The Cuckoo's Calling - Страница 35

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You think i wont fucking hurt you but your wrong you cunt I am comming for you I fucking trusted you and you did this to me. I am going to pull your fucking dick off and stuff it down you throat They will find you chocking on your own dick when ive finish with you your own mother wont no you i am going to fucking kill you Strike you peice of shit

“It’s a nice day out there.”

“Will you please read this? Please?”

It was Monday morning, and Strike had just returned from a smoke in the sunny street and a chat with the girl from the record shop opposite. Robin’s hair was loose again; she obviously had no more interviews today. This deduction, and the effects of sunlight after rain, combined to lift Strike’s spirits. Robin, however, looked strained, standing behind her desk and holding out a pink piece of paper embellished with the usual kittens.

“Still at it, is he?”

Strike took the letter and read it through, grinning.

“I don’t understand why you aren’t going to the police,” said Robin. “The things he’s saying he wants to do to you…”

“Just file it,” said Strike dismissively, tossing the letter down and rifling through the rest of the paltry pile of mail.

“Yes, well, that’s not all,” said Robin, clearly annoyed by his attitude. “Temporary Solutions have just called.”

“Yeah? What did they want?”

“They asked for me,” said Robin. “They obviously suspect I’m still here.”

“And what did you say?”

“I pretended to be somebody else.”

“Quick thinking. Who?”

“I said my name was Annabel.”

“When asked to come up with a fake name on the spot, people usually choose one beginning with ‘A,’ did you know that?”

“But what if they send somebody to check?”

“Well?”

“It’s you they’ll try and get money from, not me! They’ll try and make you pay a recruitment fee!”

He smiled at her genuine anxiety that he would have to pay money he could not afford. He had been intending to ask her to telephone the office of Freddie Bestigui again, and to begin a search through online telephone directories for Rochelle Onifade’s Kilburn-based aunt. Instead he said:

“OK, we’ll vacate the premises. I was going to check out a place called Vashti this morning, before I meet Bristow. Maybe it’d look more natural if we both went.”

“Vashti? The boutique?” said Robin, at once.

“Yeah. You know it, do you?”

It was Robin’s turn to smile. She had read about it in magazines: it epitomized London glamour to her; a place where fashion editors found items of fabulous clothing to show their readers, pieces that would have cost Robin six months’ salary.

“I know of it,” she said.

He took down her trench coat and handed it to her.

“We’ll pretend you’re my sister, Annabel. You can be helping me pick out a present for my wife.”

“What’s the death-threat man’s problem?” asked Robin, as they sat side by side on the Tube. “Who is he?”

She had suppressed her curiosity about Jonny Rokeby, and about the dark beauty who had fled Strike’s building on her first day at work, and the camp bed they never mentioned; but she was surely entitled to ask questions about the death threats. It was she, after all, who had so far slit open three pink envelopes, and read the unpleasant and violent outpourings scrawled between gamboling kittens. Strike never even looked at them.

“He’s called Brian Mathers,” said Strike. “He came to see me last June because he thought his wife was sleeping around. He wanted her followed, so I put her under surveillance for a month. Very ordinary woman: plain, frumpy, bad perm; worked in the accounts department of a big carpet warehouse. Spent her weekdays in a poky little office with three female colleagues, went to bingo every Thursday, did the weekly shop on Fridays at Tesco, and on Saturdays went to the local Rotary Club with her husband.”

“When did he think she was sleeping around?” asked Robin.

Their pale reflections were swaying in the opaque black window; drained of color in the harsh overhead light, Robin looked older, yet ethereal, and Strike craggier, uglier.

“Thursday nights.”

“And was she?”

“No, she really was going to bingo with her friend Maggie, but all four Thursdays that I watched her, she made herself deliberately late home. She drove around a little bit after she’d left Maggie. One night she went into a pub and had a tomato juice on her own, sitting in a corner looking timid. Another night she waited in her car at the end of their street for forty-five minutes before driving around the corner.”

“Why?” asked Robin, as the train rattled loudly through a lengthy tunnel.

