Chapter Six

Sitting in his bed, Strike has been perusing websites on his laptop until his eyes ache, but is no closer to knowing who is tipping off Culpepper, though he might have detected a pattern. He's about to call it a night when his phone rings from an unknown number. After hesitating only a moment, he answers, "Strike."

A mechanical voice recites, "Hey, Bluey."

For a fraction of a second, he really does wonder if Charlotte is alive, because no one else has ever called him that. But she's dead. Someone is fucking with him. And he goes straight to anger. "Who the fuck is this?"

The same grinding, distorted voice claims, "She didn't kill herself, Bluey. She was murdered." And the line goes dead.

Heart thumping against his ribcage, Strike immediately calls them back, but the number is already disconnected. The "Fuck," is out of his mouth even as he thinks it. He considers calling Robin; she always makes him feel better. But she'll be asleep at this hour. Now wide awake, when fatigue was pressing on him only seconds ago, he knows that there's no point trying to sleep. Putting the laptop aside, he hops to the window and scans the street below, but there's no one. It's possible that his mystery caller was watching, and has already left, but Strike's intuition is that they ruined his night remotely. Getting back into bed, he begins a very different investigation.

Wednesday morning, Robin is almost to work when Strike texts her:

Got something to do. Can you handle the footballer without me?

It's not like him to delegate the first interview with a prospective client, but Robin is unconcerned, merely replying:

Of course. Everything okay?

Fine. I'll see you later.

Frowning, in confusion and concern, Robin is very curious as she climbs the stairs to their offices. Pat is there, of course, and she's chatting with Andy Hutchins, who looks well, though a little skinny. Remembering that part of his treatment for MS is a very strict diet, Robin assumes this is a good sign. And she greets him, "Andy! It's good to see you back. How are you feeling?"

He smiles and greets her with a polite touch of his cheek to hers, as he says, "Good. Real good. No symptoms for weeks now. Have you heard from Strike? He was supposed to assign me, but he's not answering."

Another piece of the puzzle. Strike must be very distracted. "Uh, yeah, he's on an errand, but will be in later." Thinking on her feet, Robin suggests, "Actually, we've got a new client due any minute. Could you sit in with me? You might think of something I don't. Hopefully by then, Strike will have got back to you."

After only a moment's hesitation, Andy says, "Sure thing." Lifting his arms out from his sides, he asks, "Am I dressed okay for that?"

Everyone except Pat dresses to blend in, with the default being smart-casual, so Robin assures him, "You're fine. Just listen to what he wants from us, and then chime in with any questions that occur to you. I'll take notes, but you're welcome to do the same, 'cos you'll probably end up working the case."

Visibly relaxing, Andy gets out his pen and notebook, saying, "Okay, got it."

Robin's day gets busy enough that she doesn't see Strike until her return to the office in the late afternoon, though he's been in touch with her, so she wasn't worried. But one look at the dark smudges under his eyes compels her to greet him with, "Did you sleep at all last night?"

One eyebrow raised, he says, "Hello to you too."

"Sorry, just...seriously, did you?"

He shrugs, unconvincingly claiming, "Couple of hours." Gesturing to the inner office, he asks, "Got a minute?"

"Sure." Robin puts her receipts for the day's work expenses on top of Pat's inbox, and follows Strike, asking, "What's up?"

He finally smiles, saying, "I have some papers for you to sign."

Incredibly relieved, Robin asks, "That's where you've been all day, finalising our new contract?"

He hands over a slim folder, saying, "Uh, no. This was couriered. But I do now have a theory about what's going on with our harassed sportsmen."

Accepting the folder, Robin doesn't open it, but begs, "Well, don't keep me in suspense."

Strike smiles, and says, "You have everything you've ever wanted, literally in the palm of your hands, and you instead want to know what I've been up to?"

A shadow passes over Robin's gaze, too quick for Strike to identify it. But then she smiles, gesturing with the folder, and says, "Much as I appreciate it, this is just a formality. You've treated me like an equal for a long time. Now, spill."

His smile widens at her enthusiasm, and then he gestures to her chair. When they're both seated, he begins, "I'm sure you're aware what sort of money is wrapped up in the sporting industry in the UK."

She doesn't, but presumes, "It must be billions."

"Tens of billions, and that's only the legitimate side of the industry." When he pauses to allow Robin to process this, she nods, and he continues, "Now, in every game, in every code, there are stars and those who wish they were. But there are also players who are important without ever becoming famous. You know the term 'linchpin'?"

"Of course: a vital person or thing, without which the wheels come off."

He smiles, saying, "Exactly. I spent most of last night and part of today looking into it, and I think our two sportsmen are linchpins. They have some talent, but their true value lies in an ability to let the stars shine. Stumps is an okay bowler, but an excellent nightwatchman; it's someone who_"

Robin interrupts, "A tailender who's moved up the batting order at end of play in a test match, so that a better batsman can start his innings fresh and rested the next day. He doesn't need to be a big scorer, just stay on strike and not get out. Personally, I think it's a questionable tactic, given how often it fails." At his open-mouthed admiration of her sporting knowledge, she shrugs, explaining, "I'm not exactly a fan, but I grew up in Yorkshire with three brothers, so I couldn't avoid learning all about cricket."

Strike closes his mouth, and says, "Right, well, where was I? Oh, what nickname did you choose for the footballer?"

Remembering how pleased Andy was to provide this input, Robin cheerfully reveals, "Boots."

Strike chuckles, saying, "We're not very inventive, are we? Boots is a winger." When Robin shakes her head, he explains, "Uh, think 'wing' and you'll know his position on the field, good at dribbling...uh, moving the ball along with him, and he's terrific at passing. He doesn't score the goals, but they often don't happen without him. His last game, three days after the anonymous calls started coming in, he lost possession of the ball for the first time in his adult career, and cost his team a win."

Beginning to understand, Robin says, "So, someone is deliberately putting these guys off their game, to affect the outcomes of matches?"

Strike nods, says, "I think so. A bookie I know confirmed that there has been a lot more action than usual on recent games, across several codes. My theory is that someone is tailing sportsmen, maybe also hacking phones, but using the information in a way no one has thought of...at least not that I've heard. I suppose it could have been done before. As we know, it's almost impossible to spot a pattern if you don't know to look for it. And they're no doubt deliberately avoiding going after celebrity players, to stay under the radar. It's not a guaranteed win, but would alter the odds enough to make it worthwhile, especially for someone who started with a large stake."

"Is that even illegal?"

Strike shrugs, saying, "Not sure, certainly the harassment and blackmail is, which makes any profits suspect. Either way, I'll need to gather more evidence before going to the cops. Although, Stumps and Boots would not want that, even if we keep their names out of it."

Which reminds Robin, "You know, if they just concentrated on playing sport, they wouldn't be in this mess."

"True, but that seems unlikely." Clapping his hands together, Strike says, "Come on, sign the bloody thing, so we can go celebrate."

Assuming he means a celebration for two, Robin's resulting grin must give that away, because Strike chuckles, saying, "I like the way you think. But, no, the gang are already at the 'Horse."

Which explains why Pat wasn't at her desk. Too happy for words, Robin practically caresses the new contract before adding her name next to each sticky tab. On a whim, she then scrawls something on the final tab, and carefully peels it off before patting it onto Strike's chest. He's obviously having some difficulty reading it, upside down on his chest, but she sees the moment he recognises her signature. And she claims his heart with a simple, "Mine."

Strike solemnly lifts her hand, to brush his lips against her knuckles, and confirm, "Yours."