“Wondered if you were free to do a job for us,” said Culpepper.

You’ve got a fucking nerve.

“What kind of thing’re you after?”

“Digging up dirt on a government minister.”

“Which one?”

“You’ll know if you take the job.”

“I’m pretty stretched just now. What kind of dirt are we talking?”

“That’s what we need you to find out.”

“How do you know there’s dirt there?”

“A well-placed source,” said Culpepper.

“Why do you need me if there’s a well-placed source?”

“He’s not ready to talk. He just hinted that there are beans to be spilled. Lots of them.”

“Sorry, can’t do it, Culpepper,” said Strike. “I’m booked solid.”

“Sure? We’re paying good money, Strike.”

“I’m not doing too badly these days,” said the detective, lighting a second cigarette from the tip of his first.

“No, I’ll bet you aren’t, you jammy bastard,” said Culpepper. “All right, it’ll have to be Patterson. D’you know him?”

“The ex-Met guy? Run across him a couple of times,” said Strike.

The call finished with mutually insincere good wishes, leaving Strike with an increased feeling of foreboding. He Googled Culpepper’s name and found his byline on a story about the Level Playing Field from two weeks previously.

Of course, it was possible that more than one government minister was currently in danger of being exposed by the Sun for an offense against public taste or morals, but the fact that Culpepper had recently been in close proximity with the Winns strongly suggested Robin had been right in suspecting Geraint of tipping off the Sun, and that it was Chiswell whom Patterson would shortly be investigating.

Strike wondered whether Culpepper knew that he, Strike, was already working for Chiswell, whether his call had been designed to startle information out of the detective, but it seemed unlikely. The newspaperman would have been very stupid to tell Strike whom he was about to hire, if he was aware that Strike was already in the minister’s pay.

Strike knew of Mitch Patterson by reputation: they had twice been hired by different halves of divorcing couples in the last year. Previously a senior officer in the Metropolitan Police who had “taken early retirement,” Patterson was prematurely silver-haired and had the face of an angry pug. Though personally unpleasant, or so Eric Wardle had told Strike, Patterson was a man who “got results.”

“Course, he won’t be able to kick the shit out of people in his new career,” Wardle had commented, “so that’s one useful tool in his arsenal gone.”

Strike didn’t much relish the thought that Patterson would shortly be on the case. Picking up his mobile again, he noted that neither Robin nor Barclay had called in an update within the last twelve hours. Only the previous day, he had had to reassure Chiswell, who had called to express his doubts about Robin, given her lack of results thus far.

Frustrated by his employees and his own incapacity, Strike texted Robin and Barclay the same message:

Sun just tried to hire me to investigate Chiswell. Call with update asap. Need usable info NOW.

Pulling his crutches back towards him, he got up to examine the contents of his fridge and kitchen cupboards, discovering that he would be eating nothing but tinned soup for the next four meals unless he made a trip to the supermarket. After pouring spoiled milk down the sink, he made himself a mug of black tea and returned to the Formica table, where he lit a third cigarette and contemplated, without pleasure, the prospect of doing his hamstring stretches.

His phone rang again. Seeing that it was Lucy, he let it go to voicemail. The last thing he needed right now was updates on the school board’s last meeting.

A few minutes after that, when Strike was in the bathroom, she called back. He had hopped back into the kitchen with his trousers at half-mast, in the hope that it was either Robin or Barclay. When he saw his sister’s number for a second time, he merely swore loudly and returned to the bathroom.

The third call told him that she was not about to give up. Slamming down the can of soup he had been opening, Strike swept up the mobile.

“Lucy, I’m busy, what is it?” he said testily.

“It’s Barclay.”

“Ah, about time. Any news?”

“A bit on Jimmy’s bird, if that helps. Flick.”

“It all helps,” said Strike. “Why didn’t you let me know earlier?”

“Only found out ten minutes ago,” said Barclay, unfazed. “I’ve just heard her tellin’ Jimmy in the kitchen. She’s been bumpin’ money from her work.”

“What work?”

“Didnae tell me. Trouble is, Jimmy’s no that keen on her, from whut I’ve seen. I’m no sure he’d care if she got nicked.”

A distracting beeping sounded in Strike’s ear. Another caller was trying to get him. Glancing at the phone, he saw that it was Lucy again.

“Tell ye somethin’ else I got out o’ him, though,” said Barclay. “Last night, when he was stoned. He said he knew a government minister who had blood on his hands.”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Strike? Ye there?”

“Yeah, I’m here.”

Strike had never told Barclay about Billy’s story.

“What exactly did he say, Barclay?”

“He was ramblin’ on about the government, the Tories, whut a bunch o’ bastards they are. Then, out o’ nowhere, he says ‘and fuckin’ killers.’ I says, what d’ye mean? An’ he says, ‘I know one who’s got blood on his fuckin’ hands. Kids.’”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“Mind you, they’re a bunch o’ bampots, CORE. He might be talkin’ about benefit cuts. That’s as good as murder to this lot. Not that I think too much of Chiswell’s politics meself, Strike.”

“Seen any sign of Billy? Jimmy’s brother?”

“Nothin’. Naebody’s mentioned him, neither.”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“And no sign of Jimmy nipping off to Oxfordshire?”

“Not on my watch.”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

“All right,” said Strike. “Keep digging. Let me know if you get anything.”

He rang off, jabbed at his phone’s screen and brought up Lucy’s call, instead.

“Lucy, hi,” he said impatiently. “Bit busy now, can I—?”

But as she began to talk, his expression became blank. Before she had finished gasping out the reason for her call, he had grabbed his door keys and was scrabbling for his crutches.

25

We shall try if we cannot make you powerless to do any harm.

Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm

Strike’s text requesting an update reached Robin at ten to nine, as she arrived in the corridor where Izzy and Winn’s offices lay. So keen was she to see what he had to say that she stopped dead in the middle of the deserted passage to read it.

“Oh shit,” she murmured, reading that the Sun was becoming ever more interested in Chiswell. Leaning up against the wall of the corridor with its curved stone jambs, every oak door shut, she braced herself to call Strike back.