The Running Grave полностью

‘No, I can manage alone, but will you come over to ours once I’ve got him here, to help me talk to him? Tomorrow night?’

‘I will, yeah, of course,’ said Strike, his spirits sinking slightly. Somebody else would have to pick up Robin from Chapman Farm.

He returned to the sitting room to find Honbold holding a coffee pot.

‘Want some?’ he barked at Strike.

‘That’d be great,’ said Strike, sitting down again.

Once both men were sitting again, a slightly awkward silence fell. Given that both of them had been having sex with the same woman over roughly the same time period, and that Bijou was now pregnant, Strike supposed this was inevitable, but he wasn’t going to be the one to bring up the subject.

‘Bijou told me you two had a couple of drinks,’ boomed the barrister. ‘Nothing more.’

‘That’s right,’ lied Strike.

‘Met at a christening, I understand? Isla Herbert’s child.’

‘Ilsa,’ Strike corrected him. ‘Yeah, Ilsa and her husband are old friends of mine.’

‘So Bijou didn’t—?’

‘She never mentioned you. I don’t discuss work outside the office and she never asked about it.’

This, at least, was true. Bijou had talked about nothing but herself. Honbold was now eyeing Strike thoughtfully. Having sipped his coffee, he said,

‘You’re very good at what you do, arentcha? I’ve heard glowing reports from clients.’

‘Nice to know,’ said Strike.

‘Wouldn’t fancy helping me get something on my wife, would you?’

‘Our client list’s full, I’m afraid,’ said Strike. He hadn’t extricated himself from the Bijou-Honbold mess to plunge straight back into it.

‘Pity. Matilda’s out for revenge. Revenge,’ boomed Honbold, and Strike could picture him in his barrister’s wig, throwing the word at a jury. Honbold began to enumerate the many outrageous ways in which his wife was currently behaving, one of which was refusing to give him access to his wine cellar.

Strike let the man talk, desirous only of defusing Honbold’s animosity to himself once and for all. Though the accent, the grievances and the objects of their ire might be very different, he was reminded of Barry Saxon as he listened to Honbold. Just like the Tube driver, the QC seemed perplexed and outraged that a woman he’d wronged might want to make things unpleasant for him in turn.

‘Well, thanks for the coffee,’ said Strike, when a convenient pause arose, getting to his feet. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing Patterson in court.’

‘“So you shall,”’ quoted Honbold, also rising, and raising his already loud voice he declaimed, ‘“And where the offence is let the great axe fall.”’

Six in the third place means:

One is enriched through unfortunate events.

The I Ching or Book of Changes

Relieved to have one problem crossed off his list, Strike returned to the office, eating and despising the carob bar he’d picked up en route in tribute to his renewed commitment to weight loss. He half hoped Littlejohn would have reneged on his promise to provide the Pirbright recording today, thereby giving Strike an opportunity to vent his tetchiness on a deserving target.

‘Littlejohn dropped this off,’ were Pat’s first words when he entered the office.

She indicated a plain brown envelope lying beside her, inside which was a small oblong object. Strike grunted, heading for the kettle.

‘And Midge has just been in,’ Pat continued. ‘She’s in a right mood. She says you insulted her.’

‘If she thinks her boss asking legitimate questions about her working practices is an insult, she’s led a very sheltered life,’ said Strike irritably, now adding an additional teabag to his mug, feeling he needed all the caffeine he could get.

In truth, his anger at Midge had abated somewhat during the last few days. Little though he wanted to admit it, he knew he’d overreacted about her getting caught on camera at Tasha Mayo’s house, because of his own anxiety about the fallout from Honbold’s divorce. He’d been toying with the idea of telling Midge she could go back on the Frank case as long as there was no more fraternising with the client, but the news that she’d been complaining to Pat aggravated him.

‘I knew another lesbian, once,’ said Pat.

‘Yeah?’ said Strike, as the kettle lid began to rattle. ‘Did she bitch behind her boss’s back, as well?’

‘No,’ said Pat. ‘She was the boss. Nice woman. People took her for hard as nails, but she was soft underneath. Very kind when I had my divorce.’

‘Is this a thinly veiled suggestion I should grovel for hurting Midge’s feelings?’

‘Nobody said anything about grovelling.’

‘Just as well, because that’s not going to happen,’ said Strike.

‘No need to be snappy,’ said Pat. ‘Anyway, Rhoda’s done what you asked.’

It took Strike a couple of seconds to remember that this was Pat’s daughter.

‘You’re kidding?’ he said, turning back towards her.

‘No,’ said Pat. ‘She’s got into that Carrie Curtis Woods’ Facebook page.’

‘Best news I’ve had all day,’ said Strike. ‘Want a cuppa?’