“See, Satchwell as good as told Irene, the last time they met, ’e was using ’er to get back at Margot. ’E’d been angry at Margot for saying she’d only come to watch the band outta curiosity, and for getting shirty when ’e tried to persuade ’er to go back to ’is flat. ’E gave ’er that little wooden Viking thing, you know. ’E’d ’ad it on ’im, ’oping she’d turn up, and I fink ’e thought she’d just melt or somefing when ’e did that, and that’d be the end of Roy… like that’s all it takes, to walk out on a kid and a marriage, a little wooden doll… ’E said some nasty stuff about Margot to Irene… prick tease was the least of it…

“Anyway, after Margot went missing and the police got called in, Satchwell rings Irene up and says not to mention anyfing ’e’d said about being angry at Margot, and she begged ’im never to tell anyone about the both of ’em, and that’s ’ow they left it. And I was the only one ’oo knew, and I kept me mouth shut, too, because… well, that’s what you do when it’s a friend, isn’t it?”

“So when Charlie Ramage said he’d seen Margot in Leamington Spa,” said Strike, “were you aware—?”

“—that that’s where Satchwell come from? Not then, I wasn’t, not when Charlie first told me. But not long after, there was a news story about some old geezer in Leamington Spa what ’ad put up a sign in ’is front garden. ‘Whites united against colored invasion’ or some such ’orrible thing. Me and Larry was out for dinner with Eddie and Irene, and Eddie’s talking about this old racist in the news, and then, when Irene and I went to the loo, she says to me, ‘Leamington Spa, that’s where Paul Satchwell was from.’ She ’adn’t mentioned ’im to me in ages.

“I won’t lie, it give me a proper uncomfortable feeling, ’er telling me that, because I thought, oh my Gawd, what if Charlie really did see Margot? What if Margot ran off to be with ’er ex? But then I fort, ’ang on, though: if Margot only went as far as Leamington Spa, ’ow come she ’asn’t never been seen since? I mean, it’s ’ardly Timbuktu, is it?”

“No,” said Strike. “It isn’t. And is that all Irene’s ever told you about Margot and Satchwell?”

“It’s enough, innit?” said Janice. Her pink and white complexion seemed more faded than when Strike had arrived, the veins beneath her eyes darker. “Look, don’t give Irene an ’ard time. Please. She don’t seem it, but she’s soft under all that silly stuff. She worries, you know.”

“I can’t see why I’d have to give her a hard time,” said Strike. “Well, you’ve been very helpful, Mrs. Beattie. Thank you. That clears up quite a few points for me.”

Janice slumped backward on the sofa, frowning at Strike.

“You smoke, don’t you?” she said abruptly. “I can smell it off you. Didn’t they stop you smoking after you ’ad that amputation?”

“They tried,” said Strike.

“Very bad for you,” she said. “Won’t ’elp wiv your mobility, either, as you get older. Bad for your circulation and your skin. You should quit.”

“I know I should,” said Strike, smiling at her as he returned his notebook to his pocket.

“Hmm,” said Janice, her eyes narrowed. “‘ ’Appened to be in the area,’ my Aunt Fanny.”

51

… neuer thinke that so

That Monster can be maistred or destroyd:

He is not, ah, he is not such a foe,

As steele can wound, or strength can ouerthroe.

Edmund Spenser

The Faerie Queene

The domed turrets of the Tower of London rose behind the wall of dirty yellow brick, but Robin had no attention to spare for ancient landmarks. Not only was the meeting she’d set up without Strike’s knowledge supposed to start in thirty minutes’ time, she was miles from where she’d expected to be at one o’clock, and completely unfamiliar with this part of London. She ran with her mobile in her hand, glancing intermittently at the map on its screen.

Within a few paces, the phone rang. Seeing that it was Strike, she answered the call.

“Hi. Just seen Janice.”

“Oh good,” said Robin, trying not to pant as she scanned her surroundings for either a Tube sign or a taxi. “Anything interesting?”

“Plenty,” said Strike, who was strolling back along Nightingale Grove. Notwithstanding his recent exchange with the nurse, he’d just lit a Benson & Hedges. As he walked into the cool breeze, the smoke was snatched from his lips every time he exhaled. “Where are you at the moment?”

“Tower Bridge Road,” said Robin, still running, still looking around in vain for a Tube sign.

“Thought you were on Shifty’s Boss this morning?”

