‘So, what have all those people got in common, other than having been members of the UHC?’
‘They’re all connected to the drownings of Deirdre and Daiyu,’ said Robin.
‘Reaney’s connection’s tenuous,’ said Strike. ‘He overslept; that’s it. Kevin’s connection’s shaky, too. He was, what – six, when Daiyu died? And I doubt the church knows what Emily said to him about her suspicions. Was he old enough to attend the Manifestation where we think Deirdre drowned?’
‘Yes,’ said Robin, doing some rapid mental calculations. ‘He’d have been thirteen or fourteen when it happened.’
‘Which is strange,’ said Strike, ‘because he seemed to buy the line about her taking off of her own accord.’
‘OK,’ said Robin, who could hear Strike’s footsteps on the metal stairs, ‘well, I’ll see you tomorrow, anyway. I just wanted to tell you about Cherie.’
‘Yeah, thanks. Definitely something to think about.’
Robin rang off. Strike continued to climb until he reached the office door. He’d gone directly to Chinatown after Robin had dropped him off, which meant this was his first opportunity to examine the lock since Littlejohn had been fired. Strike turned on his phone torch and bent down.
‘I thought so, you fucker,’ he murmured.
The expensive new lock, which was skeleton-key resistant, had gained new scratches since that morning. A tiny fleck of paint had also been chipped away beside it. Somebody, Strike surmised, had made strenuous efforts to force the door.
He now looked up at the second precaution he’d taken against Patterson’s revenge. The tiny camera sat in a dark corner near the ceiling, almost invisible unless you knew what you were looking for.
Strike unlocked the door, turned on the lights and went to sit at Pat’s desk, where he’d be able to view the day’s camera footage. He opened the software, then fast-forwarded past the arrivals of Pat, the postman and Shah, then Pat visiting the bathroom on the landing, Shah departing…
Strike slapped his hand down on pause. A tall, stocky balaclavaed figure was creeping up the stairs, dressed all in black and looking both up and down as it came, checking the coast was clear. As Strike watched, the figure reached the landing, moved to the office door, withdrew a set of skeleton keys and began trying to unlock it. Strike glanced at the timestamp, which showed the footage had been taken shortly after sunset. This suggested the intruder didn’t know Strike lived in the attic – something of which Littlejohn was well aware.
For nearly ten minutes, the black-clad figure continued to try and open the office door, without success. Finally giving up, they backed off, contemplating the glass panel, which Strike had made sure was reinforced when he had it put in. They seemed to be trying to decide whether it was worth attempting to smash the panel when they turned to look at the stairs behind them. Evidently, they knew themselves to be no longer alone.
‘Fuck,’ said Strike quietly, as the figure pulled a gun from somewhere inside their black clothing. They backed very slowly away from the landing, and retreated slowly up the flight that led to Strike’s flat.
A delivery man appeared, holding a pizza. He knocked on the office door and waited. After a minute or two, he made a phone call, presumably learned he was at the wrong address, and left.
Another couple of minutes passed, long enough for the hidden intruder to hear the street door close. Then they crept out of their hiding place to stand contemplating the office door for a full minute, before turning the gun in their hands and trying, with their full force, to shatter the glass with the butt. The glass remained intact.
The balaclavaed figure slid the gun back inside their jacket, descended the stairs and disappeared from sight.
Strike rewound the footage to get stills he could study, poring over every second of film. It was impossible to tell whether or not the gun was real, given the poor lighting on the landing and the fact it hadn’t been fired, but even so, the detective knew he’d have to take this to the police. As he rewatched the recording, Strike found the way the figure had behaved ominous, over and above the fact of an attempted break-in. The careful scrutiny of the stairs ahead and behind them, the stealthy movements, the unflustered retreat when threatened with discovery: all suggested someone who wasn’t a novice.
His mobile rang. He picked it up and answered, eyes still on the screen.
‘Hello?’
‘Are you Cormoran Strike?’ said a deep, breathless male voice.
‘Yes. Who’s this?’
Strike looked away from the computer screen, frowning.
‘Who’s this?’
‘WHA’ DID YOU DO TO MY WIFE?’ bellowed the man, so loudly Strike had to remove the phone from his ear. In the background, at the other end of the line, Strike now heard a female voice saying, ‘Mr Woods – Mr Woods, calm down—’ and what sounded like the wails of crying children.
