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‘How—? You – this is disgusting!’ he said, so loudly heads in the now crowded café turned. ‘That is definitely not my sister!’
‘Mr Fernsby, I—’
‘I’ll be contacting lawyers about you!’ he thundered, scrambling to his feet. ‘Lawyers!’
109
… there are annoying arguments like those of a married couple. Naturally this is not a favourable state of things…
The I Ching or Book of Changes
‘And then he stormed out,’ concluded Robin forty minutes later. She was now sitting beside Strike in his parked BMW, from which he was observing the office of the man they’d nicknamed Hampstead.
‘Hmm,’ said Strike, who was holding one of the takeaway coffees Robin had bought en route. ‘So did he go apeshit because it is his sister, or because he was afraid we’re going to claim it is?’
‘From his reaction, it could have been either, but if it wasn’t Rosie—’
‘Why did somebody posing as a policewoman try and warn him off speaking to us?’
‘Well, exactly,’ said Robin.
She’d called Strike immediately after leaving the Institute of Civil Engineers, and he’d asked her to meet him in Dorset Street, a short Tube journey away. Strike had been sitting in his parked car all morning, watching the entrance of Hampstead’s office: an exercise he’d guessed would be fruitless, as Hampstead’s only suspicious activity had so far been conducted by night.
Strike sipped his coffee, then said,
‘I don’t like this.’
‘Sorry, I got what you—’
‘Not the coffee. I mean these mysterious phone calls to everyone we interview. I don’t like that Corsa following us, or the bloke watching the office last night, or that guy stalking you on the Tube.’
‘I told you, he wasn’t stalking me. I’m just jumpy.’
‘Yeah, well, I wasn’t being jumpy when an armed intruder tried to smash their way through our office door with a gun, although Kevin Pirbright might well have been when he realised he was about to get shot through the head.’
Strike now pulled his mobile out of his pocket and handed it to Robin. Looking down, she saw the same flattering picture of Jonathan Wace that was on the enormous poster on the side of a building near her flat. It was captioned:
Interested in the Universal Humanitarian Church? Join us at
7pm Friday 12th August
SUPERSERVICE 2016
PAPA J AT OLYMPIA
‘Doubt there’ll be anyone at Olympia tonight who’s more interested in the Universal Humanitarian Church than I am,’ said Strike.
‘You can’t go!’
Though instantly ashamed of her own panic, and worried that Strike would think her foolish, the very idea of entering a space where Papa J was in charge brought back memories Robin been trying to suppress every day since she’d left Chapman Farm, but which resurfaced almost nightly in her dreams.
Strike understood Robin’s disproportionate reaction better than she realised. For a long time after half his leg had been ripped off in that exploding car in Afghanistan, certain experiences, certain noises, even certain faces, had evoked a primal response over which it had taken him years to gain mastery. A particular brand of rough humour, shared with those who understood, had got him through some of his bleakest moments, which was why he said,
‘Typical materialist reaction. Personally, I think I’ll go pure spirit very fast.’
‘You can’t,’ said Robin, trying to sound reasonable, and not as though she was trying to dispel a vivid recollection of Jonathan Wace advancing on her in that peacock blue room, calling her Artemis. ‘You’ll be recognised!’
‘Bloody well hope so. That’s the whole point.’
