Jimmy, however, was still in full flow.

“This so-called celebration of the Olympic spirit, of fair play and amateurism is normalizing repression and authoritarianism! Wake up: London’s being militarized! The British state, which has honed the tactics of colonization and invasion for centuries, has seized on the Olympics as the perfect excuse to deploy police, army, helicopters and guns against ordinary citizens! One thousand extra CCTV cameras—extra laws hurried through—and you think they’ll be repealed when this carnival of capitalism moves on?”

“Join us!” shouted Jimmy, as the community center worker edged along the wall towards the front of the hall, nervous but determined. “CORE is part of a broader global justice movement that meets repression with resistance! We’re making common cause with all leftist, anti-oppressive movements across the capital! We’re going to be staging lawful demonstrations and using every tool of peaceful protest still permitted to us in what is rapidly becoming an occupied city!”

More applause followed, though the elderly couple beside Strike seemed thoroughly miserable.

“All right, all right, I know,” added Jimmy to the community center worker, who had now reached the front of the audience and was gesturing timidly. “They want us out,” Jimmy told the crowd, smirking and shaking his head. “Of course they do. Of course.”

A few people hissed at the community center worker.

“Anyone who wants to hear more,” said Jimmy, “we’ll be in the pub down the road. Address on your leaflets!”

Most of the crowd applauded. The plainclothes policeman got to his feet. The elderly couple was already scuttling towards the door.

6

I… have the reputation of being a wicked fanatic, I am told.

Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm

Chairs clattered, bags were hoisted onto shoulders. The bulk of the audience began to head for the doors at the back, but some appeared reluctant to leave. Strike took a few steps towards Jimmy, hoping to talk to him, but was outpaced by the young Asian man, who was striding jerkily towards the activist with an air of nervous determination. Jimmy exchanged a few more words with the man from the Workers’ Alliance, then noticed the newcomer, bade Walter goodbye and moved forward with every appearance of goodwill to speak to what he clearly assumed was a convert.

As soon as the Asian man began to speak, however, Jimmy’s expression clouded. As they talked in low voices in the middle of the rapidly emptying room, Flick and a cluster of young people loitered nearby, waiting for Jimmy. They seemed to consider themselves above manual labor. The community center worker cleared away chairs alone.

“Let me do that,” Strike offered, taking three from her and ignoring the sharp twinge in his knee as he hoisted them onto a tall stack.

“Thanks very much,” she panted. “I don’t think we’ll be letting this lot—”

She allowed Walter and a few others to pass before continuing. None of them thanked her.

“—use the center again,” she finished resentfully. “I didn’t realize what they were all about. Their leaflet’s on about civil disobedience and I don’t know what else.”

“Pro-Olympics, are you?” Strike asked, placing a chair onto a pile.

“My granddaughter’s in a running club,” she said. “We got tickets. She can’t wait.”

Jimmy was still locked in conversation with the young Asian man. A minor argument seemed to have developed. Jimmy seemed tense, his eyes shifting constantly around the room, either seeking an escape or checking that nobody else was within earshot. The hall was emptying. The two men began to move towards the exit. Strike strained his ears to hear what they were saying to each other, but the clumping footsteps of Jimmy’s acolytes on the wooden floor obliterated all but a few words.

“… for years, mate, all right?” Jimmy was saying angrily. “So do whatever the fuck you want, you’re the one who volunteered yourself…”

They passed out of earshot. Strike helped the community center volunteer stack the last of the chairs and, as she turned off the light, asked for directions to the White Horse.

Five minutes later, and in spite of his recent resolution to eat more healthily, Strike bought a bag of chips at a takeaway and proceeded along White Horse Road, at the end of which he had been told he would find the eponymous pub.

As he ate, Strike pondered the best way to open conversation with Jimmy Knight. As the reaction of the elderly Che Guevara fan on the door had shown, Strike’s current attire did not tend to foster trust with anti-capitalist protestors. Jimmy had the air of an experienced hard-left activist and was probably anticipating official interest in his activities in the highly charged atmosphere preceding the opening of the Games. Indeed, Strike could see the nondescript, blue-eyed man walking behind Jimmy, hands in his jean pockets. Strike’s first job would be to reassure Jimmy that he was not there to investigate CORE.

The White Horse turned out to be an ugly prefabricated building, which stood on a busy junction facing a large park. A white war memorial with neatly ranged poppy wreaths at its base rose like an eternal reproach to the outside drinking area opposite, where old cigarette butts lay thickly on cracked concrete riven with weeds. Drinkers were milling around the front of the pub, all smoking. Strike spotted Jimmy, Flick and several others standing in a group in front of a window that was decorated with an enormous West Ham banner. The tall young Asian man was nowhere to be seen, but the plainclothes policeman loitered alone on the periphery of their group.

Strike went inside to fetch a pint. The décor inside the pub consisted mostly of Cross of St. George flags and more West Ham paraphernalia. Having bought a pint of John Smith’s, Strike returned to the forecourt, lit a fresh cigarette and advanced on the group around Jimmy. He was at Flick’s shoulder before they realized that the large stranger in a suit wanted something from them. All talk ceased as suspicion flared on every face.

“Hi,” said Strike, “my name’s Cormoran Strike. Any chance of a quick word, Jimmy? It’s about Billy.”

“Billy?” repeated Jimmy sharply. “Why?”

“I met him yesterday. I’m a private detect—”

“Chizzle’s sent him!” gasped Flick, turning, frightened, to Jimmy.

“’K’up!” he growled.

While the rest of the group surveyed Strike with a mixture of curiosity and hostility, Jimmy beckoned to Strike to follow him to the edge of the crowd. To Strike’s surprise, Flick tagged along. Men with buzz cuts and West Ham tops nodded at the activist as he passed. Jimmy came to a halt beside two old white bollards topped by horse heads, checked that nobody else was within earshot, then addressed Strike.

“What did you say your name was again?”

“Cormoran, Cormoran Strike. Is Billy your brother?”

“Younger brother, yeah,” said Jimmy. “Did you say he came to see you?”

“Yep. Yesterday afternoon.”

“You’re a private—?”

“Detective. Yes.”

Strike saw dawning recognition in Flick’s eyes. She had a plump, pale face that would have been innocent without the savage eyeliner and the uncombed tomato-red hair. She turned quickly to Jimmy again.