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Saxon cast a suspicious look at the chair where Robin usually sat, before taking his hands out of his pockets and doing as invited.
He and Saxon might only have been in direct contact for less than two minutes, but Strike thought he knew what kind of man was sitting opposite him. Saxon’s attempt to scupper what he’d thought was Abigail’s date with ‘Terry’, coupled with his present attitude of smouldering resentment, reminded Strike of an estranged husband who was one of the few clients he’d ever turned down. In that case, Strike had been convinced that if he located the man’s ex-wife, who he claimed was unreasonably resisting all contact in spite of the fact that there were unspecified things that needed ‘sorting out’, he’d have been enabling an act of revenge, and possibly violence. While that particular man had worn a Savile Row suit as opposed to a tight red checked shirt with buttons that strained across his torso, Strike thought he recognised in Saxon the same barely veiled thirst for vengeance.
‘How can I help?’ asked Strike.
‘I don’ wan’ help,’ said Saxon. ‘I’ve got fings to tell ya. You’re investigatin’ that church, incha? The one wiv Ab’s farver?’
‘I don’t discuss open investigations, I’m afraid,’ said Strike.
Saxon shifted irritably in the chair.
‘She covered fings up when she talked to you. She didn’t tell the troof. A man called Kevin somefing got shot, din’ ’e?’
As this information was in the public domain, Strike saw no reason to deny it.
‘An’ ’e was tryna expose the church, wannee?’
‘He was an ex-member,’ said Strike non-committally.
‘All righ’, well – Ab knows the church shot ’im. She knows the church ’ad ’im killed. An’ she killed someone ’erself, when she was in there! Never told you that, did she? An’ she’s freatened me. She’s tole me I’m next!’
Strike wasn’t quite as impressed by these dramatic statements as Saxon evidently wished him to be. Nevertheless, he drew his notebook towards him.
‘Shall we start at the beginning?’
Saxon’s expression became a degree less dissatisfied.
‘What d’you do for a living, Barry?’
‘Wha’ d’you wanna know tha’ for?’
‘Standard question,’ said Strike, ‘but you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.’
‘’M’a Tube driver. Same as Patrick,’ he added, as though there were safety in numbers.
‘How long have you known Abigail?’
‘Two years, so I know a lotta stuff about ’er.’
‘Met her through Patrick, did you?’
‘Yeah, a bunch of us wen’ ou’ drinkin’. She’s always go’ men around ’er, I soon found that out.’
‘And you and she went out together subsequently, alone?’ asked Strike.
‘Tol’ you tha’, did she?’ said Saxon, and it was hard to tell whether he was more aggrieved or gratified.
‘Yeah, after you came over to our table in the pub,’ said Strike.
‘Whaddid she say? ’Cause I bet she ain’ told you the troof.’
‘Just that you and she had been out for drinks together.’
‘It was more’n drinks, a lot more. She’s up for anyfing. Then I realised ’ow many other blokes she’s got on the go. I’m lucky I never caugh’ nuffing,’ said Saxon, with a little upwards jerk of his chin.
Familiar with the commonplace male disdain for women who enjoyed an adventurous sex life that either excluded or no longer included them, Strike continued asking questions that were designed purely to assess how much credence should be given to any information Saxon had to offer. He had a feeling the answer might be zero.
‘So you ended the relationship, did you?’
