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‘No. Was it good?’
‘Fuckin’ dreadful,’ said Barclay. ‘Hour and a half of poetry and gardening. The wife loved it. I didn’t, because apparently I’m an insensitive prick.’
Robin laughed.
‘Midge could be in with a shot,’ Barclay went on. ‘Tasha Mayo’s bisexual.’
‘Is she?’
‘According to the wife. That’d be the wife’s specialist subject on Mastermind: sex lives o’ the stars. She’s a walking fuckin’ encyclopaedia on it.’
They sat in silence for a few minutes before Barclay, still staring up at the fourth floor, asked,
‘Why aren’t they working for a living?’
‘No idea,’ said Robin.
‘Be handy if we could nail them on a benefits scam. Nice bit o’ community service. He wouldn’t have time tae go after her, then.’
‘Community service would end eventually,’ said Robin, sipping her coffee. ‘Trouble is, I don’t know how you stop someone being obsessed.’
‘Punch them?’ suggested Barclay, and after a moment’s thought he added, ‘D’ye think Littlejohn’d say something if I punched him?’
‘Maybe try and find a topic of mutual interest first,’ said Robin.
‘It’s fuckin’ bizarre,’ said Barclay, ‘never talking. Just sitting there.’
‘That’s one of them,’ Robin said, replacing her coffee in the cupholder.
A man had just left the building, walking with his hands in his pockets. Like his brother, he had an unusually high forehead, which was why Barclay had nicknamed the pair the Frankenstein brothers, which had been swiftly abbreviated to Frank One and Frank Two. Shabbily dressed in an old windcheater, jeans and trainers, he was heading, Robin guessed, towards the station.
‘OK, I’ll take him,’ she said, picking up the backpack she usually took on surveillance, ‘and you can stay here and watch the other one.’
‘Aye, all right,’ said Barclay. ‘Good luck.’
Robin, who was wearing a beanie hat to cover her distinctive new haircut, followed Frank One on foot to Bexleyheath station and, after a short wait, got into the same train compartment, where she kept him under covert observation from several seats away.
After a couple of minutes, Robin’s mobile rang and she saw Strike’s number.
‘Morning. Where are you?’
‘With one of the Franks,’ she said quietly. ‘We’re heading into London.’
‘Ah. Well, I just wanted to tell you, I’ve persuaded that journalist I mentioned to talk to me. Fergus Robertson, meeting him later at the Westminster Arms. Have you read his article yet?’
‘Yes,’ said Robin, ‘and I read his follow-up, too, about what the church did to him after the first one was published. They don’t like criticism, do they?’
‘I’d say that’s an understatement,’ said Strike. ‘In other news, I’ve just spotted Will Edensor. He’s collecting in Soho again today.’
‘Oh wow, really?’
‘Yeah. I didn’t approach him, just to be on the safe side, but he looks bloody terrible. He’s over six foot tall and probably weighs less than you do.’
‘Did he look happy? All the temple attendants were beaming non-stop.’
‘No, definitely not happy. I’ve also got Pat to have a look at the rota. You could go up to Coventry in the latter half of next week, if that suits you. I’ve got Sheila Kennett’s number – the old woman who lived at Chapman Farm for years. If I text it to you, could you ring her? See whether she’d be amenable to an interview?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Robin.
