Robin jumped back down onto the floor, wiped her footprints off the sink and turned on a tap, just in time: she heard a group of women enter the dormitory.
‘Hi,’ said Robin, emerging from the bathroom and hoping that she didn’t look too red in the face. Vivienne, who was among the women, ignored her, instead saying to the group,
‘Check
‘How could the pendant have got under a mattress?’ Robin asked Vivienne, her heart still thumping rapidly from the shock of her discovery.
‘I don’t know, it’s just what Becca wants,’ said Vivienne irritably.
‘Oh, right,’ said Robin.
‘Aren’t you going to help?’ said Vivienne, as Robin made to leave.
‘Sorry,’ said Robin, ‘Jiang wants me to help him.’
As she walked outside to rejoin Jiang, she noticed Becca talking to Dr Zhou on the other side of Drowned Prophet’s fountain.
‘Where should we look?’ Robin asked Jiang. She had no intention whatsoever of pursuing the fish into its clump of grass: let somebody else find it.
‘Craft rooms,’ suggested Jiang, who was clearly enjoying Robin looking to him for orders.
‘Great,’ said Robin.
As they walked away, Robin glanced back at Becca, and was unsurprised to find her eyes following them.
Strike was having an extremely trying day.
At shortly after ten, as he was following Toy Boy and the client’s mother into Selfridges, Shanker called. Hoping for confirmation that Littlejohn was working undercover for Patterson Inc, Strike answered quickly, placing a finger in his free ear to block out the sound of canned music and talkative shoppers.
‘Hi,’ said Strike, ‘what’ve you got?’
‘Reaney’s tried to top ’imself. Fort you’d wanna know.’
‘He’s
‘Yeah,’ said Shanker. ‘Overdose. Me mate in Bedford jus’ called an’ told me.’
‘When was this?’
‘Few days back. Silly cunt. Bought up and nicked all the pills ’e could get ’is ’ands on and took the lot.’
‘Shit. He’s still alive, though?’
‘Just abaht. In ’ospital. Me mate said ’e was yellow an’ covered in puke when the screws found ’im.’
‘Anyone know why he did it?’
‘Yeah, ’e got a phone call from ’is wife, a week ago. After that ’e started buying up everyfing anyone could give ’im and dahned the lot.’
‘OK,’ said Strike. ‘Cheers for letting me know.’
‘No bovver. Lot of it goin’ abaht, in’t there?’
‘What? Oh,’ said Strike, realising Shanker was talking about Charlotte. ‘Yeah, I s’pose. Listen, can you give those boys of yours a kick up the arse? I need something on Littlejohn, fast.’
Strike hung up and set off in pursuit of Toy Boy and his companion, thinking of Reaney as he’d last seem him, shoving away those Polaroids of naked youths in pig masks, then standing up, pale and sweaty, after mention of the Drowned Prophet.
He spent the next four and a half hours trailing around Selfridges after his targets.
‘He’s got a couple of suits and a watch out of her so far,’ Strike informed Barclay at three o’clock, when the latter arrived to take over.
‘Starting tae think I’m in the wrong line o’ work,’ said Barclay. ‘I could use a Rolex.’
‘If you can look that woman straight in the eye and tell her she’s beautiful, you deserve one.’
Strike left the store and walked off along Oxford Street, craving a kebab. He was crossing the road when his mobile rang again, this time from an unfamiliar number.
‘Strike.’
‘It’s me,’ said a woman’s voice.
‘Who’s “me”?’ asked Strike irritably.
‘Bijou.
‘What d’you want?’
‘I can’t say it on the phone. Can I meet you?’
As Strike hesitated, a youth on a skateboard cuffed him in passing, making Strike yearn to slap the inconsiderate little fucker into the gutter.
‘I’m in Oxford Street. I can give you twenty minutes in the Flying Horse if you hurry.’
‘Fine,’ she said, and hung up.
It took Strike a quarter of an hour to reach the pub and he found Bijou already there, sitting at the tall table at the back beneath the glass cupola, wrapped in a black coat and nursing what looked like water. Strike bought himself a pint he felt he’d more than earned, and joined her at the high table.
‘Go on,’ he said, omitting a greeting.
Bijou glanced around before saying in a low voice,
‘Somebody’s bugged Andrew’s office. He thinks it was you.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ said Strike, who felt he’d reached his full monthly capacity for unsought problems and obstacles. ‘It’ll be some bloody tabloid. Or his wife.’
‘I
‘Well, what d’you expect me to do about it?’
‘Talk to him,’ she whimpered.
‘If he doesn’t believe you, why the hell would he believe me?’
‘
