his attention to the blackboard menu on the opposite wall.
When Strike had returned with drinks, Robin insisted on battling her way up to the bar with their food order. She dreaded leaving the two men alone together, but felt that they might, somehow, find their own level without her.
Matthew’s brief increase in self-satisfaction ebbed away in Robin’s absence.
‘You’re ex-army,’ he found himself telling Strike, even though he had been determined not to permit Strike’s life experience to dominate the conversation.
‘That’s right,’ said Strike. ‘SIB.’
Matthew was not sure what that was.
‘My father’s ex-RAF,’ he said. ‘Yeah, he was in same time as Jeff Young.’
‘Who?’
‘Welsh rugby union player? Twenty-three caps?’ said Matthew.
‘Right,’ said Strike.
‘Yeah, Dad made Squadron Leader. Left in eighty-six and he’s run his own property management business since. Done all right for himself. Nothing like your old man,’ said Matthew, a little defensively, ‘but all right.’
Tit
, thought Strike.
‘What are you talking about?’ Robin said anxiously, sitting back down.
‘Just Dad,’ said Matthew.
‘Poor thing,’ said Robin.
‘Why poor thing?’ snapped Matthew.
‘Well – he’s worried about your mum, isn’t he? The mini-stroke?’
‘Oh,’ said Matthew, ‘that.’
Strike had met men like Matthew in the army: always officer class, but with that little pocket of insecurity just beneath the smooth surface that made them overcompensate, and sometimes overreach.
‘So how are things at Lowther-French?’ Robin asked Matthew, willing him to show Strike what a nice man he was, to show the real Matthew, whom she loved. ‘Matthew’s auditing this really odd little publishing company. They’re quite funny, aren’t they?’ she said to her fiancé.
‘I wouldn’t call it “funny”, the shambles they’re in,’ said Matthew, and he talked until their food arrived, littering his chat with references to ‘ninety k’ and ‘a quarter of a mill’, and every sentence was angled, like a mirror, to show him in the best possible light: his cleverness, his quick thinking, his besting of slower, stupider yet more senior colleagues, his patronage of the dullards working for the firm he was auditing.
‘… trying to justify a Christmas party, when they’ve barely broken even in two years; it’ll be more like a wake.’
Matthew’s confident strictures on the small firm were followed by the arrival of their food and silence. Robin, who had been hoping that Matthew would reproduce for Strike some of the kinder, more affectionate things he had found to tell her about the eccentrics at the small press, could think of nothing to say. However, Matthew’s mention of a publishing party had just given Strike an idea. The detective’s jaws worked more slowly. It had occurred to him that there might be an excellent opportunity to seek information on Owen Quine’s whereabouts, and his capacious memory volunteered a small piece of information he had forgotten he knew.
‘Got a girlfriend, Cormoran?’ Matthew asked Strike directly; it was something he was keen to establish. Robin had been vague on the point.
‘No,’ said Strike absently. ‘’Scuse me – won’t be long, got to make a phone call.’
‘Yeah, no problem,’ said Matthew irritably, but only once Strike was once again out of earshot. ‘You’re forty minutes late and then you piss off during dinner. We’ll just sit here waiting till you deign to come back.’
‘
Matt!
’
Reaching the dark pavement, Strike pulled out cigarettes and his mobile phone. Lighting up, he walked away from his fellow smokers to the quiet end of the side street to stand in darkness beneath the brick arches that bore the railway line.
Culpepper answered on the third ring.
‘Strike,’ he said. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Good. Calling to ask a favour.’
‘Go on,’ said Culpepper non-committally.
‘You’ve got a cousin
When Strike had returned with drinks, Robin insisted on battling her way up to the bar with their food order. She dreaded leaving the two men alone together, but felt that they might, somehow, find their own level without her.
Matthew’s brief increase in self-satisfaction ebbed away in Robin’s absence.
‘You’re ex-army,’ he found himself telling Strike, even though he had been determined not to permit Strike’s life experience to dominate the conversation.
‘That’s right,’ said Strike. ‘SIB.’
Matthew was not sure what that was.
‘My father’s ex-RAF,’ he said. ‘Yeah, he was in same time as Jeff Young.’
‘Who?’
‘Welsh rugby union player? Twenty-three caps?’ said Matthew.
‘Right,’ said Strike.
‘Yeah, Dad made Squadron Leader. Left in eighty-six and he’s run his own property management business since. Done all right for himself. Nothing like your old man,’ said Matthew, a little defensively, ‘but all right.’
Tit
, thought Strike.
‘What are you talking about?’ Robin said anxiously, sitting back down.
‘Just Dad,’ said Matthew.
‘Poor thing,’ said Robin.
‘Why poor thing?’ snapped Matthew.
‘Well – he’s worried about your mum, isn’t he? The mini-stroke?’
‘Oh,’ said Matthew, ‘that.’
Strike had met men like Matthew in the army: always officer class, but with that little pocket of insecurity just beneath the smooth surface that made them overcompensate, and sometimes overreach.
‘So how are things at Lowther-French?’ Robin asked Matthew, willing him to show Strike what a nice man he was, to show the real Matthew, whom she loved. ‘Matthew’s auditing this really odd little publishing company. They’re quite funny, aren’t they?’ she said to her fiancé.
‘I wouldn’t call it “funny”, the shambles they’re in,’ said Matthew, and he talked until their food arrived, littering his chat with references to ‘ninety k’ and ‘a quarter of a mill’, and every sentence was angled, like a mirror, to show him in the best possible light: his cleverness, his quick thinking, his besting of slower, stupider yet more senior colleagues, his patronage of the dullards working for the firm he was auditing.
‘… trying to justify a Christmas party, when they’ve barely broken even in two years; it’ll be more like a wake.’
Matthew’s confident strictures on the small firm were followed by the arrival of their food and silence. Robin, who had been hoping that Matthew would reproduce for Strike some of the kinder, more affectionate things he had found to tell her about the eccentrics at the small press, could think of nothing to say. However, Matthew’s mention of a publishing party had just given Strike an idea. The detective’s jaws worked more slowly. It had occurred to him that there might be an excellent opportunity to seek information on Owen Quine’s whereabouts, and his capacious memory volunteered a small piece of information he had forgotten he knew.
‘Got a girlfriend, Cormoran?’ Matthew asked Strike directly; it was something he was keen to establish. Robin had been vague on the point.
‘No,’ said Strike absently. ‘’Scuse me – won’t be long, got to make a phone call.’
‘Yeah, no problem,’ said Matthew irritably, but only once Strike was once again out of earshot. ‘You’re forty minutes late and then you piss off during dinner. We’ll just sit here waiting till you deign to come back.’
‘
Matt!
’
Reaching the dark pavement, Strike pulled out cigarettes and his mobile phone. Lighting up, he walked away from his fellow smokers to the quiet end of the side street to stand in darkness beneath the brick arches that bore the railway line.
Culpepper answered on the third ring.
‘Strike,’ he said. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Good. Calling to ask a favour.’
‘Go on,’ said Culpepper non-committally.
‘You’ve got a cousin
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