Page 38 of The Running Grave

The second man turned back to Will and delivered what looked like a lecture, through which Will nodded mechanically without making eye contact. Robin yearned to get close enough to hear what was going on, but dared not make herself recognisable to either of them. Before the lecture had finished, Frank One emerged from the comic-book shop, and Robin had no choice but to follow.

14

Nine in the second place means:

Penetration under the bed.

Priests and magicians are used in great number.

The I Ching or Book of Changes

The Westminster Arms, where Strike had agreed to meet journalist Fergus Robertson, lay close beside Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament. As Strike walked towards the pub he felt small twinges of pain emanating from the back of his stump. Although his hamstring had previously been torn, it hadn’t given any trouble for the last few months, largely because it was being asked to support a lot less weight. He knew exactly what had caused this mild recurrence of symptoms: the necessity of holding up Bijou Watkins, who’d expressed a loud and drunken preference for being nailed up against the bedroom wall the moment they’d entered her flat on Saturday night.

The pain in his leg turned his thoughts back to that evening. He supposed two and a half hours of mindless conversation had been justified in light of the ten minutes of frills-free sex that had followed. She’d looked better than she felt – her impressive breasts, as he’d discovered in the bedroom, were fake – but the upside of finding her obnoxious was a total absence of guilt about his lack of response to the three texts she’d sent him since, all of which had been strewn with emojis. His oldest friend, Dave Polworth, would have called that breaking even, and Strike was inclined to agree.

On entering the Westminster Arms, Strike spotted Fergus Robertson, who he’d Googled earlier, sitting in a corner at a table for two, typing on a laptop. A short, rotund and almost entirely bald man whose shining pate reflected the light hanging over the table, Robertson was currently in his shirtsleeves, vigorously chewing gum as he worked. Strike fetched himself a drink, noting a junior minister at the bar, before heading for Robertson, who kept typing until Strike arrived at the table.

‘Ah,’ said the journalist, looking up. ‘The famous detective.’

‘And the fearless reporter,’ said Strike, sitting down.

They shook hands across the table, Robertson’s curious blue eyes scanning Strike. He gave off an air of rough good humour. A pack of Nicorette chewing gum lay beside the laptop.

‘You know Dominic Culpepper, I hear,’ Robertson said, referring to a journalist who Strike disliked.

‘I do, yeah. He’s a tit.’

Robertson laughed.

‘I heard you shagged his cousin.’

‘Can’t remember that,’ lied Strike.

‘Got a view on Brexit?’

‘None whatsoever,’ said Strike.

‘Shame,’ said Robertson. ‘I need another three hundred words.’

He flipped down the screen on his laptop.

‘So… going after the UHC, are you?’ Robertson sat back in his chair, still chewing, lacing his short fingers together over a large beer belly. ‘Do I get exclusive rights to the story if you find a body under the temple floor?’

‘Can’t guarantee that,’ said Strike.

‘Then what’s in it for me?’

‘The satisfaction of a good turn done,’ said Strike.

‘Do I look like a Boy Scout?’

‘If I find out anything newsworthy that doesn’t compromise my client,’ said Strike, who’d anticipated this conversation, ‘you can have it.’

‘I’ll hold you to that,’ said Robertson, unlacing his fingers to pop another piece of nicotine gum out of its packet, shoving it in his mouth and then drinking more beer.

‘You haven’t been scared off writing about them, then?’ said Strike.

‘Not if you can get me some solid information. They’re a bunch of cunts. I’d be fucking delighted to help bring them down.’