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‘Could we have a drink? Just a drink. To talk.’
‘No,’ he said wearily.
‘Why not?’
‘Because,’ he said, ‘it’s over. I’ve told you this, repeatedly. We’re through.’
‘And we can’t even stay friends?’
‘Jesus Christ, Charlotte, we were never friends. That was the whole trouble. We were never fucking friends.’
‘How can you say—?’
‘Because it’s true,’ he said forcefully. ‘Friends don’t do to each other what we did. Friends have each other’s backs. They want each other to be OK. They don’t rip each other apart every time there’s a problem.’
Her breathing was ragged in his ear.
‘You’re with Robin, aren’t you?’
‘My love life’s none of your business any more,’ said Strike. ‘I said it in the pub the other week, I wish you well, but I don’t—’
Charlotte hung up.
Strike replaced the mobile on his kitchen table and reached for his vape again. Several minutes passed before he was able to subdue his disordered thoughts. Finally, he returned his attention to the rota on the screen in front of him, his eyes fixed on the name Littlejohn, and after some further rumination, picked up his mobile again, and once again called Shanker.
48
… the inferior man’s wickedness is visited upon himself. His house is split apart. A law of nature is at work here.
The I Ching or Book of Changes
Shortly after midday on Tuesday, Strike was to be found rising up the escalator at Sloane Square station, prepared to take over surveillance on Bigfoot, who was once again indulging in his favourite pastime at the large hotel full of sex workers. Among the small, framed posters on the escalator walls, many of which were advertising West End shows and grooming products, Strike noticed several featuring a flattering headshot of ‘Papa J’, the UHC’s heart-shaped logo and the legend Do you admit the possibility?
The detective had just emerged from the station into the rainy street when his mobile rang and he heard Shah’s voice, which was oddly thickened.
‘I’b god hib.’
‘You’ve what?’
‘God hib on cambra, coming ouddob a room, girl behind hib in stoggings and nudding else – fug, sorry, I’b bleeding.’
‘What’s happened?’ said Strike, though he thought he knew.
‘He punjed be in da fugging face.’
Five minutes later, Strike entered the Rose and Crown on Lower Sloane Street to find his best-looking subcontractor sitting in a corner with a split lip, a puffy left eye and a swollen nose, a pint on the table in front of him.
‘Id fine, id nod broggen,’ said Shah, gesturing to his nose and forestalling Strike’s first question.
‘Ice,’ was Strike’s one word response, and he headed for the bar, returning with a zero-alcohol beer for himself, a glass of ice and a clean beer towel he’d cadged from the curious barmaid. Shah tipped the ice onto the towel, wrapped it up and pressed the bundle to his face.
‘Cheerd. Der you go,’ Shah said, pushing his mobile across the table. The screen was smashed, but the picture of Bigfoot was sharp and clear behind the broken glass. He was caught in the act of yelling, mouth wide open, fist raised, a near-naked girl looking terrified behind him.
‘Now, that,’ said Strike, ‘is what I call evidence. Excellent work. Heating engineer ruse worked, then?’
‘Didn’ deed id. Followed a fat bloke inside, ride after Bigfood. Hug around in de corridor. Caud hib coming out. He’d quig on hid feet for a big lad.’
‘Bloody well done,’ said Strike. ‘Sure you don’t want to see a doctor?’
