‘Pick up.
This time there was no beep: Pat had slammed her hand onto a button on the phone, silencing voicemail. Littlejohn’s silhouette had appeared outside the frosted glass in the door onto the stairwell. The door opened.
‘Morning,’ said Strike.
‘Morning,’ said Littlejohn, looking down at Strike through his heavy-lidded eyes. ‘Need to file my report on Toy Boy.’
Strike watched in silence as Littlejohn retrieved the file from the drawer and added a couple of sheets of notes. Pat had begun typing again, e-cigarette waggling between her teeth, ignoring both men. When Littlejohn had replaced the file in the drawer, he turned to Strike and for the first time in their acquaintance, initiated conversation.
‘Think you should know, I might be being followed.’
‘Followed?’ repeated Strike, eyebrows raised.
‘Yeah. Pretty sure I’ve seen the same guy watching me, three days apart.’
‘Any reason someone would be watching you?’
‘No,’ said Littlejohn, with a trace of defiance.
‘Nothing you’re not telling me?’
‘Like what?’ said Littlejohn.
‘Wife not planning a divorce? Creditors trying to track you down?’
‘’Course not,’ said Littlejohn. ‘I thought it might be something to do with this place.’
‘What, the agency?’ said Strike.
‘Yeah… made a few enemies along the way, haven’t you?’
‘Yeah,’ said Strike, after a sip of tea, ‘but they’re nearly all in jail.’
‘You tangled with terrorists last year,’ said Littlejohn.
‘What did the person watching you look like?’ asked Strike.
‘Skinny black guy.’
‘Probably not a neo-Nazi, then,’ said Strike, making a mental note to tell Shanker the skinny black guy would need replacing.
‘Could be press,’ said Littlejohn. ‘That
‘Think they’ve mistaken you for me, do you?’
‘No,’ said Littlejohn.
‘Well, if you want to hand in your notice because you’re scared of—’
‘I’m not scared,’ said Littlejohn curtly. ‘Just thought you ought to know.’
When Strike didn’t respond, Littlejohn said,
‘Maybe I made a mistake.’
‘No, it’s good you’re keeping your eyes open,’ said Strike insincerely. ‘Let me know if you see the guy again.’
‘Will do.’
Littlejohn left the office without another word, casting a sideways look at Pat as he passed her. The office manager continued to stare determinedly at her monitor. Once Littlejohn’s footsteps had died away, Strike pointed at the phone.
‘Is there much more of that?’
‘She called again,’ said Pat, ‘but it’s more of the same. Threatening to go to the press with all her made-up nonsense.’
‘How d’you know it’s made-up nonsense?’ said Strike perversely.
‘You never assaulted her, I know that.’
‘You don’t know anything of the bloody sort,’ said Strike irritably, getting up from the sofa to fetch a banana from the kitchen area, instead of the chocolate biscuit he really fancied.
‘You might be a grumpy sod,’ said Pat, scowling, ‘but I can’t see you knocking a woman around.’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ said Strike. ‘Be sure and tell the
Well aware that he was venting his anger on the office manager, he forced himself to say,
‘You’re right: I never threw her across a boat and I never did any of the other stuff she’s shouting about, either.’
‘She doesn’t like Robin,’ said Pat, looking up at him, her dark eyes shrewd behind the lenses of her reading glasses. ‘Jealous.’
‘There’s nothing—’
‘I know
Strike took a moody bite of banana.
‘So what are you going to do?’ asked Pat.
‘Nothing,’ said Strike, his mouth full. ‘I don’t negotiate with terrorists.’
‘Hm,’ said Pat. She took a deep drag on her e-cigarette then spoke through a cloud of vapour. ‘You can’t trust a drinker. Never know what they might do when the brakes are off.’
‘I’m not going to be held over a barrel for the rest of my life,’ said Strike. ‘She had sixteen fucking years from me. That’s enough.’
Throwing the banana skin into the bin, he headed back to the inner office.
