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33
Slight digressions from the good cannot be avoided…
The I Ching or Book of Changes
Having handed over surveillance of the Franks to Midge, Strike took the Tube to Bethnal Green station. He’d gone barely ten yards along the road when his ever-busy phone vibrated in his pocket. Drawing aside to let other people pass, he saw yet another text from Bijou Watkins.
You less busy yet? Cos here’s what you’re missing.
She’d attached two photographs of herself in lingerie, taken with a mobile in the mirror. Strike gave these only a cursory glance before closing then deleting the message. He had no intention of ever meeting her again, but those photographs might tend to weaken his resolve, because she looked undeniably fabulous in a bright red bra, suspender belt and stockings.
Pellicci’s, which lay on Bethnal Green Road, was an East End institution: a small, century-old Italian-run café where the art deco wooden panels gave the incongruous feeling of eating chips in a compartment on the Orient Express. Strike chose a corner seat with his back to the wall, ordered coffee, then reached for an abandoned copy of the Daily Mail a previous diner had left lying on the table beside his.
Skipping the usual discussion of the Brexit referendum, he paused on page five, where there was a large picture of Charlotte with Landon Dormer, both of them holding glasses of champagne and laughing. The caption informed him that Charlotte and her boyfriend had attended a fundraising dinner for Dormer’s charitable foundation. The story below hinted at a possible engagement.
Strike studied this picture far longer than he’d looked at Bijou’s. Charlotte was wearing a long, clinging gold dress and looked entirely carefree, one thin arm resting on Dormer’s shoulder, her long black hair styled in waves. Had she lied about having cancer, or was she putting on a brave face? He scrutinised the lantern-jawed Dormer, who also looked untroubled. Strike was still examining the picture when a voice above him said,
‘Wotcha, Bunsen.’
‘Shanker,’ said Strike, tossing the paper back onto the neighbouring table and extending a hand, which Shanker shook before sitting down.
Gaunt and pale, Shanker had grown a beard since Strike had last seen him, which disguised most of the deep scar that gave him a permanent sneer. He was wearing ill-fitting jeans and a baggy grey sweatshirt. Tattoos covered his wrists, knuckles and neck.
‘You ill?’ he demanded of Strike.
‘No, why?’
‘You’ve lost weight.’
‘That’s intentional.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Shanker, now rapidly clicking his fingers, a tic he’d had as long as Strike had known him.
‘Want anything?’ said Strike.
‘Yeah, I could do a coffee,’ said Shanker. Once this had been ordered, Shanker asked, ‘What d’you want wiv Reaney, then?’
‘D’you know him personally?’
‘I know ’oo ’e is,’ said Shanker, whose extensive knowledge of organised crime in London would have shamed the Met. ‘Used to run wiv the Vincent firm. I ’eard about the job ’e got banged up for. Silly cunts nearly killed that bookie.’
‘Would you happen to know where he is?’
‘Yeah, HMP Bedford. Got a couple of mates in there right now, as it goes.’
‘I was hoping you’d say that. Reaney’s got information that might help one of our investigations, but he isn’t being cooperative.’
Shanker seemed unsurprised at the turn the conversation had taken. The waitress now set down Shanker’s coffee in front of him. Strike thanked her, as Shanker seemed to have no intention of doing it, then waited until she’d moved away before asking,
‘How much?’
‘Nah, you can ’ave this one on me. You ’elped me out wiv Angel’s fing.’
‘Cheers, Shanker. Appreciate it.’
‘That it?’
‘Yeah, but I wanted your opinion about something else.’
