She told Strike none of these details, only that she had the chance of a skiing trip and would like to take it, which meant slightly increasing the amount of time she’d planned to take off over New Year. Aware that Robin was owed far more leave than she was proposing to take, Strike agreed without hesitation, and wished her a good time.
3
Eyes with the glow and hue of wine
Like yours, can daze a man outright…
On 28 December, the ex-boyfriend of Miss Jones, who’d lived an apparently blameless life for weeks, finally slipped up in grand style, buying a large quantity of coke in front of Dev Shah, then taking it in the company of two escorts, before taking them home to Islington. The exhilarated Miss Jones insisted on coming into the office to see the pictures Shah had taken, then tried to embrace Strike. When he pushed her gently but firmly away she seemed more intrigued than offended. After paying her final bill, she insisted on kissing Strike on the cheek, told him boldly that she owed him a favour and hoped he’d call it in one day, then departed in a cloud of Chanel No. 5.
The following day, the mother in the Groomer case was sent to Indonesia to report on a catastrophic air crash. Shortly before her departure, she called Strike to tell him her daughter was planning to spend New Year’s Eve at Annabel’s with the family of a schoolfriend. She was certain Groomer would try to meet up with her daughter there and demanded that the agency place detectives in the nightclub to keep watch.
Strike, who’d rather have asked almost anyone else for assistance, called Miss Jones, who’d be able to take Strike and Midge into the members-only club as her guests. Strike was set on taking Midge with him, not only because the latter would be able to tail Legs into the bathroom if necessary, but because he didn’t want Miss Jones to think he’d engineered the situation in the hope of sleeping with her.
He felt a callous sense of relief when Miss Jones called him two hours before the proposed rendezvous to tell him her baby daughter had come down with a fever.
‘… and my bloody nanny’s phoned in sick and my parents are in Mustique, so I’m screwed,’ she told him petulantly. ‘But you can still go: I’ve left your names at the door.’
‘I’m very grateful,’ he told her. ‘I hope she gets better soon.’
He rang off before Miss Jones could suggest any further meetings.
By 11 p.m., he and Midge, who was wearing a dark red velvet tuxedo, were to be found in the basement of the club in Berkeley Square, sitting opposite each other at a table between two mirrored pillars and beneath hundreds of golden helium balloons, from which dangled gleaming ribbons. Their seventeen-year-old target was sitting a few tables away with her schoolfriend’s family. She kept glancing towards the restaurant entrance, wearing a look of mingled hope and nervousness. Mobile phones weren’t permitted in Annabel’s, and Strike could see the restless teenager’s mounting frustration at being forced to rely solely on her senses for information.
‘Five o’clock, party of eight,’ Midge said quietly to Strike. ‘You’re getting looks.’
Strike spotted them as Midge said it. A man and a woman at a table of eight had turned in their seats to look at him. The woman, who had long hair of the same red-gold as Robin’s, was wearing a skin-tight black dress and stilettos that laced all the way up her smooth brown legs to her knees. The man, who was sporting a brocade dinner jacket and a foppish cravat, looked vaguely familiar to Strike, though he couldn’t immediately place him.
‘D’you think they’ve recognised you from the papers?’ suggested Midge.
‘Bloody well hope not,’ growled Strike. ‘Or I’m out of business.’
The photo the press used most often dated from Strike’s time in the military and he was now older, longer-haired and carrying much more weight. On those occasions when he’d had to give evidence in court, he’d always done so wearing the heavy beard that grew conveniently quickly when he had need of it.
Strike found his observers’ reflections in a nearby pillar and saw that they were now talking with their heads together. The woman was very good-looking and – atypically, in this room – she appeared not to have had anything obvious done to her face: her forehead still wrinkled when she raised her eyebrows, her lips weren’t unnaturally plump and she was too young – perhaps mid-thirties – to have submitted to the surgery that had left the oldest woman at her table with an unnervingly mask-like appearance.
Beside Strike and Midge, a portly Russian was explaining the plot of Tannhäuser to his much younger female companion.
‘… but Mezdrich has updated it,’ he said, ‘and in this production Jesus now appears in a movie of an orgy in Venus’s cave—’
‘Jesus does?’
‘Da, and so the church is unhappy and Mezdrich will be fired,’ finished the Russian gloomily, raising his glass of champagne to his lips. ‘He’s standing his ground, but it will end badly for him, mark my words.’
‘Legs on the move,’ Strike informed Midge as the teenager stood up with the rest of her party, the ostrich trim on her mini-dress wafting fluffily around her.
‘Dance floor,’ Midge guessed.
She was right. Ten minutes later, Strike and Midge had secured a vantage point in a niche off the tiny dance floor, from where they had a clear view of their target dancing in shoes that appeared a little too high for her, her eyes still darting frequently towards the entrance.
‘Wonder how Robin’s enjoying skiing?’ Midge shouted up to Strike, as ‘Uptown Funk’ began pounding through the room. ‘Mate of mine broke his collarbone first time he tried it. D’you ski?’
‘No,’ said Strike.
‘Nice place, Zermatt,’ said Midge loudly, and then something Strike didn’t catch.
‘What?’ Strike said.
‘I said, “Wonder if she’s pulled?” Good opportunity, New Year’s—’
Legs was gesturing to her schoolfriend that she was going to sit the rest of the dance out. Leaving the dance floor, she snatched up her evening bag and wound her way out of the room.
‘She’s going to use her mobile in the bogs,’ predicted Midge, taking off in pursuit.
Strike remained in the alcove, his bottle of zero-alcohol beer already warm in his hand, his only companion an enormous stucco Bodhisattva. Tipsy people were crammed on the sofas near him, shouting at each other over the music. Strike had just loosened his tie and undone the top button of his shirt when he saw the man in the brocade jacket walking towards him, stumbling over legs and handbags as he approached. Now, at last, Strike placed him: Valentine Longcaster, one of Charlotte’s stepbrothers.
‘Long time no see,’ he yelled when he reached Strike.
‘Yeah,’ said Strike, shaking the proffered hand, ‘how’s it going?’
Valentine reached up and pushed back his long, sweaty fringe, revealing widely dilated pupils.
‘Not bad,’ he shouted over the pounding bass. ‘Can’t complain.’ Strike could see a faint trace of white powder inside one nostril. ‘You here on business or pleasure?’
‘Pleasure,’ lied Strike.
Valentine shouted something indecipherable in which Strike heard the name of Charlotte’s husband, Jago Ross.