Page 269 of The Running Grave

‘Fuck’s sake,’ Strike growled at the speaker, ‘I’m busy.’

He let the call go to voicemail, but Prudence called back. Again, Strike ignored the call, although vaguely perturbed; Prudence had never done this before. When she called back a third time, Strike picked up.

‘I’m kind of in the middle of something,’ he told her. ‘Could I call you back later?’

‘This will be short,’ said Prudence. To his surprise, she sounded angry.

‘OK, what’s up?’

‘I asked you very clearly to stay away from my client who was in the UHC!’

‘What are you talking about? I haven’t been near them.’

‘Oh, really,’ said Prudence coldly. ‘She’s just told me somebody approached her online, probing her for information. She’s absolutely distraught. Whoever it was threatened her with the name of a woman she knew in the church.’

‘I don’t know who your client is,’ said Strike, eyes on the van ahead, ‘and I haven’t been threatening anyone online.’

‘Who else would have tracked her down and told her he knew she’d met this woman? Corm?’ she added, when he didn’t answer immediately.

‘If,’ said Strike, who’d just done some rapid mental deduction, ‘she had a Pinterest page—’

‘So it was you?’

‘I didn’t know she was your client,’ Strike said, now aggravated. The unknown number that kept calling was trying to get through again. ‘I saw her drawings and left a couple of comments, that’s all. I had no idea who was behind the acc—I’ve got to go,’ he said, cutting the call, as the Franks sped through a red light, leaving Strike stuck behind a Hyundai with a large dent in its rear.

‘FUCK,’ bellowed Strike, watching impotently as the Franks sped out of sight.

The unknown number called yet again.

‘Fuck off,’ said Strike, refusing the call and instead ringing Midge, who answered immediately. ‘Where are you?’

‘Tasha’s showering.’

‘OK, well, don’t let her leave the gym until you hear from me. Barclay’s on his way, but the fuckers just ran a red light and I’ve lost them. They might’ve known I was tailing them. Stay where you are until I give the word.’

The Hyundai moved off and Strike, now choosing his own route to Notting Hill, called Barclay.

‘I’m nearly there,’ said the Scot.

‘I’m not, I lost the bastards. They might’ve spotted me.’

‘You sure? They’re bloody thick.’

‘Even morons get it right occasionally.’

‘Think they’ll abort?’

‘Possibly, but we should assume it’s happening. Midge and Mayo are waiting in the gym until I tell them to go. Call me if you spot the van.’

Mercifully, the unknown number that kept pestering Strike appeared to have given up. He drove as fast as he could without incurring a speeding ticket in the direction of Notting Hill, trying to guess where the Franks might attempt to grab Tasha Mayo, and was ten minutes from her house, the sun now setting in earnest, when Barclay called.

‘They’re here,’ he said. ‘Parked in that cul-de-sac two blocks away from the gym. They’ve got their fuckin’ balaclavas on.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Opposite pavement, fifty yards down.’

‘All right, I’m going to call Midge and get back to you.’