informed him that Charlotte and her boyfriend had attended a fundraising dinner for Dormer’s charitable foundation. The story below hinted at a possible engagement.
Strike studied this picture far longer than he’d looked at Bijou’s. Charlotte was wearing a long, clinging gold dress and looked entirely carefree, one thin arm resting on Dormer’s shoulder, her long black hair styled in waves. Had she lied about having cancer, or was she putting on a brave face? He scrutinised the lantern-jawed Dormer, who also looked untroubled. Strike was still examining the picture when a voice above him said,
‘Wotcha, Bunsen.’
‘Shanker,’ said Strike, tossing the paper back onto the neighbouring table and extending a hand, which Shanker shook before sitting down.
Gaunt and pale, Shanker had grown a beard since Strike had last seen him, which disguised most of the deep scar that gave him a permanent sneer. He was wearing ill-fitting jeans and a baggy grey sweatshirt. Tattoos covered his wrists, knuckles and neck.
‘You ill?’ he demanded of Strike.
‘No, why?’
‘You’ve lost weight.’
‘That’s intentional.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Shanker, now rapidly clicking his fingers, a tic he’d had as long as Strike had known him.
‘Want anything?’ said Strike.
‘Yeah, I could do a coffee,’ said Shanker. Once this had been ordered, Shanker asked, ‘What d’you want wiv Reaney, then?’
‘D’you know him personally?’
‘I know ’oo ’e is,’ said Shanker, whose extensive knowledge of organised crime in London would have shamed the Met. ‘Used to run wiv the Vincent firm. I ’eard about the job ’e got banged up for. Silly cunts nearly killed that bookie.’