“Well that’s the question, isn’t it? Proving something? Trying to get him worked up? Taunting him? Punishing him? Trying to inject a bit of excitement into their dull marriage? Every Thursday, just a bit of unexplained time.

“He’s a twitchy bugger, and he’d swallowed the bait all right. It was driving him mad. He was sure she was meeting a lover once a week, that her friend Maggie was covering for her. He’d tried following her himself, but he was convinced that she went to bingo on those occasions because she knew he was watching.”

“So you told him the truth?”

“Yeah, I did. He didn’t believe me. He got very worked up and started shouting and screaming about everyone being in a conspiracy against him. Refused to pay my bill.

“I was worried he was going to end up doing her an injury, which was where I made my big mistake. I phoned her and told her he’d paid me to watch her, that I knew what she was doing, and that her husband was heading for breaking point. For her own sake, she ought to be careful how far she pushed him. She didn’t say a word, just hung up on me.

“Well, he was checking her mobile regularly. He saw my number, and drew the obvious conclusion.”

“That you’d told her he was having her watched?”

“No, that I had been seduced by her charms and was her new lover.”

Robin clapped her hands over her mouth. Strike laughed.

“Are your clients usually a bit mad?” asked Robin, when she had freed her mouth again.

“He is, but they’re usually just stressed.”

“I was thinking about John Bristow,” Robin said hesitantly. “His girlfriend thinks he’s deluded. And you thought he might be a bit…you know…didn’t you?” she asked. “We heard,” she added, a little shamefacedly, “through the door. The bit about ‘armchair psychologists.’ ”

“Right,” said Strike. “Well…I might have changed my mind.”

“What do you mean?” asked Robin, her clear gray-blue eyes wide. The train was jolting to a halt; figures were flashing past the windows, becoming less blurred with every second. “Do you—are you saying he’s not—that he might be right—that there really was a…?”

“This is our stop.”

The white-painted boutique they sought stood on some of the most expensive acreage in London, in Conduit Street, close to the junction with New Bond Street. To Strike, its colorful windows displayed a multitudinous mess of life’s unnecessities. Here were beaded cushions and scented candles in silver pots; slivers of artistically draped chiffon; gaudy kaftans worn by faceless mannequins; bulky handbags of an ostentatious ugliness; all spread against a pop-art backdrop, in a gaudy celebration of consumerism he found irritating to retina and spirit. He could imagine Tansy Bestigui and Ursula May in here, examining price tags with expert eyes, selecting four-figure bags of alligator skin with a pleasureless determination to get their money’s worth out of their loveless marriages.

Beside him, Robin too was staring at the window display, but only dimly registering what she was looking at. A job offer had been made to her that morning, by telephone, while Strike was smoking downstairs, just before Temporary Solutions had called. Every time she contemplated the offer, which she would have to accept or decline within the next two days, she felt a jab of some intense emotion to the stomach that she was trying to persuade herself was pleasure, but increasingly suspected was dread.

She ought to take it. There was much in its favor. It paid exactly what she and Matthew had agreed she ought to aim for. The offices were smart and well placed for the West End. She and Matthew would be able to lunch together. The employment market was sluggish. She should be delighted.

“How did the interview go on Friday?” asked Strike, squinting at a sequined coat he found obscenely unattractive.

“Quite well, I think,” said Robin vaguely.

She recalled the excitement she had felt mere moments ago when Strike had hinted that there might, after all, have been a killer. Was he serious? Robin noted that he was now staring hard at this massive assemblage of fripperies as though they might be able to tell him something important, and this was surely (for a moment she saw with Matthew’s eyes, and thought in Matthew’s voice) a pose adopted for effect, or show. Matthew kept hinting that Strike was somehow a fake. He seemed to feel that being a private detective was a far-fetched job, like astronaut or lion tamer; that real people did not do such things.

Robin reflected that if she took the human resources job, she might never know (unless she saw it, one day, on the news) how this investigation turned out. To prove, to solve, to catch, to protect: these were things worth doing; important and fascinating. Robin knew that Matthew thought her somehow childish and naive for feeling this way, but she could not help herself.