The office manager and Strike’s burger arrived at exactly the same time. Pat took the seat Bijou had just vacated and Strike’s unease increased, because the expression on Pat’s monkeyish face was frightened, and she was clutching her handbag tightly on her lap, as though in self-protection.
‘Want a drink?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Pat.
Much as he wanted his chips, Strike felt he ought to hear Pat out before eating.
‘Go on,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’
Pat swallowed.
‘I’m sixty-seven.’
‘You’re what?’
‘Sixty-seven. Years old,’ she added.
Strike merely looked at her.
‘I lied,’ croaked Pat. ‘On my CV.’
‘Yeah,’ said Strike. ‘You did.’
‘Well, I had to. Nobody wants anyone my age.’
Strike suspected he might know the reason Pat had suddenly come clean.
‘I’m fired, aren’t I?’ she said.
‘Oh Christ, don’t cry,’ said Strike, seeing her lip tremble: one bawling woman a day was enough. ‘Littlejohn knows this, I take it?’
‘How did you know that?’ gasped Pat.
‘Has he been blackmailing you?’
‘Not until just now,’ said Pat, retrieving a handkerchief from her handbag and pressing it against her eyes. ‘He told me he knew, right after he started with us. I couldn’t tell you without admitting how old I am, could I?
‘But I was in the loo just now and when I went in the office he was there, and he had the Edensor file and I think he was going to take photos of it, because he had his phone out. I said to him, “What the hell d’you think you’re doing?” and he closed the file and said, “You didn’t see that, and I’ll forget you’re a pensioner, all right?”’
‘You don’t think he got pictures?’
‘No, I heard him pass the loo. He wouldn’t have had time.’
Strike picked up a couple of chips and ate them, while Pat watched him. When Strike didn’t speak, she repeated,
‘I’m fired, aren’t I?’
‘You should’ve told me.’
‘You wouldn’t have hired me if I’d told the truth,’ said Pat, tears now falling faster than she could wipe them away.
‘I’m not talking about then, I’m talking about now. Stop bloody crying, you’re not fired. Where’m I going to get another manager like you?’
Strike got to his feet and went to the bar, buying a glass of port, which was Pat’s preferred drink, and returning to set it down in front of her.
‘Why the hell d’you want to keep working at sixty-seven?’
‘’Cause I like working,’ gulped Pat, frantically wiping her face. ‘I get bored, sitting at home.’
‘Me too,’ said Strike, who’d been making certain deductions while at the bar. ‘So how old’s your daughter?’
‘Just turned fifty,’ muttered Pat. ‘I had her young.’
‘That’s why you bit my head off when I asked?’
Pat nodded.
‘Is she on Facebook?’
‘Never off it,’ said Pat, reaching for her port with an unsteady hand.
‘Then—’
‘Yeah. I’ll ask Rhoda. She’ll like helping,’ said Pat, taking a shaky sip of port.
‘Where’s Littlejohn now?’
‘He left. I made sure he’d really gone before I called you. He got in a taxi at the end of the road. He wasn’t happy I caught him. He’s off for a week now,’ said Pat, blowing her nose. ‘They’re going to Greece on holiday.’
‘By the time I’ve finished with him he’ll wish he’d bloody stayed there.’
He started on his burger. When Pat had finished her drink, she said,
‘Better get back, I was halfway through next week’s rota… thanks, Cormoran.’
‘You’re welcome,’ said Strike, through a mouthful of burger. Pat left.
Strike knew full well he was guilty of an inconsistency. He’d damned Littlejohn on the principle that where there was one lie, there were more, but he was confident that Pat’s lie hadn’t been born of a fundamental lack of honesty. Quite the reverse: she was often far too honest for his liking. In the early days of her employment he’d have jumped at the chance to fire her, but time had brought about a complete revolution in his feelings: now, he’d have been extremely loath to lose her. Nevertheless, he thought, as he reached absently for more chips, he might delay the pay rise he’d been planning to give her. Forgiveness was one thing, but it was a poor management strategy to reward employees for coming clean only when they were forced to do so.
For the next ten minutes, Strike was left alone to enjoy his burger. When at last he’d finished eating, he reached for his mobile and called Shanker back.
‘I want to trace the call Reaney got, before he overdosed. D’you know any bent screws up in Bedford?’
‘There’s always bent screws, Bunsen,’ said Shanker, cynical as ever.
‘Five hundred for you and five hundred for them, if they can give me any solid information about that call,’ said Strike recklessly, ‘particularly the number it was made from.’
