Page 52 of The Running Grave

‘Great,’ said Strike. ‘With luck, they can confirm their own and each other’s assaults – oh, here he comes.’

‘Who?’

‘One of the Franks. I can’t tell them apart.’

‘Frank One’s got a bit of a squint and Frank Two’s balder.’

‘It’s Two, then,’ said Strike, watching the man. ‘Hope he’s heading for central London, otherwise I’ll have to get Dev to take over from me early. I’m interviewing the Facebook friend of housing heiress Flora Brewster at six. He called me last night.’

‘Oh, great. Where are you meeting him?’

‘The Grenadier pub, Belgravia,’ said Strike, setting off after his target, who was heading for the station. ‘His choice. Apparently it’s near his place of work. He also claims we’ve got a mutual friend.’

‘Probably a client,’ said Robin. The number of very rich Londoners who’d come to the agency for help had been steadily increasing, year on year, and they’d recently done jobs for a couple of billionaires.

‘So that’s all Sheila said, is it?’ asked Strike.

‘Er – yes, I think so,’ said Robin. ‘I’ll write up my notes and email them to you.’

‘Great. Well, I’d better go, we’re heading for a train. Safe travels.’

‘OK, bye,’ said Robin, and hung up.

She sat for a moment, contemplating the last bit of her sandwich, which was very dry, before putting it back into its paper bag and reaching instead for a yoghurt and a plastic spoon. Her slight hesitation before answering Strike’s last question was due to the fact that she’d omitted mention of his presence at the Aylmerton Community as a boy. Robin assumed that Strike didn’t want to talk about that, given that he hadn’t revealed it himself.

Unaware how close he’d come to a conversation he definitely didn’t want to have, Strike spent the journey into London feeling slightly less disgruntled at the world after restoring friendly relations with Robin. His mood was further elevated, though for less sentimental reasons, when Frank Two led him to Notting Hill, then made his way to the very terrace of pastel-coloured houses where their client, actress Tasha Mayo, lived.

‘He’s been skulking behind parked cars, looking up at her windows,’ Strike told Dev Shah an hour later, when the latter turned up to take over surveillance. ‘I’ve taken a few pictures. He hasn’t glued up any keyholes yet.’

‘Probably waiting for night time,’ said Shah. ‘More romantic.’

‘Have you spoken to Littlejohn lately?’ Strike asked.

‘“Spoken”,’ repeated Shah, musingly. ‘No, I don’t think you could call it speaking. Why?’

‘What d’you think of him?’ said Strike. ‘Off the record?’

‘Weird,’ said Shah flatly, looking directly at his boss.

‘Yeah, I’m starting to—’

‘Here she is,’ said Shah.

The door of the actress’s house had opened and a slight, short-haired blonde stepped out onto the pavement, a holdall over her shoulder. She set off at a brisk walk in the direction of the Tube, reading something off her phone as she went. The younger Frank took off in pursuit, his mobile raised: he seemed to be filming her.

‘Creepy fucker,’ were Shah’s last words before setting off, leaving Strike free to proceed to the Grenadier.

Henry Worthington-Fields’ chosen venue for his meeting with Strike was a pub the detective had visited years previously, because it had been a favourite of Charlotte’s and her well-heeled friends. The smartly painted frontage was red, white and blue; flower baskets hung beside the windows and a scarlet guard’s box stood outside the door.

The interior was exactly as Strike remembered it: military prints and paintings on the walls, highly polished tables, red leather benches and hundreds of banknotes in different currencies pinned up on the ceiling. The pub was supposed to be haunted by a soldier who’d been beaten to death after being discovered cheating at cards. The money left by visitors was to pay the ghost’s debt, but this hadn’t worked, as the spectral soldier continued to haunt the pub – or so the tourist-friendly story went.

Aside from a couple of Germans, who were discussing the banknotes on the ceiling, the clientele was English, the men mostly dressed in suits or the kinds of coloured chinos favoured by the upper classes, the women in smart dresses or jeans. Strike ordered himself a pint of zero-alcohol beer and sat down to drink it while reading Fergus Robertson’s article about the forthcoming Brexit referendum off his phone, glancing up regularly to see whether his interviewee had yet arrived.

Strike guessed Henry Worthington-Fields’ identity as soon as he entered the pub, mainly because he had the wary look common to those about to speak to a private detective. Henry was thirty-four years old, though he looked younger. Tall, thin and pale, with a mop of wavy red hair, he wore horn-rimmed glasses, a well-tailored, single-breasted pin-striped suit and a flamboyant red tie patterned with horseshoes. He looked as though he worked either in an art gallery, or as a salesman of luxury goods, either of which would have fitted with the Belgravia location.

Having bought himself what looked like a gin and tonic, Henry peered at Strike for a second or two, then approached his table.

‘Cormoran Strike?’ His voice was upper class and very slightly camp.