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‘Yeah,’ said Littlejohn hoarsely.
‘So, you’re fired.’
‘You – what? You can’t – you said you’d keep me on—’
‘I said I’d think about it,’ said Strike. ‘I did, and I’ve decided you can fuck off.’
‘You cunt,’ said Littlejohn. ‘You fucking—’
‘I’m doing you a favour, when you think about it,’ said Strike. ‘You’re going to need a lot more time on your hands, what with the police wanting you to help them with their enquiries.’
‘You fucking – you bastard – I was going to – I had stuff for you on that church case – new stuff—’
‘Sure you did,’ said Strike. ‘Bye, Littlejohn.’
He hung up, reached for his beer, took a long draught, wishing it wasn’t alcohol-free, then set down his glass. Robin was laughing, but shaking her head.
‘What?’ said Strike, grinning.
‘It’s lucky we haven’t got an HR department.’
‘He’s a subcontractor, all I owe him is cash – not that he’s getting any cash.’
‘He could sue you for it.’
‘And I could tell the court he posted a snake through Tasha Mayo’s door.’
They ate their peanuts and drank their drinks beneath hanging baskets and a bright August sun.
‘You don’t think he really had something for us, on the UHC?’ said Robin after a while.
‘Nah, he’s bullshitting,’ said Strike, setting down his empty glass.
‘What if he goes to the office while we’re away and—?’
‘Tries to photograph case files again? Don’t worry about that. I’ve taken precautions, I had Pat do it last week. If the fucker tries using a skeleton key again, he’ll get his comeuppance – which reminds me,’ said Strike, pulling a new set of office keys out of his pocket. ‘You’ll need those… Right, let’s go and see whether Cherie/Carrie’s home yet.’
97
K’an represents the pig slaughtered in the small sacrifice.
The I Ching or Book of Changes
They’d been sitting in the Land Rover, which was parked a few doors down from Carrie Curtis Woods’ still empty house, for forty minutes when a silver Kia Picanto passed them.
‘Strike,’ said Robin, having caught a glimpse of a blonde female driver.
The car turned into the Woods family’s drive. The driver got out. She had short, blonde, curly hair, and was wearing a pair of unflatteringly tight jeans, which caused a roll of fat under her white T-shirt to spill over the waistband. She was tanned, wore a lot of spiky mascara, and her eyebrows were thinner than was currently fashionable, giving her a surprised look. A polyester shopper was slung over her shoulder.
‘Let’s go,’ said Strike.
Carrie Curtis Woods was halfway to her front door when she heard the footsteps behind her and turned, keys in hand.
‘Afternoon,’ said Strike. ‘My name’s Cormoran Strike and this is Robin Ellacott. We’re private detectives. We believe you lived at Chapman Farm in the mid-nineties, under the name Cherie Gittins? We’d like to ask you some questions, if that’s all right.’
Twice before, while working at the agency, Robin had thought a female interviewee might faint. Carrie’s face lost all healthy colour, leaving the surface tan patchy and yellow and her lips pale. Robin braced, ready to run forwards and break the woman’s fall onto hard concrete.
‘We just want to hear your side of the story, Carrie,’ said Strike.
