Five minutes later, Strike entered the Rose and Crown on Lower Sloane Street to find his best-looking subcontractor sitting in a corner with a split lip, a puffy left eye and a swollen nose, a pint on the table in front of him.
‘Id fine, id nod broggen,’ said Shah, gesturing to his nose and forestalling Strike’s first question.
‘Ice,’ was Strike’s one word response, and he headed for the bar, returning with a zero-alcohol beer for himself, a glass of ice and a clean beer towel he’d cadged from the curious barmaid. Shah tipped the ice onto the towel, wrapped it up and pressed the bundle to his face.
‘Cheerd. Der you go,’ Shah said, pushing his mobile across the table. The screen was smashed, but the picture of Bigfoot was sharp and clear behind the broken glass. He was caught in the act of yelling, mouth wide open, fist raised, a near-naked girl looking terrified behind him.
‘Now, that,’ said Strike, ‘is what I call evidence. Excellent work. Heating engineer ruse worked, then?’
‘Didn’ deed id. Followed a fat bloke inside, ride after Bigfood. Hug around in de corridor. Caud hib coming out. He’d quig on hid feet for a big lad.’
‘Bloody well done,’ said Strike. ‘Sure you don’t want to see a doctor?’
‘Doe, I’ll be fine.’
‘I’ll be happy to see the back of this case,’ said Strike. ‘Midge is right, the client’s a pain in the arse. S’pose she’ll get her multi-million settlement now.’
‘Yeah,’ said Shah. ‘New case, den? Ob the waiting list?’
‘Yeah,’ said Strike.
‘Even wid the Franks being a three-perdon job now?’
‘Heard about the snake, did you?’
‘Yeah, Barglay dold be.’
‘Well, they’re not a three-person job any more. Back to two.’
‘How gum?’
‘Because I’m having the third party watched by a couple of cash-in-hand blokes,’ said Strike. ‘They don’t often play on the side of the angels, but they’re experienced at surveillance – usually casing places to rob. It’s costing me a fortune, but I want to prove Patterson’s behind it. That fucker will rue the day he tried this on me.’
‘Wadz hid problem wid you, anyway?’
‘It pisses him off I’m better than him,’ said Strike.
Dev laughed but stopped abruptly, wincing.
‘I owe you a new phone,’ said Strike. ‘Give me the receipt and I’ll reimburse you. You should get home and rest up. Send me that picture and I’ll call Bigfoot’s wife when I get back to the office.’
A sudden thought now occurred to Strike.
‘How old’s your wife?’
‘Wad?’ said Shah, looking up.
‘I’ve been trying to track down a thirty-eight-year-old woman, for the UHC case,’ said Strike. ‘She’s used at least three aliases that I know of. Where do women that age hang out online, d’you know?’
‘Bubsned, probably,’ said Shah.
‘What?’
‘Bub – fuggit –
‘Mumsnet and Facebook,’ said Strike. ‘Yeah, good thinking. I’ll try them.’
He arrived back at the office half an hour later to find Pat there alone, restocking the fridge with milk, the radio playing hits of the sixties.
‘Dev’s just got punched in the face by Bigfoot,’ said Strike, hanging up his coat.
‘He’s fine,’ Strike added, moving past her to the kettle. ‘Going home to ice his nose. Who’s next on the waiting list?’
‘That weirdo with the mother.’
‘They all have mothers, don’t they?’ said Strike, dropping a teabag into a mug.
‘This one wants his mother watched,’ said Pat. ‘Thinks she’s frittering away his inheritance on a toyboy.’
‘Ah, right. If you pull the file for me, I’ll give him a ring. Has Littlejohn showed his face in here today?’
‘No,’ said Pat, stiffening.
‘Has he called?’
‘No.’
‘Let me know if he does either. I’ll be through here. Don’t worry about interrupting me, I’ll just be trying to find a needle in a haystack on Facebook and Mumsnet.’
Once settled at his desk, Strike made his two phone calls. Bigfoot’s wife was gratifyingly ecstatic to see concrete evidence of her wealthy husband’s infidelity. The man who wanted his mother’s movement’s watched, and who had an upper-class accent so pronounced Strike found it hard to believe he wasn’t putting it on, was also delighted to hear from the detective.
‘Ay was thinkin’ of gettin’ in touch with Patters’ns if I didn’t hyar from yeh soon.’
‘You don’t want to use them, they’re shit,’ said Strike, and was rewarded with a surprised guffaw.
Having asked Pat to email the newest client a contract, Strike returned to his desk, opened the notebook in which he’d written every possible combination of the first names and surnames he knew Cherie Gittins had used in youth, logged into Facebook using a fake profile, and began his methodical search.
