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The I Ching or Book of Changes
At the precise moment Robin was getting into a police car on Blackhorse Road, Strike was sitting in his BMW in Bexleyheath watching the Frank brothers climbing into their old van, which was parked a short distance from their block of flats. Having let the van set off, Strike set off in pursuit, then called Midge.
‘Wotcha.’
‘Where’s Mayo?’
‘With me. Well, not with me – I’m waiting for her to come out of her gym.’
‘I told her to vary her bloody routine.’
‘It’s the only evening she’s got off from the theatre, and it’s less crowded this—’
‘I think tonight might be the night. They’ve just got in the van with what look like balaclavas in their hands.’
‘Oh, fook,’ said Midge.
‘Listen, if Mayo’s up for it – and only if she is – I say proceed as normal. Let this happen. I’ll pull Barclay off Toy Boy to make sure we’ve got enough manpower and we’ll get the fuckers in the attempt.’
‘She’ll be up for it,’ said Midge, who sounded excited. ‘She just wants this over.’
‘Good. Keep me posted on your location. I’ve got eyes on them now and I’ll let you know if anything changes. Gonna ring Barclay.’
Strike hung up, but before he could contact Barclay, an unknown number called him. Strike refused the call and pressed Barclay’s number instead.
‘Where are you?’
‘Outside Mrs Moneybags’ house. She was gettin’ pretty fuckin’ frisky wi’ Toy Boy on the way up the street.’
‘Well, I need you in Notting Hill, pronto. Looks like the Franks are planning their big move. Balaclavas, both of them in the van—’
‘Great, I fancy punchin’ someone. The mother-in-law’s staying. See ye there.’
No sooner had Barclay cut the call, Strike’s phone rang again. He jabbed at the dashboard with his finger, his eyes still on the van now separated from his BMW by a Peugeot 108.
‘Who’s been pissing off the UHC, then?’ said an amused voice.
‘Who’s this?’
‘Fergus Robertson.’
‘Oh,’ said Strike, surprised to hear from the journalist, ‘you. Why’re you asking?’
‘Because your Wikipedia page just tripled in length,’ said the journalist, who sounded as though he’d had a couple of drinks. ‘I recognise the house style. Beating girlfriends, fucking clients, drink problem, daddy issues – what’ve you got on them?’
‘Nothing I can tell you yet,’ said Strike, ‘but that doesn’t mean I won’t have something eventually.’
Whichever Frank brother was driving had either realised he was being followed, or was inept: he’d just earned several blasts of the horn from the Peugeot for indicating late. Robertson’s news, though deeply unwelcome to Strike, would have to be processed later.
‘Just thought I’d let you know,’ said the journalist. ‘We had an agreement, though, right? I get the story if—’
‘Yeah, fine,’ said Strike. ‘I’ve got to go.’
He hung up.
The Franks definitely seemed to be heading for Notting Hill, Strike thought, as they entered the Blackwall Tunnel. The same unknown number as before called again. He ignored it because the Franks had just sped up, and while this might mean they were worried about missing Tasha on her way back from the gym, Strike remained concerned that they’d realised he was following them.
His phone rang yet again: Prudence, his sister.
