Career of Evil (Cormoran Strike #3)(104)
In a different mood—or, perhaps, in a different life—Robin might have found the way they talked about the women funny. So many of the men handing over cash for sex needed to believe that the women’s enthusiasm was real, that they took their time for pleasure, that they were really laughing at punters’ jokes, genuinely enjoying the body-to-body massages and the hand jobs. One reviewer had posted a poem about his favorite girl.
Even as she diligently compiled her list of numbers, Robin thought it unlikely that Brockbank, with his insalubrious record, would have been hired by any of the more upmarket places, whose websites featured artistically lit, airbrushed naked girls and invitations for couples to attend together.
Brothels, Robin knew, were illegal, but you did not have to travel too far into cyberspace to find mention of them. She had become adept at nosing information from out-of-the-way corners of the internet since going to work for Strike and was soon painstakingly cross-referencing mentions of local establishments on ramshackle sites dedicated to the exchange of such information. Here, at the cheapest end of the market, there were no poems: “￡60 for anal going rate round here.” “All forigen girls, no english.” “Very young probably still clean. Wouldn put your dick in some of wht you see.”
Often, only an approximate location was available. She knew that Strike would not let her go looking for any of these basements and tenements where “mostly east european grils” or “all Chinese tail” were working.
Taking a break and subconsciously hoping to loosen the tight knot in her chest, she looked up at the television. Princes William and Harry were walking up the aisle together. As Robin watched, the door to the sitting room opened and Matthew walked in, carrying a mug of tea. He had not offered to make her one. He sat down in the armchair, saying nothing, and stared at the television screen.
Robin returned to her work, hyperconscious of Matthew beside her. Joining her without talking was a departure. Acceptance of her separateness—not interrupting her, even with the offer of tea—was also new. So was the fact that he did not pick up the remote control and change the channel.
The cameras returned to the outside of the Goring Hotel, where they were keeping vigil for the first glimpse of Kate Middleton in her wedding dress. Robin took covert glimpses over the top of her laptop while scrolling slowly down a series of barely literate comments about a brothel near Commercial Road.
An outburst of excitable comment and cheering made Robin look up in time to see Kate Middleton climbing into a limousine. Long lace sleeves, just like the ones she had removed from her own wedding dress…
The limousine moved slowly away. Kate Middleton was just visible beside her father in the car. So she had chosen to wear her hair down. Robin had planned to keep her hair down too. Matthew liked it that way. Not that that mattered anymore…
The crowds were cheering all the way down the Mall, Union Jacks as far as the eye could see.
As Matthew turned towards her, Robin pretended to be immersed in her laptop again.
“D’you want tea?”
“No,” she said. “Thanks,” she added grudgingly, aware how aggressive she had sounded.
Her mobile beeped beside her. Matthew often scowled or sulked when this happened on her days off: he expected it to be Strike, which it sometimes was. Today he merely turned back to watch the television.
Robin picked up her mobile and read the text that had just arrived:
How do I know you’re not press?
It was the lead she was pursuing without Strike’s knowledge and she had her answer ready. While the crowds cheered the limousine’s slow progress on screen, she typed in:
If the press knew about you, they’d already be outside your house. I told you to look me up online. There’s a picture of me going into court to give evidence in Owen Quine’s murder case.
Have you found it?
She put the mobile down again, her heart beating faster.
Kate Middleton was getting out of her limousine at the Abbey. Her waist looked tiny in the lace dress. She looked so happy… genuinely happy… Robin’s heart hammered as she watched the beautiful woman in a tiara proceed towards the Abbey entrance.
Her mobile beeped again.
Yes I’ve seen the picture. So?
Matthew made a peculiar noise into his mug of tea. Robin ignored him. He probably thought that she was texting Strike, usually the cause of his little grimaces and noises of exasperation. Switching her mobile to camera mode, Robin held it up in front of her face and took a photo.
The flash startled Matthew, who looked around. He was crying.
Robin’s fingers trembled as she sent the photograph of herself off in a text. After that, not wanting to look at Matthew, she watched the television again.
Kate Middleton and her father were now walking slowly up the scarlet-carpeted aisle that divided a sea of hatted guests. The culmination of a million fairy tales and fables was being played out in front of her: the commoner walking slowly towards her prince, beauty moving inexorably towards high rank…
Against her will, Robin remembered the night that Matthew had proposed under the statue of Eros at Piccadilly Circus. There had been tramps sitting on the steps, jeering as Matthew sank to his knees. She had been caught completely off guard by that unexpected scene on the grimy steps, Matthew risking his best suit on the damp, dirty stone, alcoholic fumes wafting towards them over the smell of exhaust fumes: the little blue velvet box and then the winking sapphire, smaller and paler than Kate Middleton’s. Matthew later told her he’d chosen it because it matched her eyes. One of the tramps had got to his feet and applauded drunkenly when she said yes. She remembered the flashing neon lights of Piccadilly reflected on Matthew’s beaming face.