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‘She texted.’
‘So… you needed something?’
‘Receipts,’ said Littlejohn, putting his hand into the inside of his coat and drawing out a small wad of paper, which he laid on Pat’s desk.
‘Right,’ said Strike.
Littlejohn stood for another second or two, then turned and left the office, closing the glass door behind him.
‘It’s like he gets taxed per syllable,’ said Robin quietly.
Strike said nothing. He was still frowning towards the glass door.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Robin.
‘Nothing.’
‘Yes, there is. Why are you looking like that?’
‘How was he planning to get in? I changed the rota last night so we could have a catch-up, otherwise I’d’ve been tailing Frank Two and you wouldn’t have had any reason to be here – especially during a near hurricane,’ Strike added, as the rain thumped against the window.
‘Oh,’ said Robin, now looking blankly after Littlejohn as well. ‘Did you hear keys before the door opened?’
‘He hasn’t got a key,’ said Strike. ‘Or he shouldn’t have.’
Before either could say anything else, Robin’s mobile rang.
‘Sorry,’ she said to Strike, on checking it. ‘It’s Ryan.’
Strike got up and headed into the outer office. His ruminations on Littlejohn’s strange behaviour were disrupted by Robin’s voice, and her burst of laughter. Evidently evening plans were being changed, due to the weather. Then his own mobile rang.
‘Strike.’
‘Hi,’ said Ilsa’s voice. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine,’ said Strike, while Robin lowered her voice in the inner office, and his feeling of irritation increased. ‘What’s up?’
‘Look, I hope you don’t think I’m interfering.’
‘Tell me what you’ve got to say, then I’ll tell you if you’re interfering,’ said Strike, without bothering to sound too friendly.
‘Well, you’re about to get a call from Bijou.’
‘Which you know, because—?’
‘Because she just told me. Actually, she told me, and three other people I was having a conversation with.’
‘And?’
‘She says you haven’t answered her texts, so—’
‘You’ve called to tell me off for not answering texts?’
‘God, no, the reverse!’
In the inner office, Robin was laughing at something else Ryan had said. The man simply couldn’t be that fucking funny.
‘Go on,’ Strike said to Ilsa, striding towards the inner door and closing it rather more firmly than was necessary. ‘Say your piece.’
