Page 213 of The Running Grave

‘Has Honbold had anyone new in his office lately? Taken meetings with anyone he hasn’t met before?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Bijou, raising a tearstained face. ‘I think it’s bloody Matilda. Will you talk to him? Please?’

‘I’ll think about it,’ said Strike, not because he felt any sympathy for Bijou, but because an idea had occurred to him that was as unpleasant as it was plausible. Bijou now reached a hand across the table, but Strike withdrew his own hand, unpleasantly reminded of Charlotte.

‘I was only going to thank you,’ she said, with the hint of a pout.

‘Don’t. I’m not promising to do anything.’

She slid off the bar stool and stood for a moment, looking at him, and even now, he sensed her wish for some sign that he still desired her, and he was again reminded of Charlotte.

‘Cormoran—’

‘I said I’ll think about it.’

She swept up her handbag and left.

Strike, who had paperwork waiting for him at the office, sipped his pint and tried to tell himself he didn’t want a burger and chips. There was a burning sensation behind his eyes, born of tiredness. His stomach growled. The myriad problems of the day seemed to buzz around him like mosquitos. Andrew Honbold, Bijou, Patterson: did he not have enough to worry about, without all these extraneous difficulties?

Caving in, he went to the bar to order food. Once back at the table beneath the cupola, Strike took out his phone and, in masochistic spirit, checked the Facebook account of Carrie Curtis Woods, who naturally hadn’t responded to his follower request, and Torment Town’s Pinterest page, on which no new comments had been posted since his own. Tired of the stalemate, he typed out another question for Torment Town, determined to force something out of whoever ran the account.

Did you ever know a woman called Deirdre Doherty?

He pressed send. If the drawing of the fair-haired woman in glasses floating in the dark pool was indeed supposed to be Deirdre, that, surely, would get a reaction.

He next looked up the phone number of Reaney’s wife’s nail salon, Kuti-cles. After asking for Ava there was a wait of a few seconds, then he heard her approaching the phone while talking loudly to someone in the background.

‘—keep ’em in there and don’t touch ’em. Hello?’

‘Hi, Mrs Reaney, it’s Cormoran Strike again. The private detective.’

‘Oh,’ said Ava, sounding displeased. ‘You.’

‘I’ve just heard some news about Jord—’

‘Yeah, I know he’s overdosed.’

‘I hear you called him a week before he did it. Was that about your divorce?’

‘I never called ’im. Why would I? ’E’s known abou’ the divorce for monfs.’

‘So you didn’t phone him a week ago?’

‘I ’aven’t called him in ages. I’ve changed my numbers to stop him pestering me. It’ll have been one of his girlfriends, pretending to be me to make sure ’e took the call. He’ll put his dick in anything, Jordan will. First ’e shags you, then ’e slaps you around. She’s welcome to ’im, whoever she is.’

‘Right,’ said Strike, thinking fast. ‘Seems an extreme reaction to the call, if it was just a girlfriend. Has he ever attempted suicide before?’

‘No, more’s the pity. Listen,’ she added, in a lower voice, ‘if you want the truth, I’d sooner ’e died. I won’t be looking over me shoulder for the rest of me life. Got it?’

‘Got it,’ said Strike. ‘Thanks for your time.’

He sat for another minute, thinking. Of course, the phone call from an unknown woman posing as Reaney’s wife might have had nothing whatsoever to do with Reaney’s suicide attempt; the connection might just be an assumption of Shanker’s mate’s.

His mobile rang again: the office number.

‘Hi Pat.’

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Will you be coming back to the office this afternoon?’