Chapter Text
The call went to voicemail again, and Robin hung up. Finding Bear's office number by googling "private detective denmark street" had been easy, but now she couldn't think of a sensible message to leave. He had to pick up.
On her fifth attempt the call connected, and a gruff voice said, "Strike".
"Is that," Robin faltered, "the detective?"
"That's me. What can I do for you?"
"I ... I have something for you. It's about Lula Landry."
Dead silence - she couldn't even hear him breathe.
"Who is this?"
This was it.
"You picked me up at Uzi. Please - can we meet?"
*
Strike's blood boiled throughout the journey to Oxford. Just what he needed - a bloody dilettante.
"You need to stay out of this, Miss."
"But -"
"I know you think you're helping, but you're an amateur."
"Look -"
"And this is a dangerous case -"
She'd almost shouted to interrupt him.
"I'm talking about a trade."
As if she had something. He knew she didn't. She was a Landry fan with theories, most likely, and it wasn't theories he was lacking.
Still, her final words before he hung up bothered him.
"In return for what I have, I want you to stop following me."
*
Robin's sang froid was in danger of melting away.
Perhaps this "Strike" was right. She was a disruption. What had she actually achieved with this messing around, trying to be clever?
Laura had called the burner phone moments after the photos arrived. A real detective would never have spoken first, but Robin had done it without thinking. Her friend's Hiya, Robin! had been dry and amused.
And now she was back here, despite being warned off. Was some kind of instinct telling her to come, or was it just stupidity?
12:03. The woman she'd been waiting for emerged.
"Rochelle?"
*
Strike arrived in Franklin Row a little before dusk, his leg protesting at a day that had seen him travel from London to Oxford and back again, trapse up and down unforgiving corridors at the School of Oriental and African Studies and finally called him out to Chelsea to see his client.
Bristow wasn't there, so he sat with Lady Bristow until a text came to say that he was still 15 minutes away, would Strike wait?
The walk-in wardrobe was stuffed with clobber, and it took him half the allotted time to find a cluster of brand new handbags.
*
All Robin's anxiety turned out to be unnecessary. Mentally crossing her fingers, she'd squealed, "You're Lula's friend!" and thrust Lula: Death in Fashion by Dominic Culpepper in front of Rochelle, who gaped, then rallied and signed it with a flourish, unwittingly confirming her connection to the case.
After that, persuading Rochelle to hang out was easy.
Robin let her companion talk freely about herself while she tried to work out how to leverage this advance. Then Rochelle's pink phone burst to life, and her face changed. Gone was her open and friendly look, replaced by a knowing sneer of avarice.
*
Strike staggered onto the pavement and thrust some notes at the taxi driver. Ahead, striding up the approach to Hammersmith Bridge, he could see a slender figure, collar turned up, an unnecessary scarf wrapped around his face and hat pulled down over his ears. He couldn't see her, but he knew that somewhere on the bridge a woman was waiting.
Bristow had found Strike sitting with his mother, chatting amiably. It should have been plain-sailing, but he was too exhausted to recognise Bristow's intensity, too far gone to craft an instant lie.
"Have you found Rochelle?"
"Yeah, I think so."
*
Robin came to an immense scrolled and plumed anchorage and saw Rochelle Onifade pass the first tower and pause. Traffic on the central section of the bridge thundered past as Robin tucked herself into a recess.
Someone overtook her - his half-hidden face so pale she almost mistook it for a mask. She peeped out and from the corner of her eye, saw Strike thirty yards behind. His features were contorted with pain and he was dragging his right leg, but his eyes were fixed on the pale man.
Rochelle's feet were already off the ground when Robin barged him down.
*
Strike sat awkwardly in the back of the ambulance, wishing he had a drink strong enough to banish all thoughts about what could have been. If he hadn't gotten the licence plate number as Bristow's taxi sped away ... if Wardle hadn't agreed to assist ... if Goldilocks hadn't followed Rochelle ...
Then a rustling announced she was there, with Eric Wardle's leather jacket draped over her shoulders (which Strike found annoying), looking pleased with herself (ditto).
"I wasn't following you."
"Oh?"
"Marcus Hooley."
"Oh."
"You ... did well."
Her smile warmed him like whisky.
What was he doing?
"Do you want a job?"