Career of Evil (Cormoran Strike #3)(119)

“Bit rock ’n’ roll for a wedding,” said Strike. “I thought they’d be… I dunno… flowery.”

“You’ll hardly see them,” she said, stroking one of the stilettos with a forefinger. “They had some platforms, but—”

She did not finish the sentence. The truth was that Matthew did not like her too tall.

“So how are we going to handle Jason and Tempest?” she said, pushing the lid back down on the shoes and replacing them in the bag.

“You’re going to take the lead,” said Strike. “You’re the one who’s had contact with them. I’ll jump in if necessary.”

“You realize,” said Robin awkwardly, “that Jason’s going to ask you about your leg? That he thinks you—you lied about how you lost it?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“OK. I just don’t want you to get offended or anything.”

“I think I can handle it,” said Strike, amused by her look of concern. “I’m not going to hit him, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

“Well, good,” said Robin, “because from his pictures you’d probably break him in two.”

They walked side by side up the King’s Road, Strike smoking, to the place where the entrance to the gallery sat a little retired from the road, behind the statue of a bewigged and stockinged Sir Hans Sloane. Passing through an arch in the pale brick wall, they entered a grassy square that might, but for the noise of the busy street behind them, have belonged to a country estate. Nineteenth-century buildings on three sides surrounded the square. Ahead, contained in what might once have been barracks, was Gallery Mess.

Strike, who had vaguely imagined a canteen tacked on to the gallery, now realized that he was entering a far more upmarket space and remembered with some misgivings both his overdraft and his agreement to pay for what was almost certainly going to be lunch for four.

The room they entered was long and narrow, with a second, wider area visible through arched openings to their left. White tablecloths, suited waiters, high-vaulted ceilings and contemporary art all over the walls increased Strike’s dread of how much this was going to cost him as they followed the ma?tre d’ into the inner portion of the room.

The pair they sought was easy to spot among the tastefully dressed, mostly female clientele. Jason was a stringy youth with a long nose who wore a maroon hoodie and jeans and looked as though he might take flight at the slightest provocation. Staring down at his napkin, he resembled a scruffy heron. Tempest, whose black bob had certainly been dyed and who wore thick, square black-rimmed spectacles, was his physical opposite: pale, dumpy and doughy, her small, deep-set eyes like raisins in a bun. Wearing a black T-shirt with a multicolored cartoon pony stretched across an ample chest, she was sitting in a wheelchair adjacent to the table. Both had menus open in front of them. Tempest had already ordered herself a glass of wine.

When she spotted Strike and Robin approaching, Tempest beamed, stretched out a stubby forefinger and poked Jason on the shoulder. The boy looked around apprehensively; Strike registered the pronounced asymmetry of his pale blue eyes, one of which was a good centimeter higher than the other. It gave him an oddly vulnerable look, as though he had been finished in a hurry.

“Hi,” said Robin, smiling and reaching out a hand to Jason first. “It’s nice to meet you at last.”

“Hi,” he muttered, proffering limp fingers. After one quick glance at Strike he looked away, turning red.

“Well, hello!” said Tempest, sticking her own hand out to Strike, still beaming. Deftly she reversed her wheelchair a few inches and suggested that he pull up a chair from a neighboring table. “This place is great. It’s so easy to get around in, and the staff are really helpful. Excuse me!” she said loudly to a passing waiter, “Could we have two more menus, please?”

Strike sat down beside her, while Jason shunted up to make room for Robin beside him.

“Lovely space, isn’t it?” said Tempest, sipping her wine. “And the staff are wonderful about the wheelchair. Can’t help you enough. I’m going to be recommending it on my site; I do a list of disability-friendly venues.”

Jason drooped over his menu, apparently afraid to make eye contact with anyone.

“I’ve told him not to mind what he orders.” Tempest told Strike comfortably. “He didn’t realize how much you’ll have made from solving those cases. I’ve told him: the press will have paid you loads just for your story. I suppose that’s what you do now, try and solve the really high-profile ones?”

Strike thought of his plummeting bank balance, his glorified bedsit over the office and the shattering effect the severed leg had had on his business.

“We try,” he said, avoiding looking at Robin.

Robin chose the cheapest salad and a water. Tempest ordered a starter as well as a main course, urged Jason to imitate her, then collected in the menus to return them to the waiter with the air of a gracious hostess.

“So, Jason,” Robin began.

Tempest at once talked over Robin, addressing Strike.

“Jason’s nervous. He hadn’t really thought through what the repercussions of meeting you might be. I had to point them out to him; we’ve been on the phone day and night, you should see the bills—I should charge you, ha, ha! But seriously—”