Haven’t changed my mind, but no hard feelings or bitterness this end. Hope all goes well & let’s get a beer when you’re next in town.
Having taken care of this irksome bit of personal business, Strike made himself a sandwich, put on a clean shirt over his T-shirt, extracted from the Bamborough case file the page on which Bill Talbot had written his cryptic message in Pitman shorthand, and set off by car for West Wickham, where he had an appointment with Gregory Talbot, son of the late Bill.
Driving through intermittent sun and rain, and smoking as he went, Strike refocused his mind on business, mulling not only the questions he planned to ask the policeman’s son, but also the various concerns related to the agency that had arisen since his return. Certain issues that needed his personal attention had been raised by Barclay the previous day. The Scot, who Strike was inclined to rate as his best investigator after Robin, had firstly expressed himself with characteristic bluntness on the subject of the West End dancer on whom they were supposed to be finding dirt.
“We’re not gonnae get anythin’ on him, Strike. If he’s shaggin’ some other bird, she must be livin’ in his fuckin’ wardrobe. I ken e’s wi’ oor lassie for her credit card, but he’s too smart tae fuck up a good thing.”
“Think you’re probably right,” said Strike, “but I said we’d give the client three months, so we keep going. How’re you getting on with Pat?” he added. He was hoping that somebody else found the new secretary as much of a pain in the arse as he did, but was disappointed.
“Aye, she’s great. I ken she sounds like a bronchial docker, but she’s very efficient. But if we’re havin’ an honest talk aboot new hires, here…” Barclay said, his large blue eyes looking up at his boss from under thick brows.
“Go on,” said Strike. “Morris not pulling his weight?”
“I wouldnae say that, exactly.”
The Glaswegian scratched the back of his prematurely gray head, then said,
“Robin not mentioned anything to ye?”
“Has there been trouble between them?” asked Strike, more sharply.
“Not tae say trouble, exactly,” said Barclay slowly, “but he doesnae like takin’ orders from her. Makes that plain behind her back.”
“Well, that’ll have to change. I’ll have a word.”
“An’ he’s got his own ideas aboot the Shifty case.”
“Is that right?” said Strike.
“He still thinks he’s gonnae win over the PA. Robin told him it wus time tae let it go, time tae put Hutchins in. She’s found oot—”
“That Shifty belongs to Hendon Rifle Club, yeah, she emailed me. And she wants to get Hutchins in there, to try and befriend him. Smart plan. Shifty fancies himself a bit of a macho man, from all we know about him.”
“But Morris wants tae do it his way. He said tae her face he was happy wi’ the new plan, but—”
“You think he’s still seeing the PA?”
“‘Seein’ ’ might be a polite way o’ puttin’ it,” said Barclay.
So Strike had called Morris into the office and laid it down in plain language that he was to leave Shifty’s PA alone, and concentrate for the next week on Two-Times’ girlfriend. Morris had raised no objections: indeed, his capitulation had been tinged with obsequiousness. The encounter had left a slightly unpleasant aftertaste. Morris was, in nearly all respects, a desirable hire, with many good contacts in the force, but there had been something in his manner as he hurried to agree that denoted a slipperiness Strike couldn’t like. Later that night, while Strike was following the taxi containing Twinkletoes and his girlfriend through the West End, he remembered Dr. Gupta’s interlaced fingers, and the old doctor’s verdict that what made a successful business was the smooth functioning of a team.
Entering West Wickham, he found rows of suburban houses with bay windows, broad drives and private garages. The Avenue, where Gregory Talbot lived, was lined with solid family residences that spoke of conscientious middle-class owners who mowed their lawns and remembered bin day. The houses weren’t as palatial as the detached houses on Dr. Gupta’s street, but were many times more spacious than Strike’s attic flat over the office.
Turning into Talbot’s drive, Strike parked his BMW behind a skip that blocked the front of the garage. As he switched off his engine, a pale, entirely bald man with large ears and steel-rimmed glasses opened his door looking cautiously excited. Strike knew from his online research that Gregory Talbot was a hospital administrator.
“Mr. Strike?” he called, while the detective was getting carefully out of the BMW (the drive was slick with rain and the memory of tripping on the Falmouth ferry, still fresh).
“That’s me,” said Strike, closing his car door and holding out his hand as Talbot came walking toward him. Talbot was shorter than Strike by a good six inches.
“Sorry about the skip,” he said. “We’re doing a loft conversion.”
As they approached the front door, a pair of twin girls Strike guessed to be around ten years old came bursting outside, almost knocking Gregory aside.
“Stay in the garden, girls,” called Gregory, though Strike thought the more pressing problem was surely that they had bare feet, and that the ground was cold and wet.
“Thtay in the garden, girlth,” imitated one of the twins. Gregory looked mildly over the top of his glasses at the twins.
“Rudeness isn’t funny.”
“It bloody is,” said the first twin, to the raucous laughter of the second.
“Swear at me again, and there’ll be no chocolate pudding for you tonight, Jayda,” said Gregory. “Nor will you borrow