“I was,” said Robin. It was probably best that Strike knew immediately what had just happened. “I’ve just left him on Tower Bridge with Barclay.”

“When you say ‘with’ Barclay—”

“They might be talking by now, I don’t know,” said Robin. Unable to talk normally while jogging, she slowed to a fast walk. “Cormoran, SB looked as though he was thinking of jumping.”

“Off Tower Bridge?” asked Strike, surprised.

“Why not Tower Bridge?” said Robin, as she rounded a corner onto a busy junction. “It was the nearest accessible high structure…”

“But his office isn’t anywhere near—”

“He got off at Monument as usual but he didn’t go into work. He looked up at the office for a bit, then walked away. I thought he was just stretching his legs, but then he headed out onto Tower Bridge and stood there, staring down at the water.”

Robin had spent forty anxious minutes watching SB stare down at the cement-colored river below, his briefcase hanging limply by his side, while traffic rumbled along the bridge behind him. She doubted that Strike could imagine how nerve-racking she’d found the wait for Barclay to come and relieve her.

There was still no sign of a Tube station. Robin broke into a jog again.

“I thought of approaching him,” she said, “but I was worried I’d startle him into jumping. You know how big he is, I couldn’t have held him back.”

“You really think he was—”

“Yes,” said Robin, trying not to sound triumphant: she’d just caught sight of a circular red Tube sign through a break in the traffic and started running. “He looked utterly hopeless.”

“Are you running?” asked Strike, who could now hear her feet hitting the ground even over the growl of traffic.

“Yes,” said Robin, and then, “I’m late for a dental appointment.”

She’d regretted not coming up with a solid reason earlier for not being able to interview Janice Beattie, and had decided on this story, should Strike ask again.

“Ah,” said Strike. “Right.”

“Anyway,” Robin said, weaving around passers-by, “Barclay arrived to take over—he agreed SB looked like he was thinking of jumping—and he said—”

She was developing a stitch in her side now.

“—said—he’d go and try—and talk to him—and that’s when I left. At least—Barclay’s big enough—to hold him back if he tries anything,” she finished breathlessly.

“But it also means SB will recognize Barclay in future,” Strike pointed out.

“Well, yeah, I know that,” said Robin, slowing to a walk again as she was almost at the Underground steps, and massaging the stitch in her side, “but given that we thought he might be about to kill himself—”

“Understood,” said Strike, who had paused in the shadow of Hither Green station to finish his cigarette. “Just thinking logistics. ’Course, if we’re lucky, he might spill the beans to Barclay about what Shifty’s got on him. Desperate men are sometimes willing to—”

“Cormoran, I’m going to have to go,” said Robin, who’d reached the Underground entrance. “I’ll see you back at the office after my appointment and you can fill me in about Janice.”

“Right you are,” said Strike. “Hope it doesn’t hurt.”

“What doesn’t hu—Oh, the dentist, no, it’s just a check-up,” said Robin.

Really convincing, Robin, she thought, angry at herself, as she shoved her mobile back into her pocket and ran down the steps into the Underground.

Once on the train, she stripped off her jacket, because she was sweating from running, and neatened her hair with the aid of her reflection in the dirty dark window opposite her. Between SB and his possibly suicidal ideation, lying to Strike, her feeble cover story and the potential risks of the meeting she was about to have, she felt jittery. There’d been another occasion, a couple of years previously, when Robin had chosen to pursue a line of inquiry while keeping it secret from Strike. It had resulted in Strike sacking her.

This is different, she tried to reassure herself, smoothing sweaty strands of hair off her forehead. He won’t mind, as long as it works. It’s what he wants, too.

She emerged at Tottenham Court Road station twenty minutes later and hurried with her jacket over her shoulder into the heart of Soho.

Only when she was approaching the Star café, and saw the sign over the door, did she register the coincidence of the name. Trying not to think about asteroids, horoscopes or omens, Robin entered the café, where round wooden tables stood on a red-brick floor. The walls were decorated with old-fashioned tin signs, one of which was advertising ROBIN CIGARETTES. Directly beneath this, perhaps deliberately, sat an old man wearing a black windcheater, his face ruddy with broken veins and his thick gray hair oiled into a quiff that had the appearance of not having changed since the fifties. A walking stick was propped against the wall beside him. On his other side sat a teenage girl with long neon-yellow hair, who was texting on her phone and didn’t look up until Robin had approached their table.

“Mr. Tucker?” said Robin.