William and Kate are engaged,' said Robin.
Who?'
Prince William,' said Robin, amused, and Kate Middleton.'
Oh,' said Strike coldly. Good for them.'
He had been among the ranks of the engaged himself until a few months ago. He did not know how his ex-fiancée's new engagement was proceeding, nor did he enjoy wondering when it was going to end. (Not as theirs had ended, of course, with her clawing her betrothed's face and revealing her betrayal, but with the kind of wedding he could never have given her; more like the one William and Kate would no doubt soon enjoy.)
Robin judged it safe to break the moody silence only once Strike had had half a mug of tea.
Lucy called just before you came down, to remind you about your birthday dinner on Saturday night, and to ask whether you want to bring anyone.'
Strike's spirits slipped several more notches. He had forgotten all about the dinner at his sister's house.
Right,' he said heavily.
Is it your birthday on Saturday?' Robin asked.
No,' said Strike.
When is it?'
He sighed. He did not want a cake, a card or presents, but her expression was expectant.
Tuesday,' he said.
The twenty-third?'
Yeah.'
After a short pause, it occurred to him that he ought to reciprocate.
And when's yours?' Something in her hesitation unnerved him. Christ, it's not today, is it?'
She laughed.
No, it's gone. October the ninth. It's all right, it was a Saturday,' she said, still smiling at his pained expression. I wasn't sitting here all day expecting flowers.'
He grinned back. Feeling he ought to make a little extra effort, because he had missed her birthday and never considered finding out when it was, he added:
Good thing you and Matthew haven't set a date yet. At least you won't clash with the Royal Wedding.'
Oh,' said Robin, blushing, we have set a date.'
You have?'
Yes,' said Robin. It's the – the eighth of January. I've got your invitation here,' she said, stooping hurriedly over her bag (she had not even asked Matthew about inviting Strike, but too late for that). Here.'
The eighth of January?' Strike said, taking the silver envelope. That's only – what? – seven weeks away.'
Yes,' said Robin.
There was a strange little pause. Strike could not remember immediately what else he wanted her to do; then it came back to him, and as he spoke he tapped the silver envelope against his palm, businesslike.
How's it going with the Hiltons?'
I've done a few. Quine isn't there under his own name and nobody's recognised the description. There are loads of them, though, so I'm just working my way through the list. What are you up to after you see Elizabeth Tassel?' she asked casually.
Pretending I want to buy a flat in Mayfair. Looks like somebody's husband's trying to realise some capital and take it offshore before his wife's lawyers can stop him.
Well,' he said, pushing the unopened wedding invitation deep into his overcoat pocket, better be off. Got a bad author to find.'
8
I took the book and so the old man vanished.
John Lyly, Endymion: or, the Man in the Moon
It occurred to Strike as he travelled, standing, the one Tube stop to Elizabeth Tassel's office (he was never fully relaxed on these short journeys, but braced to take the strain on his false leg, wary of falls) that Robin had not reproached him for taking on the Quine case. Not, of course, that it was her place to reproach her employer, but she had turned down a much higher salary to throw her lot in with his and it would not have been unreasonable for her to expect that once the debts were paid, a raise might be the least he could do for her. She was unusual in her lack of criticism, or critical silence; the only female in Strike's life who seemed to have no desire to improve or correct him. Women, in his experience, often expected you to understand that it was a measure of how much they loved you that they tried their damnedest to change you.
So she was marrying in seven weeks' time. Seven weeks left until she became Mrs Matthew … but if he had ever known her fiancé's surname, he could not recall it.
As he waited for the lift at Goodge Street, Strike experienced a sudden, crazy urge to call his divorcing brunette client – who had made it quite clear that she would welcome such a development – with a view to screwing her tonight in what he imagined would be her deep, soft, heavily perfumed bed in Knightsbridge. But the idea occurred only to be instantly dismissed. Such a move would be insanity; worse than taking on a missing-person case for which he was unlikely ever to see payment …
And why was he wasting time on Owen Quine? he asked himself, head bowed against the biting rain. Curiosity, he answered inwardly after a few moments' thought, and perhaps something more elusive. As he headed down Store Street, squinting through the downpour and concentrating on maintaining his footing on the slippery pavements, he reflected that his palate was in danger of becoming jaded by the endless variations on cupidity and vengefulness that his wealthy clients kept bringing him. It had been a long time since he had investigated a missing-person case. There would be satisfaction in restoring the runaway Quine to his family.
