Author's Note: A reminder that Strike found out Pat plays Angry Birds on the office computer, but he's never mentioned it.
Chapter Eight
It's two days before their target shows up. Fortunately, with the Norfolk Island cemetery being a tourist attraction, the detectives were able to stake out the grave without attracting attention. It's not very hot today, so Strike was able to while away the hours in relative comfort, amusing himself with studying gravestones from the colonial era. The place doesn't cater for the living, with nowhere to sit except for the ground, so his stump is starting to ache when he spots the elderly woman making a beeline for the newer graves. Sure enough, she stops at the supposed final resting place of Arthur Ponsford. He watches her replace the now tattered flowers with a fresh posy and then bow her head a few moments as if in prayer, before heading back the way she came. Wishing Robin were here, because he sometimes makes an unsettling first impression, Strike approaches her from the side, so she can see him, and then waves a hello as he says, "Excuse me ma'am. Do you have a minute?"
She looks wary but unafraid, asking, "You lost, son?"
Thinking as he speaks, Strike decides on the truth, saying, "Not lost, no. Though I am a long way from home. I'm here for a few days with my partner."
"In business or in love?"
Strike smiles and reveals, "In all things, ma'am." Gesturing to the nearest shade tree, he continues, "If you can spare a few minutes, I've a story that might interest you."
He's certain that they've found the right person when she then looks afraid, but she nevertheless nods, saying only, "All right."
Vigilant for confirmation in her reactions that he isn't revealing anyone else's secrets, Strike explains who he is, how he came to hear about Arthur Ponsford in London, and why that led him to this cemetery. When he's done, she merely stares off into the distance, her eyes moist with unshed tears. In case he doubted his theory, she asks, "Arthur is dead, then?"
"I'm afraid so, ma'am. Earlier this year. His heart, I believe."
She slowly shakes her head, saying, "It's a terrible thing, to outlive your children."
"They were brothers, ma'am?"
"Will I have to give up my house? None of the money is left. After ensuring I'd always have a home here, my son spent most of it on conservation efforts in and around the island. Do you believe in redemption, Mr. Strike?"
Strike doesn't believe for a minute that the money is gone, but he keeps that to himself, saying, "Considering some of the mistakes I've made, it seems prudent. As for your home, that doesn't concern me. My client asked only that I find out why her father had a passport in the name of Laurence Prendergast."
Her eyes widen a little, and she reveals, "I've not heard that name in a very long time. They said it was the only way to keep everyone safe."
"And it worked."
"I suppose so. Yes, they were brothers. I'd hoped that having children would soften my husband's feelings towards me, but all that happened is he took Laurie when he divorced me. Men could get away with that sort of thing in those days. So I was left with a young child and no one to help me raise him. It got tough. Still, it worked out; I found a job as a receptionist at an accounting firm. Ed chose Laurie because he was older and hard, like him, but Artie was the smart one; he'd be permitted to sit with me after school, and was always fascinated by numbers. He got a job there when he was thirteen. I remarried, though it didn't last; the only thing he left us was his name, so I don't know how the boys found each other. I only knew they had when Artie explained that he'd helped Laurie invest the money he'd stolen. I didn't want anything to do with it. But, of course, the only reason they told me that much was because it was too late to wind the clock back. We were all in danger if anyone discovered their connection."
When she pauses, Strike says, "That must have been very hard for you, giving up the life you knew."
She smiles and looks around them at the beautiful landscape, saying, "It got easier." And then her smile dims, and she again asks, "Will they take my house?"
"Like I said, that doesn't concern me, ma'am. But I do have a favour to ask of you." When she merely looks at him, the fear back in her eyes, he asks, "Would you consent to meeting your British daughter-in-law?"
"Arthur married?"
"And had two daughters, one a lawyer and the other an accountant, like her father."
"They'd come here?"
"They're on their way; your daughter-in-law, Mabel, and her oldest, Rose. They would have contented themselves with paying their respects to your eldest son, but I'm sure they'd love to meet you. I haven't yet told them, because my partner and I weren't sure who was leaving the flowers. I wondered if he'd remarried."
"No. He had liaisons, that he thought were hidden from me, but he never married, and wouldn't contemplate more children. I never asked if it was fear of being found out, or loyalty to his family back home." Meeting Strike's gaze, she asks, "And you're seriously not going to tell anyone about this?"
"I wouldn't stay in business very long if I weren't discreet. And, with that out of the way, may I know your name?"
She finally smiles, and then holds out her hand, saying, "Hilary Ponsford, but I think you should call me Hilly."
Exuberant at not only solving her family's mystery, but acquiring more family, Rose Ponsford insists on both partners flying business class home. Despite this comfort, Robin is feeling out of sorts by the time they land at Heathrow, so that Strike asks, "Your place? I mean, so you can get some rest?"
She shakes her head, saying, "No. My place is currently even more depressing than yours."
He grins and quips, "Gee, thanks." And then he insists she sit in the cab while he loads their luggage. Once inside, he tells the cabbie "Denmark Street," and then asks Robin, who looks barely conscious, "Need a doctor?"
Leaning against his shoulder, she says, "No. It's probably just a stomach bug or maybe jetlag. I'll be fine after some sleep. But you'd better not kiss me, just in case."
If anything, she's even more appealing in this pathetic state, relying on him to care for her. But he jokes, "Yeah, you're pretty gross."
She lightly punches his arm, and sleepily says, "I really did though, you know?"
"Did what?"
After a massive yawn, she reveals, "Know when I met you that an adventure was going to happen. I thought it was the ring, but it had gone dark, so it can only have been you."
He manages to stifle his laughter at her incoherence, but is smiling when he suggests, "Yeah, I think sleep is a good idea."
