Dev pulled out his wallet, extracted a smartly engraved business card and handed it to Strike, who saw the name Azam Masoumi, followed by ‘Dealer in Antiquities and Objets d’Art’.
‘Mr Masoumi arranges the sale of valuables for private clients,’ said Dev, ‘and he doesn’t charge anything like the commission of the big auction houses.’
‘That’s very good of him. I’ll bet he’s discreet as well.’
‘Mr Masoumi prides himself on his discretion,’ said Dev, deadpan. ‘Some clients don’t want it known that they’re selling valuable objects. Mr Masoumi completely understands their predicament.’
‘And that did it?’
‘Not on its own,’ said Dev. ‘I also had to buy her and her sister a shit-ton of drinks and guess she was fifteen years younger than she is. The bar closed and she invited me back to Fingers’ flat for a nightcap.’
‘Was Fingers there?’
‘No, which was bloody lucky, because I don’t think he’d have liked to see how his mum was behaving.’
‘Frisky, was she?’
‘It all started getting very Mrs Robinson. When I made noises about leaving, she tried to keep my interest by showing me a Fabergé box and a head of Alexander the Great, which she says were gifts from her estranged husband.’
‘He’s going to be seriously fucking estranged once he hears all this. Did you get pictures?’
‘Yep,’ said Dev, pulling his mobile out of his pocket and showing Strike the images of the two objects, which together were worth over a million pounds.
‘And you got out of there without being Mrs Robinson-ed?’
‘Narrowly escaped by making a dinner date for tonight.’
‘You,’ said Strike, struggling into a standing position on his one leg, and holding out his hand, ‘have just won Employee of the Week.’
‘Do I get a certificate?’
‘I’ll get Pat to type one up once her computer gets here.’
‘Leg bad again?’ asked Dev, glancing down at Strike’s empty trouser leg.
‘It’ll be fine,’ said Strike, dropping heavily back into his chair.
‘Where’s everyone else?’
‘Barclay’s flying back from Glasgow as we speak – he’s been visiting his parents – Midge is on her day off and Robin’s about to arrive, as is our new furniture.’
‘Want me to hang around and help?’
‘No, you’ve earned your time off. I’m planning to bung the delivery guys a hundred quid if anything needs putting together.’
Ten minutes after Dev had left, Robin arrived. She was as delighted as Strike to learn that the Fingers case was now wrapped up, but shocked by the sight of Strike in the flesh. His skin had a slightly grey tinge, his eyes were bloodshot and he was sporting forty-eight hours’ worth of stubble. However, she passed no comment, merely holding up the USB stick she’d brought with her.
‘When the printer arrives, I’ll be able to show you everything I’ve got on Anomie’s troll posse. What’re you up to?’
‘Trying to compose an email to Allan Yeoman, but there’s a limit to how often you can say “promising developments” without actually reporting a development.’
‘Hopefully Grant Ledwell will ’fess up this evening.’
‘He’d better,’ said Strike, ‘or I’m going to have to find a positive spin for “this investigation is fucked”.’
The first delivery of furniture arrived at three o’clock, and the next two hours were dedicated to filling up the new filing cabinets, assembling Pat’s desk, setting up her new computer and printer, and stripping plastic wrap from the new sofa, which was covered in red fabric.
‘You didn’t want fake leather again?’ said Robin as she and Pat rolled the sofa into position while Strike watched, balanced on his crutches and frustrated by his inability to help.
‘I got sick of the old one farting every time I moved on it,’ said Strike.
‘This’ll stain if anyone spills coffee on it,’ said Pat, e-cigarette clamped between her teeth. She moved around her new desk and lowered her bony frame into her new computer chair.
‘But this is better than the old one,’ she admitted grudgingly.
‘Almost worth getting bombed for, wasn’t it?’ said Strike, looking around the outer office, which, between the fresh paint and the new furniture, had never looked so smart.
‘When are they going to replace the glass?’ asked Pat, pointing at the still boarded-up half of the door onto the landing. ‘I like being able to see the outline of whoever’s outside. Gives you early warning.’
‘Glazier’s coming end of the week,’ said Strike. ‘I’d better finish that email to Yeoman.’
He moved on his crutches back into the inner office. Robin had just started printing off the results of her investigations into Lepine’s Disciple and his friends when the office phone rang again.
‘Strike Detective Agency,’ said Pat.
Pat listened for a few seconds, then said,
‘What d’you want? If you’re trying to be funny—’
‘Same number as before?’ said Strike, reappearing at the door between the two rooms. Pat nodded. ‘Give it to me,’ he said, but Pat, whose surly expression had changed suddenly to one of suspicion, covered the mouthpiece with her hand and said,
‘She’s asking for Robin.’
Robin pressed the pause button on the printer and held out her hand for the receiver, but Pat, still looking at Strike, whispered,
‘She sounds like a weirdo.’
‘Pat,’ said Robin firmly. ‘Give it to me.’
Looking as though no good could come of it, Pat handed over the receiver.
‘Hello?’ said Robin. ‘This is Robin Ellacott speaking.’
A voice whispered in Robin’s ear.
‘Were you Jessica?’
Robin locked eyes with Strike.
‘Who is this?’ Robin asked.
‘Were you?’ said the faint voice.
‘Who am I speaking to?’ Robin said.
Now she could hear the girl breathing. Those shallow breaths surely indicated terror.
‘Do I know you?’ Robin asked.
‘Yes,’ whispered the voice. ‘I think so. If you were Jessica.’
Robin slipped her hand over the mouthpiece and said quietly: ‘It’s Zoe Haigh. She wants to know whether I was Jessica.’
Wondering whether the admission was worth the risk, Strike hesitated, then nodded. Robin removed her hand from the receiver and said,
‘Zoe?’
‘Yes,’ said the voice. ‘I – I –’
‘Are you all right? Has something happened?’
‘I’m so scared,’ whispered the girl.
‘Why are you scared?’ asked Robin.
‘Please… will you come and see me?’
‘Of course,’ said Robin. ‘Are you at home now?’
‘Yes,’ said Zoe.
‘All right. Stay there, I’ll be there as fast as I can.’
‘OK,’ whispered Zoe. ‘Thank you.’
The line went dead.
‘She wants to see me,’ said Robin, checking her watch. ‘Maybe it’d be better if you got a taxi to Ledwell and I’ll—’
‘The hell you will. What if it’s a set-up? What if she’s the bait and Anomie’s lying in wait?’
‘Then we’ll find out who they are,’ said Robin, turning the printer back on.
‘Right before you get your throat slit, you mean?’ said Strike over the swish of pages.
Pat’s head was turning between the partners, as though she was watching a tennis match.
‘Zoe’s flat is up two flights of stairs,’ said Robin, without looking at Strike.
‘And how d’you think I got back in here? Levitated?’ asked Strike, omitting to mention that he’d done most of the journey on his backside.
‘Strike, I honestly don’t think Zoe is luring me to my doom.’