Elizabeth Tassel's literary agency lay in a mostly residential mews of dark brick, a surprisingly quiet cul-de-sac off busy Gower Street. Strike pressed a doorbell beside a discreet brass plaque. A light thumping sound ensued and a pale young man in an open-necked shirt opened the door at the foot of red-carpeted stairs.
Are you the private detective?' he asked with what seemed to be a mixture of trepidation and excitement. Strike followed him, dripping all over the threadbare carpet, up the stairs to a mahogany door and into a large office space that had once, perhaps, been a separate hall and sitting room.
Aged elegance was slowly disintegrating into shabbiness. The windows were misty with condensation and the air heavy with old cigarette smoke. A plethora of overstocked wooden bookcases lined the walls and the dingy wallpaper was almost obscured by framed literary caricatures and cartoons. Two heavy desks sat facing each other across a scuffed rug, but neither was occupied.
Can I take your coat?' the young man asked, and a thin and frightened-looking girl jumped up from behind one of the desks. She was holding a stained sponge in one hand.
I can't get it out, Ralph!' she whispered frantically to the young man with Strike.
Bloody thing,' Ralph muttered irritably. Elizabeth's decrepit old dog's puked under Sally's desk,' he confided, sotto voce, as he took Strike's sodden Crombie and hung it on a Victorian coat-stand just inside the door. I'll let her know you're here. Just keep scrubbing,' he advised his colleague as he crossed to a second mahogany door and opened it a crack.
That's Mr Strike, Liz.'
There was a loud bark, followed immediately by a deep, rattling human cough that could have plausibly issued from the lungs of an old coal miner.
Grab him,' said a hoarse voice.
The door to the agent's office opened, revealing Ralph, who was holding tight to the collar of an aged but evidently still feisty Dobermann pinscher, and a tall, thick-set woman of around sixty, with large, uncompromisingly plain features. The geometrically perfect steel-grey bob, a black suit of severe cut and a slash of crimson lipstick gave her a certain dash. She emanated that aura of grandeur that replaces sexual allure in the successful older woman.
You'd better take him out, Ralph,' said the agent, her olive-dark eyes on Strike. The rain was still pelting against the windows. And don't forget the poo bags, he's a bit soft today.
Come in, Mr Strike.'
Looking disgusted, her assistant dragged the big dog, with its head like a living Anubis, out of her office; as Strike and the Dobermann passed each other, it growled energetically.
Coffee, Sally,' the agent shot at the frightened-looking girl who had concealed her sponge. As she jumped up and vanished through a door behind her desk, Strike hoped she would wash her hands thoroughly before making drinks.
Elizabeth Tassel's stuffy office was a kind of concentration of the outer room: it stank of cigarettes and old dog. A tweed bed for the animal sat under her desk; the walls were plastered with old photographs and prints. Strike recognised one of the largest: a reasonably well-known and elderly writer of illustrated children's books called Pinkelman, whom he was not sure was still alive. After indicating wordlessly that Strike should take the seat opposite her, from which he had first to remove a stack of papers and old copies of the Bookseller, the agent took a cigarette from a box on the desk, lit it with an onyx lighter, inhaled deeply then broke into a protracted fit of rattling, wheezing coughs.
So,' she croaked when these had subsided and she had returned to the leather chair behind the desk, Christian Fisher tells me that Owen's put in another of his famous vanishing acts.'
That's right,' said Strike. He disappeared the night that you and he argued about his book.'
She began to speak, but the words disintegrated immediately into further coughs. Horrible, tearing noises issued from deep in her torso. Strike waited in silence for the fit to pass.
Sounds nasty,' he said at last, when she had coughed herself into silence again and, incredibly, taken another deep drag of her cigarette.
Flu,' she rasped. Can't shake it. When did Leonora come to you?'
The day before yesterday.'
Can she afford you?' she croaked. I wouldn't have thought you come cheap, the man who solved the Landry case.'
Mrs Quine suggested that you might pay me,' said Strike.
The coarse cheeks purpled and her dark eyes, watery from so much coughing, narrowed.