Her last words until the cab stopping at the agency jolts her awake are, "I love you, Corm'roran."
The first thing Strike notices when he's manhandled his sleepy fiancée and their luggage onto the footpath is the fisheye lens security camera above the door to their building. He's been meaning to do that for a while, so silently thanks Pat. After all, there's no way his landlord would commit to such largesse. Glad, as ever, that he packs light, he's carrying all their bags except Robin's handbag up the stairs. He's shepherding her past Crowdy's office when she stops so abruptly that he bumps into her, and she says, "Strike."
He follows her gaze to see their names etched in glass. For one fanciful moment thinking that he's somehow climbed another floor of stairs without realising it, he then hears a sound familiar and yet alien in this setting. And he turns to see Spanner emerging from the lift, that has never worked since before he leased the office space on the next floor. Spanner smiles and says, "Welcome home, bosses." Gesturing to their bags, he says, "Want me to take them up and leave 'em on the landing for you?"
In a daze, Strike holds up a hand to stop any further words, and asks, "What the fuck is going on?"
If anything, Spanner's smile widens, and then he starts taking luggage from Strike as he nods towards the new office, saying, "Pat's inside. She'll explain."
"Okay, uh, take Robin up, would you? She's not feeling too good."
There's just enough room for two adults and luggage in the vintage lift. Nervous about its ability to safely convey his fiancée, Strike watches until it's out of sight. And then he steps through the glass door, to see an open plan office, with Pat just inside the door, and a massive desk with two office chairs to the rear. Beside that are two armchairs enticingly arranged around a small coffee table. There's also a huge couch opposite Pat's desk, along with another coffee table, cupboards along all the walls, and a tiny kitchenette tucked in behind her, the only thing that looks familiar from upstairs. She removes her lightweight headset—another new addition—to let it rest around her neck, and warily eyes him, asking, "You're back, then?"
"I thought so, but this doesn't look like my office. Wanna tell me what the fuck is going on? Have we swapped with Crowdy?"
"No, he's set himself up to work from home. As you can see, this is now our main office. Timothy has your old office, which is also the file room, though most of it is now stored online. My old office is now staff room and conference room. Crowdy's subletting this to us for half what he's paying, and he's got a lease until April."
"Why the fuck would he do that? And why's he working from home? Is he ill?"
Pat counts off his question on her fingers as she explains, "He would have had to pay full otherwise, and we got most of his furniture for next to nothing, because that was the easiest option for him. He's not ill, just doesn't need this space because he does most of his work on computers now. Plus, he wants to cut overheads because he's worried that Brexit and Trump are going to 'proper fuck this country'. His words, not mine, though he's not wrong."
"Trump? Donald Trump?"
"President of the Unites States, yeah."
Even travelling and spending most of his spare time having sex, Strike had been aware that Trump was in the running, but it doesn't seem possible that he could've won. Shaking his head, and putting that mystery to one side, he asks, "And how come Crowdy's office is so much bigger than mine?"
"It's not. I just haven't put the dividing wall in yet." Gesturing towards the massive desk, she continues, "I noticed you two like to work side-by-side, but didn't want to assume. Just let me know if you want two offices or one."
Strike is ready to argue the point about her not wanting to assume, but then remembers how nice it was to share the old desk with Robin, despite the cramped conditions, so he says, "I'll check with Rob, but sharing sounds good, thanks. And you're sure we can afford all this?" Before he's finished that sentence, Pat is offering him a manila folder. A quick glance shows that it's a detailed invoice of the changes she's made. He'll read through them at some point, but he has no doubt it all adds up. "Yeah, okay. And what about the lift? How did you work that magic?"
"Reporters." When he only shakes his head in confusion, she explains, "They were here for days, sniffing around, so I gave 'em a soundbite about how you've been here for several years, always paid your rent on time, and have to limp up and down those stairs every day."
He hates playing on his disability. "You didn't."
She grins and says, "Well, not the last part. But you know how they love your missing leg, so they mentioned that in the article anyway, along with your medal. Next thing I know, lift was being fixed. I think the new owners are trying to keep in good with current leaseholders. You should complain more."
He's been told that many times. But he shrugs and quips, "Too lazy." He has many more questions, but they can wait. "Right, I'm gonna go check on Rob. She might have picked up something while we were away."
Looking him up and down, she says, "Not you though? You've lost more weight, and you've got a tan."
He bows, saying, "Thank you for noticing." Saluting her with the folder, he adds, "And thanks for this. I would never have had time to do even half of what you've achieved in a little over a week. You're a marvel, Pat Chauncey."
Strike can see that his praise has hit the mark when Pat blushes slightly and looks away, but she covers by asking, "You haven't gone soft on me, have you?"
"I wouldn't go that far. Okay, I'll check in later."
"If you're free in about half an hour, I'm expecting a new client. I can take it, but thought you might wanna leap straight back in."
I do wanna. "Yeah, okay. If Rob's not too bad, I'll be back soon. Thanks again."
"Welcome." And she puts her headset in place, adjusting the microphone so it sits beside her chin.
About to leave, another mystery presents itself, and Strike asks, "Staying with the old computer?"
Pat doesn't quite blush again, but she won't meet his gaze to insist, "It's good enough for me."
With an idea why she might want to keep the relic, he says, "You know, Spanner could set you up with a reasonable second-hand replacement, and help you transfer files across: addresses, documents, high scores for games, that sort of thing. Strike knows that he's guessed correctly when she darts a sideways glance towards him at the last suggestion. "Yeah, okay, I'll have a word to him." Satisfied that all is as it should be, despite nothing being where it was, Strike is almost out the door when Pat says, "Welcome back, Cormoran."