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‘I want somefing to eat, then,’ said Shanker, looking around restlessly. ‘Wait there.’
‘The menu’s here,’ said Strike, pushing the card towards Shanker. He had longstanding knowledge of his companion’s usual way of getting what he wanted, which was to demand, then threaten, irrespective of whether his request was possible to fulfil. Shanker brushed the menu away.
‘Wanna bacon roll.’
Having ordered, Shanker turned back to Strike.
‘What else?’
‘There was a shooting last year in Canning Town. Guy by the name of Kevin Pirbright, shot through the head with the same make of gun used in two previous drug-related shootings. The police found drugs and cash in his flat. Their theory is, he ran afoul of a local dealer, but personally, I think they’re working backwards from the gun that was used.
‘The dead guy grew up in a church,’ Strike continued. ‘I doubt he’d know where to get his hands on drugs, let alone start dealing in quantities to disrupt local drug lords. I wondered what your take was – professionally speaking.’
‘What kinda gun?’
‘Beretta 9000.’
‘Popular shooter,’ said Shanker with a shrug.
‘It’s your manor, Canning Town. Have you heard anything about a young bloke getting shot in his flat?’
Shanker’s roll arrived. Once again, Strike thanked the waitress in the absence of any recognition from Shanker. The latter took a large mouthful of bacon roll, then said,
‘Nope.’
Strike knew perfectly well that if the hit on Pirbright had been carried out by a colleague of Shanker’s, the latter was hardly likely to admit it. On the other hand, he’d have expected some retaliatory aggression if Strike seemed to be prodding around in Shanker’s associates’ affairs, which wasn’t forthcoming.
‘So you think—?’
‘Frame-up, innit,’ said Shanker, still chewing. ‘Sure it’s not some bent pig?’
Strike, who was inured to Shanker’s tendency to attribute half the wrongdoing in London to corrupt police, said,
‘Can’t see why the force would want this particular bloke dead.’
‘Could’ve ’ad somefing on a pig, couldn’ ’e? Me auntie still finks it was a copper what shot Duwayne.’
Strike remembered Shanker’s cousin Duwayne who, like Pirbright, had been shot, his killer never caught. Doubtless it was easiest for Shanker’s aunt to lay one more death at the Met’s door, given that her other son had died in a high-speed chase with police. At least half of Shanker’s sprawling family were engaged in some level of criminal activity. As Duwayne had been in a gang from the age of thirteen, Strike thought there were plenty of people more likely to have executed him than the police, an opinion he was tactful enough not to express.
‘The people Pirbright had stuff on definitely weren’t police.’
He was trying to convince himself he didn’t want a bacon roll. Shanker’s smelled very good.
‘Reaney’s scared of pigs,’ Strike said. ‘The animal, I mean.’
‘Yeah?’ said Shanker, mildly interested. ‘Don’t fink we’re gonna be able to smuggle a pig into Bedford, Bunsen.’
As Strike laughed, his mobile rang yet again and he saw Lucy’s number.
‘Hi Luce, what’s up?’
‘Stick, Ted’s got a GP appointment for a week Friday.’
‘OK,’ said Strike. ‘I’ll be there.’
‘Really?’ said Lucy, and he heard her incredulity that, for once, he wasn’t saying he’d check his diary or being irritable about being asked to commit to a date.
‘Yeah, I told you, I’ll be there. What time?’
