Author's Note: As per the books, Eric Wardle was married to April, with a daughter Bess (young, I think). I liked the character of April, so have engineered a reconciliation:-)

John Cakebread is one of mine.

Chapter Ten

Unusually, Wardle has asked Strike to meet this time at Scotland Yard, thankfully remembering to mention that the Met headquarters moved only days earlier. On arriving at the address, Strike realises it's not a new building, and he wonders why they moved. On seeing him, the police detective exclaims, "Fuck me, there's less of you every time I see you. I'd wonder if you're ill, but you look too damn healthy."

As he did yesterday, Strike bows, saying, "Thank you for noticing." Gesturing to Wardle's crew cut, he comments, "And I see you've embraced the bald?"

Wardle runs a hand over his head, saying, "Wasn't sure at first, but I like it. Low maintenance, and I'm spared the indignity of a comb-over. This way."

Strike accompanies him, asking, "Why the move to this old place?"

Wardle shrugs, saying, "Something to do with real estate."

"And shouldn't the sign now read 'New New Scotland Yard'?"

When Wardle barely even cracks a smile, Strike figures he's not the first person to make that joke. He follows the detective into a private room, which leads him to ask, "This a formal interview?"

"No, just being careful. Had my arse dragged over the coals when word got out about us reopening your mother's case."

"But you know I didn't leak that info about mum being murdered, right? Fuck's sake, I gave it to you."

"I know that, or you wouldn't be here."

Nodding to the folder under Wardle's arm, Strike asks, "You have something for me?"

He drops it onto the table, saying, "No notes, photos or copies, sorry. But, with your memory, you shouldn't need it."

Strike sits down and opens the folder, to see that it's a transcript of the official interview with Old Man Whittaker. Wardle is already leaving, prompting him to ask, "You're trusting me with this?"

Wardle finally smiles, and says, "You can be a right royal pain in the arse, but you're not stupid enough to jeopardise a contact in the Yard."

Grateful that at least their working friendship seems intact, Strike says, "No, I'm not. And, look, you know why I gave that tip to Murph instead of you, right?"

Wardle nods, saying, "He doesn't have kids. I get it. He got his crown, thanks to you."

"He made super? And I didn't even get a thankyou card."

Wardle grins and reminds him, "But I hear you got Robin, you jammy bastard."

"True. And you don't look quite as pathetic as the last time we met. You dating again?"

Wardle straightens his tie and reveals, "April and I are giving it another go."

"I hadn't heard. Congratulations."

Wardle shrugs, saying, "We'll see. We're not living together; don't wanna confuse Bess any more than she already is. But, yeah, it's going good." Glancing at his watch, he concludes, "Right, you get reading, and I'll see what's keeping Cakebread."

"Thanks." Strike sets himself to absorbing the document before him. Most of it covers the same ground he did before Wardle arrived. It also confirms that Maureen was the one who cleaned up the crime scene. That she then approached Sir Randolph about caring for the baby, saying that she often minded him at the squat before Leda died, which is a lie. Shanker would have mentioned if someone else was in the frame that regularly. Besides, Leda adored babies; he distinctly remembers, at the age of two, being jealous of an infant Lucy because she received so much of their mother's time and attention. He reads on, to learn that Lady Whittaker confessed to a then fifteen-year-old Switch, in the hopes of convincing him how much she loved him. A few years earlier, he'd received his first computer, and soon discovered that they'd lied about his parentage, so he never again referred to them as his mum or dad and was barely speaking to them; a sulk that would continue until he left for Oxford, at which point he ceased all contact. Though he's alone, Strike utters, "Fucking nutter."

At the end of the interview, Sir Randolph is formally charged with several crimes, that basically add up to helping his wife get away with murder, plus a few firearms charges. Given that it's enough to ensure the old man, if convicted, will ultimately die in prison, Strike hadn't mentioned that he was held at gunpoint, and sees no reference to it here, which is a relief. With luck, he may even avoid becoming part of the trial, but that's a slim chance. He's read through the transcript twice, memorising most of it, when the door opens, so he closes the folder and puts it to one side. Standing, he sees that John Cakebread is a thirty-something Caucasian man with wispy brown hair and pale blue eyes. Wardle makes the introductions, and the men shakes hands, with Strike saying, "Thanks for this, John, I appreciate that you're a busy man."

He smirks, saying, "I haven't agreed to anything yet. But Eric assures me you're not quite the media whore the papers make you out to be."

Ten seconds in and Strike already dislikes the guy, not just for his clammy handshake, and for being late, but the emphasis on the word "whore"; a word he rarely hears nowadays, even in that context. Handing the folder to Wardle, Strike says, "Thanks for that, and for such high praise. Find Maureen yet?"

Wardle accepts the folder, saying, "Oh, yeah; picked her up on the way to Scotland. She maintains that she wasn't fleeing, but merely left because she assumed that her job was finished. She's not said anything, so it'll be the old man's word against hers when this eventually reaches a courtroom." Cakebread has already sat down, so he concludes, "I'll leave you to it. Catch me on the way out, Strike?"

