Strike and Lucy’s attempts to draw Ted out about where and how he wanted to live went nowhere, because Ted tended to agree with every proposition put to him, even if they were contradictory. He agreed that he wanted to stay in Cornwall, that it might be better to move to London, that he needed a bit more help, then, with a sudden flicker of the old Ted, stated spontaneously that he was managing just fine and nobody ought to be worrying about him. All through dinner, Strike sensed tension between his sister and brother-in-law, and sure enough, once Ted was settled in the sitting room in front of the television with a cup of decaffeinated coffee, there was an uncomfortable three-way conversation in which Greg made plain his sense of ill-usage.
‘She wants him to live with us,’ he told Strike, scowling.
‘I said, if we sell the house in Cornwall, we could build an extension on the back,’ Lucy told her brother.
‘And lose half the garden,’ said Greg.
‘I don’t want him going into a home,’ said Lucy tearfully. ‘Joan would’ve
‘What’re you going to do, give up work?’ Greg demanded of his wife. ‘Because he’s going to be a full-time job if he gets much worse.’
‘I think,’ said Strike, ‘we need to get him a full medical assessment before we decide anything.’
‘That’s just kicking the can down the road,’ said Greg, whose irritation was undoubtedly informed by the fact that Strike was unlikely to be discommoded by any change in Ted’s living arrangements.
‘There are homes and homes,’ Strike told Lucy, ignoring Greg. ‘If we got him into somewhere decent in London, we could make sure we’re seeing him regularly. Take him for days out—’
‘Then Lucy’ll be running round after him like he’s living here,’ said Greg, his clear implication that Strike wouldn’t be doing any running round at all. ‘He wants to stay in Cornwall, he’s just said so.’
‘He doesn’t know what he wants,’ said Lucy shrilly. ‘What happened on Tuesday was a warning. He isn’t safe to live alone any more, anything could have happened to him – what if he’d tried to take his boat out?’
‘That’s what I was worried about,’ admitted Strike.
‘So sell the boat,’ said Greg angrily.
The conversation ended, as Strike could have predicted from the first, with no decision in place other than getting Ted seen by a specialist in London. As Ted was exhausted after his unexpected journey to London he turned in at nine, and Strike left shortly afterwards, hoping to maximise his sleep before getting up to drive to Thornbury.
He’d decided against giving Cherie, or Carrie, as she was now, prior notice of his arrival, due to her well-established pattern of flight and reinvention: he had a feeling that if he called her first, she’d make sure she was unavailable. Strike doubted the woman who posted endless pictures on Facebook of her family’s outings to Longleat and Paultons Park, of her contributions to school bake sales and of the fancy dress costumes she’d made her little girls was going to enjoy being reminded of her unsavoury past.
Strike had been travelling along the motorway for two hours when he received a phone call from Tasha Mayo, asking why Midge wasn’t looking after her any more, and requesting that Midge be reassigned to her case. The phrase ‘looking after’ did nothing to allay Strike’s faint suspicion that Midge had become over-friendly with the actress, and he didn’t much appreciate their client dictating to him which personnel they wanted assigned to them.
‘It’s just more natural for me to be seen walking around with another woman,’ Mayo told him.
‘If what my agency provided was private security, and we wanted to keep it discreet, I’d agree,’ said Strike, ‘but there shouldn’t be any walking around together, given that what we’re providing is surveillance—’
To his consternation, he then realised Tasha was crying. His heart sank: he seemed to have had to deal with an endless train of crying people lately.
‘Look,’ she sobbed, ‘I can’t afford you
‘All right, all right,’ said Strike. ‘I’ll put Midge back on the job.’
Little though Strike liked what he thought of as mission creep, he couldn’t pretend it was unreasonable of Mayo to want a bodyguard.
‘Take care of yourself,’ he finished lamely, and Tasha rang off.
Having contacted a frosty Midge to give her the news, Strike continued driving.
Twenty minutes later, Shah called.
‘Have you got her?’ said Strike, smiling in anticipation of hearing Robin’s voice.
‘No,’ said Shah. ‘She didn’t turn up and the rock’s gone.’
For the second time in two weeks, Strike felt as though dry ice had slid down through his guts.
‘What?’
‘The plastic rock’s gone. No sign of it.’
‘Fuck. Stay there. I’m on the M4. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’
