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‘No bovver. Lot of it goin’ abaht, in’t there?’
‘What? Oh,’ said Strike, realising Shanker was talking about Charlotte. ‘Yeah, I s’pose. Listen, can you give those boys of yours a kick up the arse? I need something on Littlejohn, fast.’
Strike hung up and set off in pursuit of Toy Boy and his companion, thinking of Reaney as he’d last seem him, shoving away those Polaroids of naked youths in pig masks, then standing up, pale and sweaty, after mention of the Drowned Prophet.
He spent the next four and a half hours trailing around Selfridges after his targets.
‘He’s got a couple of suits and a watch out of her so far,’ Strike informed Barclay at three o’clock, when the latter arrived to take over.
‘Starting tae think I’m in the wrong line o’ work,’ said Barclay. ‘I could use a Rolex.’
‘If you can look that woman straight in the eye and tell her she’s beautiful, you deserve one.’
Strike left the store and walked off along Oxford Street, craving a kebab. He was crossing the road when his mobile rang again, this time from an unfamiliar number.
‘Strike.’
‘It’s me,’ said a woman’s voice.
‘Who’s “me”?’ asked Strike irritably.
‘Bijou. Don’t be angry. I had to ask Ilsa for your number again. This is serious, please don’t hang up.’
‘What d’you want?’
‘I can’t say it on the phone. Can I meet you?’
As Strike hesitated, a youth on a skateboard cuffed him in passing, making Strike yearn to slap the inconsiderate little fucker into the gutter.
‘I’m in Oxford Street. I can give you twenty minutes in the Flying Horse if you hurry.’
‘Fine,’ she said, and hung up.
It took Strike a quarter of an hour to reach the pub and he found Bijou already there, sitting at the tall table at the back beneath the glass cupola, wrapped in a black coat and nursing what looked like water. Strike bought himself a pint he felt he’d more than earned, and joined her at the high table.
‘Go on,’ he said, omitting a greeting.
Bijou glanced around before saying in a low voice,
‘Somebody’s bugged Andrew’s office. He thinks it was you.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ said Strike, who felt he’d reached his full monthly capacity for unsought problems and obstacles. ‘It’ll be some bloody tabloid. Or his wife.’
‘I told him that,’ said Bijou, her bright blue eyes moist, ‘but he doesn’t believe me!’
‘Well, what d’you expect me to do about it?’
‘Talk to him,’ she whimpered. ‘Please.’
‘If he doesn’t believe you, why the hell would he believe me?’
‘Please, Cormoran! I’m – I’m pregnant!’
For a split second, he felt as though dry ice had slid down through his guts, and evidently his horror had shown on his face, because she said quickly,
‘Don’t worry, it’s not yours! I only just found out – it’s Andy’s, but—’
Bijou’s face crumpled and she buried her face in her beautifully manicured hands. Strike surmised that Andrew Honbold QC hadn’t evinced joy at the fact that an embryo of his own creation was currently nestling inside the cosmetically enhanced body of a mistress he now believed had had his office bugged.
