If the receipt of Robin’s letter from Chapman Farm didn’t have quite the same effect on Strike as his had on her, the absence of a note for Ryan Murphy cheered him enormously, a fact he concealed from Dev Shah when the latter confirmed that there’d been only one letter inside the plastic rock when he’d checked before dawn.
‘Well, good to know she’s OK,’ was Strike’s only comment, after reading Robin’s message at the partners’ desk. ‘And that’s a pretty bloody big piece of information she’s got already. If Will Edensor’s fathered a kid in there, we’ve got a partial explanation of why he’s not leaving.’
‘Yeah,’ said Dev. ‘Fear of prosecution. Statutory rape, isn’t it? Gonna tell Sir Colin?’
Strike hesitated, frowning as he rubbed his chin.
‘If the kid’s definitely Will’s he’ll have to know eventually, but I’d rather get a bit more information first.’
‘Underage is underage,’ said Dev.
Strike had never seen Shah look that uncompromising before.
‘I agree. But I’m not sure you can judge what goes on in there by normal standards.’
‘Fuck normal standards,’ said Dev. ‘Keep your dick in your pants around kids.’
There was a short, charged silence, following which Dev announced that he needed to get some sleep, having been up all night in the car, and departed.
‘What’s upset him?’ enquired Pat, as the glass door closed rather harder than necessary and Strike emerged from the inner office with an empty mug in his hand.
‘Sex with underage girls,’ said Strike, moving towards the sink to wash up the mug before heading out for more surveillance on Bigfoot. ‘Not Dev,’ he added.
‘Well, I knew
How Pat could know that, Strike didn’t ask. Dev was easily the most handsome subcontractor employed by the agency and Strike knew from experience that their office manager’s sympathies were most readily engaged by good-looking men. An association of ideas led him to say,
‘Incidentally, if Ryan Murphy calls, tell him there’s no note for him from Robin this week.’
Something in Pat’s sharp glance made Strike say,
‘There wasn’t one in the rock.’
‘All right, I’m not accusing you of burning it,’ snapped Pat, turning back to her typing.
‘Everything all right?’ asked Strike. While he doubted anyone had ever compared Pat to a ray of eternal sunshine, he couldn’t offhand remember her being this tetchy without provocation.
‘Fine,’ said Pat, e-cigarette waggling as she scowled at her monitor.
Strike decided the politic course was to wash his mug in silence.
‘Well, that’s me off to watch Bigfoot,’ he said. As he turned to get his coat, his eye fell on a small pile of receipts on Pat’s desk.
‘Those Littlejohn’s?’
‘Yeah,’ said Pat, her fingers moving rapidly over the keys.
‘Mind if I have a quick look?’
He shuffled through them. There was nothing unusual or extravagant in there; indeed, if anything, they were on the sketchy side.
‘What d’you think of Littlejohn?’ Strike asked Pat, setting the receipts back down beside her.
‘What d’you mean, what do I think of him?’ she said, glaring up at him.
‘Exactly what I said.’
‘He’s all right,’ said Pat, after a moment or two. ‘He’s fine.’
‘Robin told me you don’t like him.’
‘I thought he was a bit quiet when he started, that’s all.’
‘Got chattier, has he?’ said Strike.
‘Yeah,’ said Pat. ‘Well – no – but he’s always polite.’
‘You’ve never noticed him doing anything odd? Behaving strangely? Lying about anything?’
‘No. Why’re you asking me this?’ said Pat.
‘Because if you had, you wouldn’t be the only one,’ said Strike. He was now intrigued: Pat had never before shown the slightest inclination to pull her punches when judging anyone: client, employee or, indeed, Strike himself.
‘He’s fine. Doing the job OK, isn’t he?’
Before Strike could answer, the phone on Pat’s desk rang.
‘Oh, hello Ryan,’ she said, her tone far warmer.
Strike decided it was time to leave, and did so, closing the glass door quietly behind him.
