5
There’s nothing of so infinite vexation
As man’s own thoughts.
John Webster, The White Devil
Twenty past nine that evening found Strike lying in a T-shirt and boxers on top of his duvet, with the remnants of a takeaway curry on the chair beside him, reading the sports pages while the news played on the TV he had set up facing the bed. The metal rod that served as his right ankle gleamed silver in the light from the cheap desk lamp he had placed on a box beside him.
There was to be an England–France friendly at Wembley on Wednesday night, but Strike was much more interested in Arsenal’s home derby against Spurs the following Saturday. He had been an Arsenal fan since his earliest youth, in imitation of his Uncle Ted. Why Uncle Ted supported the Gunners, when he had lived all his life in Cornwall, was a question Strike had never asked.
A misty radiance, through which stars were struggling to twinkle, filled the night sky beyond the tiny window beside him. A few hours’ sleep in the middle of the day had done virtually nothing to alleviate his exhaustion, but he did not feel quite ready to turn in yet, not after a large lamb biryani and a pint of beer. A note in Robin’s handwriting lay beside him on the bed; she had given it to him as he had left the office that evening. Two appointments were noted there. The first read:
Christian Fisher, 9 a.m. tomorrow, Crossfire Publishing,
Exmouth Market EC1
‘Why’s he want to see me?’ Strike had asked her, surprised. ‘I only need the address of that retreat he told Quine about.’
‘I know,’ said Robin, ‘that’s what I told him, but he sounded really excited to meet you. He said he could do nine tomorrow and wouldn’t take no for an answer.’
What, Strike asked himself irritably, staring at the note, was I playing at?
Exhausted, he had allowed temper to get the better of him that morning and ditched a well-heeled client who might well have put more work his way. Then he had allowed Leonora Quine to steamroller him into accepting her as a client on the most dubious promise of payment. Now that she was not in front of him, it was hard to remember the mixture of pity and curiosity that had made him take her case on. In the stark, cold quiet of his attic room, his agreement to find her sulking husband seemed quixotic and irresponsible. Wasn’t the whole point of trying to pay off his debts that he could regain a sliver of free time: a Saturday afternoon at the Emirates, a Sunday lie-in? He was finally making money after working almost non-stop for months, attracting clients not only because of that first glaring bout of notoriety but because of a quieter word-of-mouth. Couldn’t he have put up with William Baker for another three weeks?
And what, Strike asked himself, looking down at Robin’s handwritten note again, was this Christian Fisher so excited about that he wanted to meet in person? Could it be Strike himself, either as the solver of the Lula Landry case or (much worse) as the son of Jonny Rokeby? It was very difficult to gauge the level of your own celebrity. Strike had assumed that his burst of unexpected fame was on the wane. It had been intense while it lasted, but the telephone calls from journalists had subsided months ago and it was almost as long since he had given his name in any neutral context and heard Lula Landry’s back. Strangers were once again doing what they had done most of his life: calling him some variation on ‘Cameron Strick’.
On the other hand, perhaps the publisher knew something about the vanished Owen Quine that he was eager to impart to Strike, although why, in this case, he had refused to tell Quine’s wife, Strike could not imagine.
The second appointment that Robin had written out for him was beneath Fisher’s:
Thursday November 18th, 6.30 p.m., The King’s Arms,