The Cuckoo's Calling(60)

“Can you spell it?”

Wilson did so, and Strike wrote it down.

“When’s the last time she was there, Derrick?”

“Back in early November,” said Wilson. “(Yeah, good evenin’.) I gotta go now.”

He put the receiver down on Strike’s thanks, and the detective returned to his can of Tennent’s and his contemplation of modern day-wear, as envisaged by Guy Somé, in particular a hooded zip-up jacket with a stylized GS in gold on the upper left-hand side. The logo was much in evidence on all the ready-to-wear clothing in the menswear section of the designer’s website. Strike was not entirely clear on the definition of “ready-to-wear”; it seemed a statement of the obvious, though whatever else the phrase might connote, it meant “cheaper.” The second section of the site, named simply “Guy Somé,” contained clothing that routinely ran into thousands of pounds. Despite Robin’s best endeavors, the designer of these maroon suits, these narrow knitted ties, these minidresses embroidered with mirror fragments, these leather fedoras, was continuing to turn a corporate deaf ear to all requests for an interview concerning the death of his favorite model.





4



You think i wont f*cking hurt you but your wrong you cunt I am comming for you I f*cking trusted you and you did this to me. I am going to pull your f*cking dick off and stuff it down you throat They will find you chocking on your own dick when ive finish with you your own mother wont no you i am going to f*cking kill you Strike you peice of shit



“It’s a nice day out there.”

“Will you please read this? Please?”

It was Monday morning, and Strike had just returned from a smoke in the sunny street and a chat with the girl from the record shop opposite. Robin’s hair was loose again; she obviously had no more interviews today. This deduction, and the effects of sunlight after rain, combined to lift Strike’s spirits. Robin, however, looked strained, standing behind her desk and holding out a pink piece of paper embellished with the usual kittens.

“Still at it, is he?”

Strike took the letter and read it through, grinning.

“I don’t understand why you aren’t going to the police,” said Robin. “The things he’s saying he wants to do to you…”

“Just file it,” said Strike dismissively, tossing the letter down and rifling through the rest of the paltry pile of mail.

“Yes, well, that’s not all,” said Robin, clearly annoyed by his attitude. “Temporary Solutions have just called.”

“Yeah? What did they want?”

“They asked for me,” said Robin. “They obviously suspect I’m still here.”

“And what did you say?”

“I pretended to be somebody else.”

“Quick thinking. Who?”

“I said my name was Annabel.”

“When asked to come up with a fake name on the spot, people usually choose one beginning with ‘A,’ did you know that?”

“But what if they send somebody to check?”

“Well?”

“It’s you they’ll try and get money from, not me! They’ll try and make you pay a recruitment fee!”

He smiled at her genuine anxiety that he would have to pay money he could not afford. He had been intending to ask her to telephone the office of Freddie Bestigui again, and to begin a search through online telephone directories for Rochelle Onifade’s Kilburn-based aunt. Instead he said:

“OK, we’ll vacate the premises. I was going to check out a place called Vashti this morning, before I meet Bristow. Maybe it’d look more natural if we both went.”

“Vashti? The boutique?” said Robin, at once.

“Yeah. You know it, do you?”

It was Robin’s turn to smile. She had read about it in magazines: it epitomized London glamour to her; a place where fashion editors found items of fabulous clothing to show their readers, pieces that would have cost Robin six months’ salary.

“I know of it,” she said.

He took down her trench coat and handed it to her.

“We’ll pretend you’re my sister, Annabel. You can be helping me pick out a present for my wife.”

“What’s the death-threat man’s problem?” asked Robin, as they sat side by side on the Tube. “Who is he?”

She had suppressed her curiosity about Jonny Rokeby, and about the dark beauty who had fled Strike’s building on her first day at work, and the camp bed they never mentioned; but she was surely entitled to ask questions about the death threats. It was she, after all, who had so far slit open three pink envelopes, and read the unpleasant and violent outpourings scrawled between gamboling kittens. Strike never even looked at them.

“He’s called Brian Mathers,” said Strike. “He came to see me last June because he thought his wife was sleeping around. He wanted her followed, so I put her under surveillance for a month. Very ordinary woman: plain, frumpy, bad perm; worked in the accounts department of a big carpet warehouse. Spent her weekdays in a poky little office with three female colleagues, went to bingo every Thursday, did the weekly shop on Fridays at Tesco, and on Saturdays went to the local Rotary Club with her husband.”

“When did he think she was sleeping around?” asked Robin.