As he’d expected, the problem wasn’t too few results, but too many. There were multiple results for every name he tried, not only in Britain, but also in Australia, New Zealand and America. Wishing he could hire people to do this donkey work for him, rather than pay two of Shanker’s criminal mates to watch Littlejohn, he followed – or, in the case of private accounts, sent follower requests to – every woman whose photo might plausibly be that of a thirty-eight-year-old Cherie Gittins.
Two and a half hours, three mugs of tea and a sandwich later, Strike came across a Facebook account set to private with the name Carrie Curtis Woods. He’d included ‘Carrie’ in his search as a shortened version of ‘Carine’. As the double surname was unhyphenated, he suspected the account owner would be American rather than English, but the photograph had caught his attention. The smiling woman had the same curly blonde hair and insipid prettiness of the first picture of Cherie he’d found. In the picture, she was cuddling two young girls Strike supposed were her daughters.
Strike had just sent a follow request to Curtis Woods when the music in the outer office ceased abruptly. He heard a male voice. After a moment or two, the phone on Strike’s desk rang.
‘What’s up?’
‘There’s a Barry Saxon here to see you.’
‘Never heard of him,’ said Strike.
‘He says he’s met you. Says he knows an Abigail Glover.’
‘Oh,’ said Strike, closing Facebook, as the memory of a glowering, bearded man presented itself: Baz, of the Forester pub. ‘OK. Give me a minute, then send him in.’
Strike rose and went to the noticeboard on the wall, where he’d pinned various items relating to the UHC case, and folded the wooden wings to conceal the Polaroids of teenagers in pig masks and the photo of Kevin Pirbright’s bedroom. He’d just sat down when the door opened, and Barry Saxon entered.
Strike judged him to be around forty. He had very small, deep-set hazel eyes with large pouches beneath them, and his hair and beard looked as though their owner spent a lot of time caring for them. He came to a halt before Strike, with his hands in his jeans pockets, feet planted wide apart.
‘You weren’ Terry, then,’ he said, squinting at the detective.
‘No,’ said Strike. ‘How did you find that out?’
‘Ab told Patrick, an’ ’e told me.’
With an effort, Strike recalled that Patrick was Abigail Glover’s lodger.
‘Does Abigail know you’re here?’
‘Not bloody likely,’ said Saxon, with a slight snort.
‘D’you want to sit down?’
Saxon cast a suspicious look at the chair where Robin usually sat, before taking his hands out of his pockets and doing as invited.
He and Saxon might only have been in direct contact for less than two minutes, but Strike thought he knew what kind of man was sitting opposite him. Saxon’s attempt to scupper what he’d thought was Abigail’s date with ‘Terry’, coupled with his present attitude of smouldering resentment, reminded Strike of an estranged husband who was one of the few clients he’d ever turned down. In that case, Strike had been convinced that if he located the man’s ex-wife, who he claimed was unreasonably resisting all contact in spite of the fact that there were unspecified things that needed ‘sorting out’, he’d have been enabling an act of revenge, and possibly violence. While that particular man had worn a Savile Row suit as opposed to a tight red checked shirt with buttons that strained across his torso, Strike thought he recognised in Saxon the same barely veiled thirst for vengeance.
‘How can I help?’ asked Strike.
‘I don’ wan’ help,’ said Saxon. ‘I’ve got fings to tell ya. You’re investigatin’ that church, incha? The one wiv Ab’s farver?’
‘I don’t discuss open investigations, I’m afraid,’ said Strike.
Saxon shifted irritably in the chair.
‘She covered fings up when she talked to you. She didn’t tell the troof. A man called Kevin somefing got shot, din’ ’e?’
As this information was in the public domain, Strike saw no reason to deny it.
‘An’ ’e was tryna expose the church, wannee?’
‘He was an ex-member,’ said Strike non-committally.
‘All righ’, well –
Strike wasn’t quite as impressed by these dramatic statements as Saxon evidently wished him to be. Nevertheless, he drew his notebook towards him.
‘Shall we start at the beginning?’
Saxon’s expression became a degree less dissatisfied.
‘What d’you do for a living, Barry?’
‘Wha’ d’you wanna know tha’ for?’
‘Standard question,’ said Strike, ‘but you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.’
