The Running Grave полностью

‘It’s me. Don’t hang up,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s in your best interests to hear what I’ve got to say.’

‘Say it, then,’ said Strike irritably.

‘A journalist from the Mail called me. They’re trying to run some sleazy profile of you, saying you sleep with female clients. Like father, like son, that kind of thing.’

Strike could feel the tension gripping every part of his body.

‘I told her I didn’t believe you’d ever sleep with a client, that you’re very honourable and that you’ve got strict ethics about that kind of thing. And I said you’re nothing like your father.’

Strike couldn’t have said what he was feeling, except a dim surprise mixed with some ghostly vestige of what he’d once felt for her, resurrected by the sorrowful voice he’d sometimes heard at the end of their worst fights, when even Charlotte’s ineradicable love of conflict left her spent and atypically honest.

‘I know they’ve been to a few of your exes as well,’ said Charlotte.

‘Who?’ said Strike.

‘Madeline, Ciara and Elin,’ said Charlotte. ‘Madeline and Elin have both said they’ve never hired a private detective and refused to give any other comment. Ciara says she just laughed when the Mail called her, then hung up.’

‘How the hell did they know I was with Elin?’ said Strike, more to himself than Charlotte. That affair, which had ended acrimoniously, had been conducted with what he’d thought was complete discretion on both their parts.

‘Darling, people talk,’ sighed Charlotte. ‘You should know that, seeing as it’s your job to make them. But I just wanted you to know, nobody’s cooperating and I’ve done what I could. You and I were together longest, so – so that should count for something.’

Strike tried to find something to say and finally mustered a ‘Well – thanks.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Charlotte. ‘I know you think I want to ruin your life, but I don’t. I don’t.’

‘I never thought you wanted to ruin my life,’ said Strike, now rubbing his face with his hand. ‘I just thought you didn’t mind messing with it a bit.’

‘What d’you—?’

‘Shit-stirring,’ said Strike. ‘With Madeline.’

‘Oh,’ said Charlotte. ‘Yeah… I did do that, a bit.’

The answer forced a reluctant laugh out of Strike.

‘How are you?’ he said. ‘How’s your health?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. I mean, they’ve caught it early.’

‘OK, well, thanks for doing what you could with the Mail. I’ll just have to hope they haven’t got enough to run with.’

‘Bluey,’ she said urgently, and his heart sank.

‘What?’

‘Could we have a drink? Just a drink. To talk.’

‘No,’ he said wearily.

‘Why not?’

‘Because,’ he said, ‘it’s over. I’ve told you this, repeatedly. We’re through.’

‘And we can’t even stay friends?’

‘Jesus Christ, Charlotte, we were never friends. That was the whole trouble. We were never fucking friends.’

‘How can you say—?’

‘Because it’s true,’ he said forcefully. ‘Friends don’t do to each other what we did. Friends have each other’s backs. They want each other to be OK. They don’t rip each other apart every time there’s a problem.’

Her breathing was ragged in his ear.

‘You’re with Robin, aren’t you?’

‘My love life’s none of your business any more,’ said Strike. ‘I said it in the pub the other week, I wish you well, but I don’t—’

Charlotte hung up.

Strike replaced the mobile on his kitchen table and reached for his vape again. Several minutes passed before he was able to subdue his disordered thoughts. Finally, he returned his attention to the rota on the screen in front of him, his eyes fixed on the name Littlejohn, and after some further rumination, picked up his mobile again, and once again called Shanker.

… the inferior man’s wickedness is visited upon himself. His house is split apart. A law of nature is at work here.

The I Ching or Book of Changes

Shortly after midday on Tuesday, Strike was to be found rising up the escalator at Sloane Square station, prepared to take over surveillance on Bigfoot, who was once again indulging in his favourite pastime at the large hotel full of sex workers. Among the small, framed posters on the escalator walls, many of which were advertising West End shows and grooming products, Strike noticed several featuring a flattering headshot of ‘Papa J’, the UHC’s heart-shaped logo and the legend Do you admit the possibility?

The detective had just emerged from the station into the rainy street when his mobile rang and he heard Shah’s voice, which was oddly thickened.

‘I’b god hib.’

‘You’ve what?’

‘God hib on cambra, coming ouddob a room, girl behind hib in stoggings and nudding else – fug, sorry, I’b bleeding.’

‘What’s happened?’ said Strike, though he thought he knew.

‘He punjed be in da fugging face.’