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Still frowning, Strike said,
‘Consider this a verbal warning. Any more hiding anything from me, and you’re out.’
‘Understood,’ said Littlejohn. ‘I won’t.’
Strike hung up. Difficult as it was to find new subcontractors of the required quality, he thought he might need to start looking again. Whatever lay behind Littlejohn’s failure to mention his time at Patterson Inc, Strike’s experience in managing people, inside the army and out, had taught him that where there was one lie, there were almost certain to be more.
The phone in his hand now rang. Answering, he heard Pat’s deep, gravelly voice.
‘I’ve got a Colonel Edward Graves on the phone for you.’
‘Put him through,’ said Strike, who’d left a message for Alexander Graves’ parents on an old-fashioned answering machine on Monday morning.
‘Hello?’ said an elderly male voice.
‘Good morning, Colonel Graves,’ said Strike. ‘Cormoran Strike here. Thanks for calling me back.’
‘You’re the detective, yes?’
The voice, which was distinctly upper class, was also suspicious.
‘That’s right. I was hoping I could talk to you about the Universal Humanitarian Church and your son, Alexander.’
‘Yes, so you said in your message. Why?’
‘I’ve been hired by someone who’s trying to get a relative out of the church.’
‘Well, we can’t advise them,’ said the colonel bitterly.
Deciding not to tell Graves that he already knew how badly wrong the plan to extract Alexander had gone, Strike said,
‘I also wondered whether you’d be prepared to talk to me about your granddaughter, Daiyu.’
In the background, Strike heard an elderly female voice, though the words were indistinguishable. Colonel Graves said ‘Gimme a minute, Baba,’ before saying to Strike,
‘We hired a detective ourselves. Man called O’Connor. Do you know him?’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘Might have retired… all right. We’ll talk to you.’
Taken aback, Strike said,
‘That’s very good of you. I understand you’re in Norfolk?’
‘Garvestone Hall. You can find us on any map.’
‘Would next week suit you?’
Colonel Graves agreed that it would, and a meeting was arranged for the following Tuesday.
As Strike was putting his phone back into his pocket, he saw a sight he hadn’t expected. Both Frankenstein brothers had just emerged from their block of flats, as shabbily dressed as ever, wearing wigs that partially disguised their high foreheads, yet easily recognisable to Strike, who’d become familiar with both their limited stock of clothing and their slightly shambling walks. Intrigued by this paltry effort at disguise, Strike followed them to a bus stop, where after a ten-minute wait, the brothers boarded the number 301 bus. They ascended to the upper deck while Strike remained on the lower, texting Midge to say the Franks were on the move, and that he’d let her know where to meet him to take over surveillance.
Forty-five minutes later, the Franks disembarked at the Beresford Square stop in Woolwich, Strike in pursuit, his eyes on the backs of the badly fitting wigs. After walking for a while, the brothers paused to don gloves, then entered a Sports Direct. Strike had a hunch that the decision not to go to a sports shop nearer their home was part of the same misguided attempt at subterfuge that had made them don wigs, so after texting Midge their current location, he followed them into the shop.
While he hadn’t classified either of the brothers as geniuses, he was rapidly revising his estimate of their intelligence downwards. The younger brother kept glancing up at the security cameras. At one point his wig slipped and he straightened it. They ambled with studied nonchalance around the store, picking up random objects and showing them to each other, before making their way to the climbing section. Strike now started taking photos.
After a whispered conversation, the Franks selected a heavy length of rope. A muttered disagreement then ensued, apparently over the merits of two different mallets. Finally they selected a rubber one, then headed for the checkout, paid for the goods, then ambled out of the store, unwieldly packages under their arms, Strike in pursuit. Shortly afterwards, the brothers came to rest in a McDonald’s. Strike felt it inadvisable to follow them in there, so he skulked on the street watching the entrance. He’d just texted Midge to update her when his phone rang yet again, this time from an unknown number.
