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The I Ching or Book of Changes
‘Shit,’ said Strike.
A little over two hours after he and Robin had resolved their argument, they’d arrived in Oakleaze Road, Thornbury, to find Carrie Curtis Woods’ residence empty. The modest but well-maintained semi-detached house, which shared a patch of unfenced lawn with its Siamese twin, was almost indistinguishable from every other house within view, except for slight variations in the style of front door.
‘And no car,’ said Strike, looking at the empty drive. ‘But they’re definitely back from holiday, I checked her Facebook page before I left this morning. She documents virtually every movement the family makes.’
‘Maybe she’s gone grocery shopping, if they’re just back from abroad?’
‘Maybe,’ said Strike, ‘but I think we might make ourselves a bit conspicuous if we hang around here for too long. Bit open plan. You won’t get away with much in a place like this.’
There were windows everywhere he looked, and the flat lawns in front of all the houses offered no hint of cover. The ancient Land Rover also looked conspicuous, among all the family cars.
‘What d’you say we go and get something to eat and come back in an hour or so?’
So they returned to the car and set off again.
The town was small, and they reached the High Street in minutes. There was less uniformity here, with shops and pubs of varying sizes, some of them painted in pastel colours or bearing old-fashioned awnings. Robin finally parked outside the Malthouse pub. The interior proved to be roomy, modern and white-walled, with grey checked carpet and chairs.
‘Too early for lunch,’ said Strike gloomily, returning from the bar with two packets of peanuts, a zero-alcohol beer for himself and a tomato juice for Robin, who was sitting in a bay window overlooking the high street.
‘Never mind,’ she said, ‘check your phone. Barclay’s just texted us.’
Strike sat down and took out his mobile. Their subcontractor had sent everyone at the agency a one-word message: SHAFTED, with a link to a news story, which Strike opened.
Robin started laughing again as she saw her partner’s expression change to one of pure glee. The news story, which was brief, was headed: BREAKING: TABLOID’S FAVOURITE PRIVATE EYE ARRESTED.
Mitchell Patterson, who was cleared of wrongdoing in the News International phone hacking scandal of 2011, has been arrested on a charge of illegally bugging the office of a prominent barrister.
Strike let out a laugh so loud that heads turned.
‘Fucking excellent,’ he said. ‘Now I can sack Littlejohn.’
‘Not in here,’ said Robin.
‘No,’ agreed Strike, glancing around, ‘not very discreet. There’s a beer garden, let’s do it there.’
‘Is my presence necessary?’ said Robin, smiling, but she was already gathering up her glass, peanuts and bag.
‘Killjoy,’ said Strike, as they set off through the pub. ‘Barclay would’ve paid good money to hear this.’
Once seated on benches at a brown painted table, Strike called Littlejohn and switched his mobile to speakerphone again.
‘Hi, boss,’ said Littlejohn, on answering. He’d taken to calling Strike ‘boss’ ever since Strike had revealed he knew Littlejohn was a plant. The jauntiness of Littlejohn’s tone suggested his duplicitous subcontractor didn’t yet realise Patterson had been arrested, and Strike’s pleasurable anticipation increased.
‘Where are you right now?’ asked Strike.
‘Following Toy Boy,’ said Littlejohn. ‘We’re on Pall Mall.’
‘Heard from Mitch this morning?’
‘No,’ said Littlejohn. ‘Why?’
‘He’s been arrested,’ said Strike.
No sound of human speech issued from Strike’s phone, though this time they could hear the background rumble of London traffic.
‘Still there?’ said Strike, a malicious smile on his face.
