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‘How’s that relevant?’
‘I’m up to my ears,’ sobbed Littlejohn. ‘The wife doesn’t know how bad it is. Mitch,’ said Littlejohn, brandishing the phone showing Patterson’s picture, ‘gave me a loan to get the worst people off my back. Interest-free.’
‘In exchange for which, you agreed to take me down.’
‘I never—’
‘You posted a snake through Tasha Mayo’s door. You tried to gain entry to this office when there shouldn’t have been anyone here, presumably to bug it. You were caught by Pat trying to take pictures of the Edensor—’
‘She’s lied to you, that Pat.’
‘If you’re about to tell me she’s sixty-seven, I already know. Big fucking deal.’
Littlejohn’s disappointment that this titbit was of no use was palpable, but Strike was pleased to learn that ratting other people out was Littlejohn’s preferred strategy for getting out of messes. Much could be done with such a man.
‘Why’s Patterson doing this?’ asked Strike.
‘He’s got a real fucking thing about you,’ said Littlejohn, trying to stem the stream of snot from his nose. ‘He’s an old mate of Roy Carver’s. He blames you for Carver getting forced out and it pisses him off you get all the publicity, and clients want you, not him. He says you’re taking all his business. He was really fucked off about Colin Edensor sacking us and coming here instead.’
Tears were still dripping from Littlejohn’s world-weary eyes.
‘I prefer working for you, though. I’d rather stay here. I could be useful to you.’
With immense difficulty, Strike refrained from asking what use he could possibly have for a treacherous, weak-willed man who had neither the morals to refuse to terrorise a woman who was already scared, nor the brains to stop himself being rumbled as a saboteur. Strike could only assume it was this mixture of delusion and wishful thinking that had led Littlejohn to lose a fortune at blackjack.
‘Well, if you want to be useful,’ said Strike, ‘you can start now. Give me my phone.’
He brought up the picture of the black-haired woman who’d been skulking on the corner of Denmark Street.
‘Who’s she?’
Littlejohn looked at the picture, swallowed, then said,
‘Yeah, she’s one of Mitch’s. I told him I thought you were having me watched. He put Farah on you as a back-up.’
‘What’s her full name?’ said Strike, opening his notebook.
‘Farah Navabi,’ muttered Littlejohn.
‘And what would you know about bugs in Andrew Honbold’s office?’
‘Nothing,’ said Littlejohn, too fast.
‘Listen,’ said Strike quietly, leaning forwards. ‘Honbold’s not going to let just anyone in there. His wife’s got him bang to rights already, she doesn’t need to bug him to take him to the cleaners. Somebody thought it was worth their while to put an illegal bug in Honbold’s office, and my name and Honbold’s have been in the press lately. So when I go and see Honbold and show him Patterson’s picture, your picture, Farah’s—’
‘It was Farah,’ muttered Littlejohn.
‘Thought it might be,’ said Strike, sitting back in his chair. ‘Well, I think we’re done here. You’ll understand why, under the circumstances, I won’t be asking Pat to give you the salary you’re owed.’
‘No, listen,’ said Littlejohn, in what looked like panic: evidently he could see his employment with Patterson Inc terminating soon as well. ‘I’ve got more stuff for you.’
‘Like what?’
Littlejohn pulled his own phone out of his pocket, tapped something into it, then shoved it across the desk. Strike found himself looking down at a photograph of Midge and Tasha Mayo laughing together outside Mayo’s Notting Hill house, both holding bags of Waitrose shopping.
‘Scroll right,’ said Littlejohn.
Strike did so and saw a picture of Midge leaving Mayo’s house by evening.
