‘Sir Colin’s in the coffee room,’ said the tailcoated attendant who took their names at the door, and led them across the vast atrium. Robin, who’d thought she looked reasonably smart in black trousers and a sweater, which would also work for her surveillance job later, now felt slightly underdressed. White marble busts stood sentinel on square plinths and large oil paintings of eminent Whigs looked benignly down from gold frames, while columns of fluted stone rose from the tiled floor to the first-floor balcony, then up to a vaulted glass ceiling.
The coffee room, which had implied a small and cosy space, proved to be an equally grand dining room, with green, red and gold walls, long windows and gilt chandeliers with frosted glass globes. Only one table was occupied, and Robin recognised their potential client at once, because she’d looked him up the previous evening.
Sir Colin Edensor, who’d been born into a working-class family in Manchester, had enjoyed a distinguished career in the civil service, which had culminated in a knighthood. Now patron of several charities concerned with education and child welfare, he had a quiet reputation for intelligence and integrity. Over the past twelve months his name, which had hitherto appeared only in broadsheets, had found its way into the tabloids, because Edensor’s scathing remarks about the Universal Humanitarian Church had drawn fire from a wide range of people, including a famous actress, a respected author and sundry pop culture journalists, all of whom depicted Edensor as a rich man furious that his son was squandering his trust fund to help the poor.
Sir Colin’s wealth had come to him through his marriage to the daughter of a man who’d made many millions from a chain of clothing stores. The couple appeared to have been happy together given that the marriage had lasted forty years. Sally had died barely two months previously, leaving behind three sons, of whom William was the youngest by ten years. Robin assumed the two men sitting with Sir Colin were his elder sons.
‘Your guests, Sir Colin,’ said the attendant, without actually bowing, though his tone was hushed and deferential.
‘Good morning,’ said Sir Colin, smiling as he got to his feet and shook hands with the detectives in turn.
Their prospective client had a thick head of grey hair and the sort of face that engenders liking and trust. There were laughter lines on his face, his mouth was naturally upturned at the corners and the brown eyes behind his gold-rimmed bifocals were warm. His accent was still perceptibly Mancunian.
‘These are Will’s brothers, James and Edward.’
James Edensor, who resembled his father, except that his hair was dark brown and he looked rather less good-humoured, stood up to shake hands, whereas Edward, who had blond hair and large blue eyes, remained seated. Robin noticed a scar running down Edward’s temple. A walking stick was propped against his chair.
‘It’s very good of you to see us,’ said Sir Colin, when all had sat down. ‘Would you like anything to drink?’
When Strike and Robin declined, Sir Colin cleared his throat slightly, then said,
‘Well… I should probably start by saying I’m not sure you’re going to be able to help us. As I told you over the phone, we’ve already tried using private detectives, which didn’t go well. It might even have made things worse. However, you were highly recommended to me by the Chiswell family, who I know of old. Izzy assured me that if you didn’t think you’d be able to help, you’d tell me so at once – which I thought a high compliment.’
‘We certainly don’t take cases we consider hopeless,’ said Strike.
‘In that case,’ said Sir Colin, putting his fingers together, ‘I’ll outline the situation and you can give me your expert opinion. Yes, please, go ahead,’ he added, answering Strike’s unasked question as the detective reached for his notebook.
Even if he hadn’t known Sir Colin’s previous profession, Strike would’ve known he was a man well-practised in giving information in an organised, cogent fashion, so he merely readied his pen.
‘I think it’s best to start with Will,’ said the civil servant. ‘He’s our youngest child and he was – I don’t like to say an accident, but Sally was forty-four when she fell pregnant with him and didn’t realise for quite a while. But we were delighted, once we got over the shock.’
‘James and I weren’t,’ interjected Edward. ‘Nobody likes to think their forty-something parents are up to
Sir Colin smiled.
