Rather than be drawn into further explanations, Robin stepped out onto the landing to wait for the police to arrive, wondering how strange the police might think her if she asked for the update on Jacob downstairs, in their car.
The lift doors opened a couple of minutes later to reveal a white male officer and a far shorter Asian policewoman, whose black hair was pulled back into a bun. Both looked serious, and Robin felt suddenly anxious: was Jacob dead?
‘Hi,’ she said apprehensively.
‘Robin Ellacott?’
‘Yes – is this is about Jacob?’
‘That’s right,’ said the policewoman, glancing at the open door to Robin’s flat. ‘Is that where you live?’
‘Yes,’ said Robin, disconcerted by the sternness of the officers’ expressions.
‘Can we go in?’ said the female officer.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Robin.
Linda and Michael, who’d both got to their feet, looked worried to see the two officers entering the flat after their daughter.
‘These are my parents,’ said Robin.
‘Hi,’ said the male officer. ‘I’m PC Harding and this is PC Khan.’
‘Hello,’ said Linda uncertainly.
‘You obviously know what this is about,’ said PC Khan, looking at Robin.
‘Yes. Jacob. What’s happened?’
‘We’re here to invite you down to the station, Mizz Ellacott,’ said PC Harding.
Robin, who was experiencing a slow-motion lift-drop of the stomach without knowing exactly why, said,
‘Can’t you just tell me what’s happened here?’
‘We’re inviting you to an interview under caution,’ said PC Khan.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Robin. ‘Are you saying I’m under arrest?’
‘No,’ said PC Harding. ‘This would be a voluntary interview.’
‘What about?’ said Linda, before Robin could get the words out.
‘We’ve had an accusation of child abuse,’ said PC Harding.
‘Against – against
‘That’s right,’ said PC Harding.
‘It’s a voluntary interview,’ said PC Harding again.
Robin was vaguely aware that Linda was talking, but couldn’t take in what she was saying.
‘Fine,’ said Robin calmly. ‘Let me get my coat.’
However, the first thing she did was to go back to the table, pick up a pen and scribble down Strike’s mobile number, the only one she knew by heart other than her own.
‘Phone Strike,’ she told her father, pressing the number into his hands.
‘Where are you taking her?’ Linda demanded of the officers. ‘We want to come!’
PC Khan gave the name of the police station.
‘We’ll find it, Linda,’ said Michael, because it was obvious to everyone that Linda intended either to force her way into the police car or ride bumper-to-bumper after it.
‘It’ll be fine,’ Robin reassured her parents, pulling on her coat. ‘I’ll sort this out.
At the precise moment Robin was getting into a police car on Blackhorse Road, Strike was sitting in his BMW in Bexleyheath watching the Frank brothers climbing into their old van, which was parked a short distance from their block of flats. Having let the van set off, Strike set off in pursuit, then called Midge.
‘Wotcha.’
‘Where’s Mayo?’
‘With me. Well, not
‘I told her to vary her bloody routine.’
‘It’s the only evening she’s got off from the theatre, and it’s less crowded this—’
‘I think tonight might be the night. They’ve just got in the van with what look like balaclavas in their hands.’
‘Oh, fook,’ said Midge.
‘Listen, if Mayo’s up for it – and only if she is – I say proceed as normal. Let this happen. I’ll pull Barclay off Toy Boy to make sure we’ve got enough manpower and we’ll get the fuckers in the attempt.’
‘She’ll be up for it,’ said Midge, who sounded excited. ‘She just wants this over.’
‘Good. Keep me posted on your location. I’ve got eyes on them now and I’ll let you know if anything changes. Gonna ring Barclay.’
Strike hung up, but before he could contact Barclay, an unknown number called him. Strike refused the call and pressed Barclay’s number instead.
‘Where are you?’
‘Outside Mrs Moneybags’ house. She was gettin’ pretty fuckin’ frisky wi’ Toy Boy on the way up the street.’
‘Well, I need you in Notting Hill, pronto. Looks like the Franks are planning their big move. Balaclavas, both of them in the van—’
‘Great, I fancy punchin’ someone. The mother-in-law’s staying. See ye there.’
No sooner had Barclay cut the call, Strike’s phone rang again. He jabbed at the dashboard with his finger, his eyes still on the van now separated from his BMW by a Peugeot 108.
‘Who’s been pissing off the UHC, then?’ said an amused voice.
‘Who’s this?’
‘Fergus Robertson.’
