“There’s no family connection as far as I’m aware,” said Robin. “But Jasper Chiswell knows something personal about him. He quoted a Latin poem at Aamir when they met in our office.”

“You didn’t tell me that.”

“Sorry,” said Robin, remembering that this had happened shortly before she had refused to tail Jimmy on the march. “I forgot. Yes, Chiswell quoted something Latin, then mentioned ‘a man of your habits.’”

“What was the poem?”

“I don’t know, I never did Latin.”

She checked her watch.

“I’d better get changed, I’m supposed to be at DCMS in forty minutes.”

“Aye, that’s me off as well, Strike,” said Barclay.

“Two days, Barclay,” Strike said, as the other headed to the door, “then you’re back on Knight.”

“Nae bother,” said Barclay, “I’ll be wantin’ a break from the wean by then.”

“I like him,” said Robin, as Barclay’s footsteps died away down the metal stairs.

“Yeah,” grunted Strike, as he reached for his prosthesis. “He’s all right.”

He and Lorelei were meeting early, at his request. It was time to begin the onerous process of making himself presentable. Robin retired to the cramped toilet on the landing to change, and Strike, having put his prosthesis back on, withdrew to the inner office.

He had got as far as pulling on his suit trousers when his mobile rang. Half-hoping that it was Lorelei to say that she could not make dinner, he picked up the cracked phone and saw, with an inexplicable sense of foreboding, that it was Hutchins.

“Strike?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Strike… I’ve fucked up.”

Hutchins sounded weak.

“What’s happened?”

“Knight’s with some mates. I followed them into a pub. They’re planning something. He’s got a placard with Chiswell’s face on it—”

“And?” said Strike loudly.

“Strike, I’m sorry… my balance has gone… I’ve lost them.”

“You stupid fucker!” roared Strike, losing his temper completely. “Why didn’t you tell me you were ill?”

“I’ve had a lot of time off lately… knew you were stretched…”

Strike switched Hutchins to speakerphone, laid his mobile onto his desk, took his shirt off the hanger and began to dress as fast as possible.

“Mate, I’m so sorry… I’m having trouble walking…”

“I know the fucking feeling!”

Fuming, Strike stabbed off the call.

“Cormoran?” Robin called through the door. “Everything OK?”

“No, it’s fucking not!”

He opened the office door.

In one part of his brain, he registered that Robin was wearing the green dress he had bought her two years ago, as a thank you for helping him catch their first killer. She looked stunning.

“Knight’s got a placard with Chiswell’s face on it. He’s planning something with a bunch of mates. I knew it, I fucking knew this would happen now Winn’s bailed on him… I’ll bet you anything he’s heading for your reception. Shit,” said Strike, realizing he didn’t have shoes on and doubling back. “And Hutchins has lost them,” he shouted over his shoulder. “The stupid tit didn’t tell me he’s ill.”

“Maybe you can get Barclay back?” suggested Robin.

“He’ll be on the Tube by now. I’m going to have to fucking do it, aren’t I?” said Strike. He dropped back into the sofa and slid his feet into his shoes. “There are going to be press all round that place tonight if Harry’s going to be there. All it needs is for a journo to twig what Jimmy’s stupid fucking sign means, and Chiswell’s out of a job and so’re we.” He heaved himself back to his feet. “Where is this thing, tonight?”

“Lancaster House,” said Robin. “Stable Yard.”

“Right,” said Strike, heading for the door. “Stand by. You might have to bail me out. There’s a good chance I’m going to have to punch him.”

29

It became impossible for me to remain an idle spectator any longer.

Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm

The taxi that Strike had picked up in Charing Cross Road turned into St. James’s Street twenty minutes later, while he was still talking to the Minister for Culture on his mobile.

“A placard? What’s on it?”

“Your face,” said Strike. “That’s all I know.”

“And he’s heading for the reception? Well, this is bloody it, isn’t it?” shouted Chiswell, so loudly that Strike winced and removed the phone from his ear. “If the press see this, it’s all over! You were supposed to stop something like this bloody happening!”

“And I’m going to try,” said Strike, “but in your shoes I’d want to be forewarned. I’d advise—”

“I don’t pay you for advice!”

“I’ll do whatever I can,” promised Strike, but Chiswell had already hung up.

“I’m not going to be able to go any further, mate,” said the taxi driver, addressing Strike in the rearview mirror from which dangled a swinging mobile, outlined in tufts of multi-colored cotton and embossed with a golden Ganesh. The end of St. James’s Street had been blocked off. A swelling crowd of royal watchers and Olympics fans, many clutching small Union Jacks, was congregating behind portable barriers, waiting for the arrival of Paralympians and Prince Harry.

“OK, I’ll get out here,” said Strike, fumbling for his wallet.

He was once again facing the crenellated frontage of St. James’s Palace, its gilded, diamond-shaped clock gleaming in the early evening sun. Strike limped down the slope again towards the crowd, passing the side street where Pratt’s stood, while smartly dressed passersby, workers and customers of galleries and wine merchants moved aside courteously as his uneven gait became progressively more pronounced.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he muttered, pain shooting up into his groin every time he put his weight onto the prosthesis as he drew closer to the assembled sports fans and royal watchers. He could see no placards or banners of a political nature, but as he joined the back of the crowd and looked down Cleveland Row, he spotted a press pen and ranks of photographers, which stood waiting for the prince and famous athletes. It was only when a car slid past, containing a glossy-haired brunette Strike vaguely recognized from the television, that he remembered he had not called Lorelei to tell her he would be late to dinner. He hastily dialed her number.

“Hi, Corm.”

She sounded apprehensive. He guessed that she thought he was going to cancel.

“Hi,” he said, his eyes still darting around for some sign of Jimmy. “I’m really sorry, but something’s come up. I might be late.”

“Oh, that’s fine,” she said, and he could tell that she was relieved that he was still intending to come. “Shall I try and change the booking?”

“Yeah—maybe make it eight instead of seven?”