‘Yeah, I saw it in the paper. Wondered if it was our Kevin,’ said Sheila. ‘Have they got who did it yet?’
‘Not as far as I know,’ said Robin.
There was another short pause.
‘All right,’ said Sheila. ‘I don’t mind talking. I’ve got nothing to lose, not any more.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ said Robin, then thought how insensitive that had sounded and added, ‘I mean, thank you. You’re up in Coventry, aren’t you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘How would next Thursday suit you? A week tomorrow?’
‘Yeah, all right,’ said Sheila. ‘Robin, did you say your name was?’
‘That’s right. Robin Ellacott.’
‘Man’s name,’ said Sheila. ‘Why did your parents give you a man’s name?’
‘I’ve never asked,’ said Robin, with a laugh.
‘Hm. All right then. What time?’
‘Would midday be all right?’ asked Robin, rapidly calculating the distance to Coventry.
‘Yeah. All right. I’ll have the kettle on.’
‘Thank you so much. I’ll see you then!’ said Robin.
Robin texted Strike to tell him she’d arranged the interview with Sheila Kennett, then crossed the road, the better to watch the comic-book storefront.
The day was cool and cloudy, and Robin was glad of her beanie hat. She’d only just registered how close she was to the Rupert Court Temple when she spotted four young people with collecting tins, heading into Berwick Street.
Robin recognised Will Edensor at once. He looked ill and defeated, not to mention very thin. The shadows under his eyes, which Robin could see even from the other side of the street, gave him an unpleasant likeness to the image of the Stolen Prophet she’d seen on the temple ceiling. Like his companions, he was wearing an orange tabard printed with the church’s logo, which was repeated on their collecting tins.
The other man in the group seemed to be giving instructions. Unlike the other three, he was overweight, and wore his hair in a straggly bob. He pointed along the street, and the two girls headed off obediently in the direction indicated, whereas Will remained where he was. His demeanour made Robin think of a donkey, used to abuse, and no longer capable of protest.
The second man turned back to Will and delivered what looked like a lecture, through which Will nodded mechanically without making eye contact. Robin yearned to get close enough to hear what was going on, but dared not make herself recognisable to either of them. Before the lecture had finished, Frank One emerged from the comic-book shop, and Robin had no choice but to follow.
The Westminster Arms, where Strike had agreed to meet journalist Fergus Robertson, lay close beside Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament. As Strike walked towards the pub he felt small twinges of pain emanating from the back of his stump. Although his hamstring had previously been torn, it hadn’t given any trouble for the last few months, largely because it was being asked to support a lot less weight. He knew exactly what had caused this mild recurrence of symptoms: the necessity of holding up Bijou Watkins, who’d expressed a loud and drunken preference for being nailed up against the bedroom wall the moment they’d entered her flat on Saturday night.
The pain in his leg turned his thoughts back to that evening. He supposed two and a half hours of mindless conversation had been justified in light of the ten minutes of frills-free sex that had followed. She’d looked better than she felt – her impressive breasts, as he’d discovered in the bedroom, were fake – but the upside of finding her obnoxious was a total absence of guilt about his lack of response to the three texts she’d sent him since, all of which had been strewn with emojis. His oldest friend, Dave Polworth, would have called that breaking even, and Strike was inclined to agree.
On entering the Westminster Arms, Strike spotted Fergus Robertson, who he’d Googled earlier, sitting in a corner at a table for two, typing on a laptop. A short, rotund and almost entirely bald man whose shining pate reflected the light hanging over the table, Robertson was currently in his shirtsleeves, vigorously chewing gum as he worked. Strike fetched himself a drink, noting a junior minister at the bar, before heading for Robertson, who kept typing until Strike arrived at the table.
‘Ah,’ said the journalist, looking up. ‘The famous detective.’
‘And the fearless reporter,’ said Strike, sitting down.
They shook hands across the table, Robertson’s curious blue eyes scanning Strike. He gave off an air of rough good humour. A pack of Nicorette chewing gum lay beside the laptop.
‘You know Dominic Culpepper, I hear,’ Robertson said, referring to a journalist who Strike disliked.
‘I do, yeah. He’s a tit.’
Robertson laughed.
‘I heard you shagged his cousin.’
‘Can’t remember that,’ lied Strike.
‘Got a view on Brexit?’
