“I didn’t tell you at the time,” Robin said, “because I thought I might’ve imagined it, and she also looked exactly like the kind of person I’d imagined Postcard to be, so I was worried I was doing a Talbot, chasing my own mad hunches.”
“But you’re not off your rocker, are you? That was a bloody good idea, going to the shop, and this,” he brandished the postcard of the Reynolds, “suggests you hit the bullseye first throw.”
“I didn’t manage to get a picture of her,” said Robin, trying not to show how much pleasure Strike’s praise had given her, “but she was in Room 8 and I can describe her. Big glasses, shorter than me, thick brown hair, bobbed, probably fortyish.”
Strike made a note of the description.
“Might nip along there myself before I head for Cornwall,” he said. “Right, let’s get on with Bamborough.”
But before either could say another word, the phone rang in the outer office. Glad to have something to complain about, Strike glanced at his watch, heaved himself to his feet and said,
“It’s nine o’clock, Pat should—”
But even as he said it, they both heard the glass door open, Pat’s unhurried tread and then, in her usual rasping baritone,
“Cormoran Strike Detective Agency.”
Robin tried not to smile as Strike dropped back into his chair. There was a knock on the door, and Pat stuck her head inside,
“Morning. Got a Gregory Talbot on hold for you.”
“Put him through,” said Strike. “Please,” he added, detecting a martial look in Pat’s eye, “and close the door.”
She did so. A moment later, the phone rang on the partners’ desk and Strike switched it to speakerphone.
“Hi, Gregory, Strike here.”
“Yes, hello,” said Gregory, who sounded anxious.
“What can I do for you?”
“Er, well, you know how we were clearing out the loft?”
“Yes,” said Strike.
“Well, yesterday I unpacked an old box,” said Gregory, sounding tense, “and I found something hidden under Dad’s commendations and his uniform—”
“Not hidden,” said a querulous female voice in the background.
“I didn’t know it was there,” said Gregory. “And now my mother—”
“Let me talk to him,” said the woman in the background.
“My mother would like to talk to you,” said Gregory, sounding exasperated.
A defiant, elderly female voice replaced Gregory’s.
“Is this Mr. Strike?”
“It is.”
“Gregory’s told you all about how the police treated Bill at the end?”
“Yes,” said Strike.
“He could have kept working once he got treatment for his thyroid, but they didn’t let him. He’d given them everything, the force was his life. Greg says he’s given you Bill’s notes?”
“That’s right,” said Strike.
“Well, after Bill died I found this can in a box in the shed and it had the Creed mark on it—you’ve read the notes, you know Bill used a special symbol for Creed?”
“Yes,” said Strike.
“I couldn’t take everything with me into sheltered accommodation, they give you virtually no storage space, so I put it into the boxes to go in Greg and Alice’s attic. I quite forgot it was there until Greg started looking through his dad’s things yesterday. The police have made it quite clear they weren’t interested in Bill’s theories, but Greg says you are, so you should have it.”
Gregory came back on the line. They heard movement that seemed to indicate that Gregory was moving away from his mother. A door closed.
“It’s a can containing a reel of old 16mm film,” he told Strike, his mouth close to the receiver. “Mum doesn’t know what’s on there. I haven’t got a camera to run it, but I’ve held a bit up to the light and… it looks like a dirty movie. I was worried about putting it out for the binmen—”
Given that the Talbots were fostering children, Strike understood his qualms.
“If we give it to you—I wonder—”
“You’d rather we didn’t say where we got it?” Strike said, eyes on Robin’s. “I can’t see why we’d need to.”
Robin noticed that he hadn’t promised, but Gregory seemed happy.
“I’ll drop it off, then,” he said. “I’m coming up West this afternoon. Taking the twins to see Father Christmas.”
When Gregory had rung off, Strike said,
“You notice the Talbots are still convinced, forty years on—”
The phone rang in the outer office again.
“—that Margot was killed by Creed? I think I know what the symbol on this can of film is going to be, because—”
Pat knocked on the door of the inner office.
“Fuck’s sake,” muttered Strike, whose throat was starting to burn. “What?”
“Charming,” said Pat, coldly. “There’s a Mister Shanker on the line for you. It diverted from your mobile. He says you wanted to—”
“Yeah, I do,” said Strike. “Transfer it back to my mobile—please,” he added, and turning to Robin, he said, “sorry, can you give me a moment?”
Robin left the room, closing the door behind her, and Strike pulled out his mobile.
“Shanker, hi, thanks for getting back to me.”
He and Shanker, whose real name he’d have been hard pressed to remember, had known each other since they were teenagers. Their lives had been moving in diametrically different directions even then, Strike heading for university, army and detective work, Shanker pursuing a career of ever-deepening criminality. Nevertheless, a strange sense of kinship had continued to unite them and they were, occasionally, useful to each other, Strike paying Shanker in cash for information or services that he could get no other way.
“What’s up, Bunsen?”
“I wanted to buy you a pint and show you a photo,” said Strike.
“Up your way later today, as it goes. Going to Hamleys. Got the wrong fackin’ Monster High doll for Zahara.”
Everything except “Hamleys” had been gibberish to Strike.
“OK, call me when you’re ready for a drink.”
“Fair dos.”
The line went dead. Shanker didn’t tend to bother with goodbyes.
Robin returned carrying two fresh mugs of tea and closed the door with her foot.
“Sorry about that,” said Strike, absentmindedly wiping sweat off his top lip. “What was I saying?”
“That you think you know what symbol’s on Talbot’s can of old film.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Strike. “Symbol