"Will do." Strike sits down, waiting for Cakebread to speak. When he doesn't, Strike wonders if he's one of those cops who thinks silence is a weapon. "Eric tell you anything of why I'm here?"

"A misper from five years ago: Catrin Baker. Hope you didn't promise your client anything."

"Only that I'd see if it were possible. I explained that fucking up a police case is a fast track to unemployment, and she seemed to accept that."

The man's posture relaxes a little. Perhaps Strike has misjudged him, and what he'd mistaken for rudeness was in fact nerves. "So, what do you want from me?"

"Anything you're willing to share. My client is Brynn Morgan, the sister. She has a lot of information for me, but obviously you'd have more."

"You know that Baker was a runaway from an early age, and often used to piss off for whereabouts unknown as an adult?"

"I'm aware. I have no reason to think that due dilligence wasn't paid, but I can do what you and the NCA can't: devote my time to this one case. I just want to know if this is a lost cause, or I can maybe give one sister some closure. Her husband is pressuring her to have Catrin declared dead when she can in a couple of years, and Brynn wants to make sure she's explored all avenues before taking that step."

Cakebread studies him for a few seconds, and then instructs, "Keep me posted if you find anything new, and don't fuck with evidence, or it's no use to me."

So he's a jerk and he's nervous. Wardle must have mentioned Strike's career in the SIB, so this instruction is wholly unnecessary, and probably another power play. "Of course."

Leaning back in his chair, Cakebread now asks, "And you want this cooperation gratis?"

Okay, more jerk than nervous. Strike retrieves the slip of paper from his pocket and hands it over. Cakebread looks at it, and then asks, "What's this?"

Pretending he's never seen it before, Strike leans forward to study it, and then declares, "Looks like an address."

All attempt at swagger forgotten, Cakebread snaps, "I can see that. Who lives there?"

"No one. That's the point. Dig up the freshest patch of concrete in the basement, and you'll solve one of your cases."

"Which one?"

It's the truth when Strike shrugs, saying, "I don't know, but I'm assured he was not a nice man, so you should already have his details."

Finally showing some sense, Cakebread doesn't sound hopeful of an answer when he asks, "And who gave this to you?"

"A concerned citizen, who wishes to remain anonymous. I'm guessing the guy didn't die of natural causes, so you might as well copy Eric in now." On seeing a serpentine cunning slither across the man's features, Strike shrugs, saying, "But that's up to you."

"Yeah, okay. I'll look into this. If it checks out, I'll get you a copy of the file."

Forcing a smile, and not looking forward to working with the man, Strike stands and offers his hand—not looking forward to another damp handshake either—saying, "Thanks."

This time Cakebread wipes his hand down his trousers before shaking hands, making Strike wonder if he just perspires a lot, which puts him in mind of Carver. Not an encouraging comparison. Thankfully, he seems to be done with playing games, merely shaking hands and saying, "Thanks for the tip. Hopefully, we can help each other out."

When the guy's gone, Strike heads over to Wardle's desk, saying, "You wanted to see me?"

Wardle looks up, removes his reading glasses, and asks, "How'd it go with Von Sweatsalot?"

Strike snorts a laugh at the nickname, and says, "Looks like he'll help. But why'd you choose him?"

"You asked who I knew in Missing Persons. He's it."

Finally understanding, Strike says, "Oh, God, you're related to him?"

With a resigned shrug, Wardle reveals, "April's cousin; the living embodiment of the Peter Principle. But he does the work, or he never would have made it this far."

"Yeah, okay. So, what's up?"

Wardle leans back in his chair as if trying to put distance between them, and says, "No go with your apparent stalker. It's still not enough to lean on Whitehall. Though I gave him a dressing down over blabbing to the press, which he denies. He's a cunning little fucker."

"Yeah, he is. So, what can I do? It hasn't affected my business yet, but it could."

Wardle shrugs again, and says, "Get more cunning, I guess. In isolation, none of them are crimes, but keep on taking note of all these incidents, because we can go after them for stalking and harassment if it's one person. But we really can't do much unless you ID whoever's behind it. If they are; could be unrelated incidents."

"Or he's even more cunning than we think. All right, thanks. I'd better go. I owe you one."

"Uh, actually, you can repay me tomorrow evening."

"Oh?"

Looking uncharacteristically nervous, Wardle says, "Yeah. April wants to have a dinner party at a restaurant with a few of her colleagues, and I don't know many couples, you know, socially. If you and Rob show up, it won't just be me and a bunch of civilians."

"Uh, okay, should be doable, but I'll have to check with Rob. What's the occasion?"

"She thinks one of the reasons we drifted apart was the fact that we'd hardly ever go out, even before Bess was born. I mean, April said she understood that I couldn't easily plan around the job, but that didn't make it easier to be always stuck at home waiting for me."

Genuinely impressed, Strike says, "Wow, you're really making a go of it, huh?"

"I am. Turns out that, miserable as I was married to April, I'm more miserable without her."

Strike grins and teases, "And if you decide to retie the knot, there's your wedding vows." He laughs when Wardle flips him off. "Text me the details, and I'll talk to Rob."

"Thanks. And good luck with your case."

"Five years old? We'll need it."