There in the doorway stood Clive Littlejohn, stocky and solid in his rain-speckled coat, his crewcut unchanged by the high winds. His heavy-lidded eyes blinked at the partners visible through the open inner door. Otherwise, he remained expressionless and stationary.
‘Morning,’ said Strike. ‘Thought you were on the new client’s husband?’
‘Ill,’ said Littlejohn.
‘Is he?’
‘She texted.’
‘So… you needed something?’
‘Receipts,’ said Littlejohn, putting his hand into the inside of his coat and drawing out a small wad of paper, which he laid on Pat’s desk.
‘Right,’ said Strike.
Littlejohn stood for another second or two, then turned and left the office, closing the glass door behind him.
‘It’s like he gets taxed per syllable,’ said Robin quietly.
Strike said nothing. He was still frowning towards the glass door.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Robin.
‘Nothing.’
‘Yes, there is. Why are you looking like that?’
‘How was he planning to get in? I changed the rota last night so we could have a catch-up, otherwise I’d’ve been tailing Frank Two and you wouldn’t have had any reason to be here – especially during a near hurricane,’ Strike added, as the rain thumped against the window.
‘He hasn’t got a key,’ said Strike. ‘Or he shouldn’t have.’
Before either could say anything else, Robin’s mobile rang.
‘Sorry,’ she said to Strike, on checking it. ‘It’s Ryan.’
Strike got up and headed into the outer office. His ruminations on Littlejohn’s strange behaviour were disrupted by Robin’s voice, and her burst of laughter. Evidently evening plans were being changed, due to the weather. Then his own mobile rang.
‘Strike.’
‘Hi,’ said Ilsa’s voice. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine,’ said Strike, while Robin lowered her voice in the inner office, and his feeling of irritation increased. ‘What’s up?’
‘Look, I hope you don’t think I’m interfering.’
‘Tell me what you’ve got to say, then I’ll tell you if you’re interfering,’ said Strike, without bothering to sound too friendly.
‘Well, you’re about to get a call from Bijou.’
‘Which you know, because—?’
‘Because she just told me. Actually, she told me, and three other people I was having a conversation with.’
‘And?’
‘She says you haven’t answered her texts, so—’
‘You’ve called to tell me off for not answering texts?’
‘God, no, the reverse!’
In the inner office, Robin was laughing at something else Ryan had said. The man simply couldn’t be that fucking funny.
‘Go on,’ Strike said to Ilsa, striding towards the inner door and closing it rather more firmly than was necessary. ‘Say your piece.’
‘Corm,’ said Ilsa quietly, and he could tell she was trying not to be overheard by colleagues, ‘she’s crazy. She’s already told—’
‘You’ve called to give me unsolicited advice on my love life, is that right?’
Robin, who’d just finished her call with Ryan, got to her feet and opened the door in time to hear Strike say,
‘—no, I don’t. So, yeah, don’t interfere.’
He hung up.
‘Who was that?’ said Robin, surprised.
‘Ilsa,’ said Strike curtly, walking back past her and sitting back down at the partners’ desk.
Robin, who suspected she knew what Ilsa had just called about, settled back into her chair without saying anything. Noticing this unusual lack of curiosity, Strike made the correct deduction that Ilsa and Robin had already discussed his night with Bijou.
‘Did you know Ilsa was planning to tell me how to conduct my private life?’
‘What?’ said Robin, startled by both question and tone. ‘No!’
‘Really?’ said Strike.
‘Yes, really!’ said Robin, which was true: she might have told Ilsa to talk to Strike, but she hadn’t known she was going to do it.
Strike’s mobile now rang for a second time. He hadn’t bothered to save Bijou’s number to his contacts, but, certain who he was about to hear, he answered.
‘Hi, stranger,’ said her unmistakeably loud, husky voice.
‘Hi,’ said Strike. ‘How’re you?’
Robin got up and walked into the next room, on the pretext of fetching more coffee. Behind her, she heard Strike say,
‘Yeah, sorry about that, been busy.’
As it was Robin’s determined habit these days not to think about her partner in any terms other than those of friendship and work, she chose to believe the mingled feelings of annoyance and hurt now possessing her were caused by Strike’s irritability and the near slamming of the office door, while she’d been talking to Ryan. It was entirely his business if he wanted to sleep with that vile woman again, and more fool him if he didn’t realise she was after him for the fortune he didn’t possess, or the baby he didn’t want.
‘Yeah, OK,’ she heard Strike say. ‘I’ll see you there.’
Making a determined effort to look neutral, Robin returned to the partners’ desk with fresh coffee, ignoring her partner’s air of truculent defiance.
