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‘In a bit. I’m having a late lunch at the Flying Horse. Why?’
‘I wanted a word with you.’
‘What kind of word?’ said Strike, frowning as he rubbed his sore eyes.
‘Well,’ said Pat, ‘I don’t think you’re going to like it.’
‘What is it?’ said Strike, now on the verge of losing his temper.
‘I just need to tell you something.’
‘Can you tell me what it is now?’ said Strike, whose neck was rigid with tension.
‘I’d rather say it face to face.’
What on earth the office manager needed to communicate in person Strike couldn’t imagine. However, he had a dim idea that if he employed a human resources person they’d advise him to accede to the request, and possibly not swear at Pat.
‘Fine, come up to the pub, I’m waiting for a burger,’ he said.
‘All right. I’ll see you in five minutes.’
The office manager and Strike’s burger arrived at exactly the same time. Pat took the seat Bijou had just vacated and Strike’s unease increased, because the expression on Pat’s monkeyish face was frightened, and she was clutching her handbag tightly on her lap, as though in self-protection.
‘Want a drink?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Pat.
Much as he wanted his chips, Strike felt he ought to hear Pat out before eating.
‘Go on,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’
Pat swallowed.
‘I’m sixty-seven.’
‘You’re what?’
‘Sixty-seven. Years old,’ she added.
Strike merely looked at her.
‘I lied,’ croaked Pat. ‘On my CV.’
‘Yeah,’ said Strike. ‘You did.’
‘Well, I had to. Nobody wants anyone my age.’
Strike suspected he might know the reason Pat had suddenly come clean.
‘I’m fired, aren’t I?’ she said.
‘Oh Christ, don’t cry,’ said Strike, seeing her lip tremble: one bawling woman a day was enough. ‘Littlejohn knows this, I take it?’
‘How did you know that?’ gasped Pat.
‘Has he been blackmailing you?’
‘Not until just now,’ said Pat, retrieving a handkerchief from her handbag and pressing it against her eyes. ‘He told me he knew, right after he started with us. I couldn’t tell you without admitting how old I am, could I?
