She looked round, and was clearly horrified to see who had called her.
‘I’d like a word, in there,’ he said grimly, pointing to a pub called the Ship, which was tucked away in a pedestrian-only alleyway visible between two buildings.
‘Why?’
‘Have you read today’s
‘I – yes.’
‘Then you know why.’
‘I don’t—’
‘Want to be seen with me? Then you should’ve answered your phone.’
She looked as though she’d have liked to refuse to go with him, but let him lead her into the alleyway. When he held open the door of the Ship, she walked in past him, her expression cold.
‘I’d rather go upstairs,’ she said.
‘Fine by me,’ said Strike. ‘What d’you want to drink?’
‘I don’t care – red wine.’
Five minutes later he joined her upstairs in the low-ceilinged, dimly lit Oak Room. She’d taken off her coat to reveal a tight red dress, and was sitting in a corner with her back to the room. Strike set her wine on the table before sitting down opposite her, holding a double whisky. He didn’t intend to stay long enough for a pint.
‘You’ve been shooting your mouth off about me.’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘“A mole at Lavington Court Chambers—”’
‘I know what it said!’
‘You need to make it very clear to this Honbold individual that I never gave you any advice on surveillance.’
‘I’ve already told him that!’
‘Seen the article, has he?’
‘Yes. And the
‘I’ll bet he is.’
Strike watched unsympathetically as Bijou dug in her pockets for a tissue and blotted her eyes carefully so as not to disturb her make-up.
‘What are you going to do when journos turn up at your flat?’ he asked.
‘Tell them I never slept with him. It’s what Andrew wants.’
‘You’re going to deny you ever slept with me, as well.’
She said nothing. Suspecting he knew what lay behind her silence, he said,
‘I’m not going to be collateral damage in all this. We met at a christening, that’s all. If you still think Honbold’s going to be spurred into leaving his wife out of jealousy that we’re screwing, you’re deluded. I doubt he’d touch you with a bargepole after this.’
‘You
‘You were playing a little game that blew up in your face, but I’m not going to get caught in the crossfire, so understand now, there’ll be consequences if you try and save face by saying we’re having an affair.’
‘Are you
‘It’s a warning,’ said Strike. ‘Delete the texts you sent me and take my number off your phone.’
‘Or?’
‘Or there’ll be consequences,’ he repeated. ‘I’m a private detective. I find out things about people, things they think they’ve hidden very effectively. Unless there’s nothing in your past you’d mind seeing printed in the
She was no longer crying. Her expression had hardened, but he thought she’d gone slightly paler beneath her foundation. Finally she took out her mobile, deleted his contact details, the texts they’d exchanged and the photos she’d sent him. Strike then did the same on his own phone, downed his whisky in one and stood up again.
‘Right,’ he said, ‘blanket denials all round and this should blow over.’
He left the Ship feeling no qualms whatsoever about the tactics he’d just employed, but consumed with fury at her and himself. Time would tell whether he was going to find the
Robin had had to carry around the Polaroids she’d found for a week before placing them in the plastic rock on Thursday night. She didn’t dare hide them anywhere in the dormitory, but the awareness of them close to her skin was an ever-present source of anxiety in case one slipped out from under her tracksuit top. Her fourth trip into the woods and back again was mercifully uneventful, and she returned safely to her bed undetected, deeply relieved to have got rid of the photographs.
The following evening, after a day of lectures and chanting, Robin returned to the dormitory with the other women to find scarlet tracksuits lying on their beds, instead of orange.
‘Why the colour change?’ said widowed Marion Huxley blankly. Marion, whose ginger hair had now grown out to reveal an inch of silver, often asked rather basic questions, or spoke when others might have remained silent.
