Chapter Text
Detective Robin Ellacott climbed the metal stairs trying to supress the eye roll that was one of the gestures she was known for in the department. For a private detective agency, this was a bit of a cliché.
The office she was going to was located in an old building on Denmark Street. Some random offices, the faint smell of curry, cigarette smoke, and old pipes were the distinctive features. As she reached the door in which a glass announced C. B. Strike, Private Detective, Ellacott was ready to bet she was going to be greeted by a curvy redhead receptionist.
What she wasn’t ready for was the yelling, and for that glass door to burst open. A woman charged outside the office, almost colliding with her. In the split second their eyes locked, Ellacott was struck by how beautiful she was, but also by the expression. It was livid, yet strangely exhilarated.*
The door closed with a bang and she was about to knock on it when it burst open again. This time she couldn’t avoid the giant of a man who slammed into her.
By some miracle reflex she managed to clasp her hand on the metal railing but that didn’t prevent him from seizing a fistful of cloth and flesh. With a yelp she pushed him back and he took a step back to regain his balance.
“Fuck, sorry,” he gasped. “I didn’t see you - didn’t expect anyone to be there.”
“I’m ok,” Ellacott said, a bit breathless. “Fine.”
For a moment the man looked at her, and then at the stairs where the all mighty bang of the front door resonated. Again he looked at Robin and finally it seemed he was fully aware of her presence.
"Are you...?" He pointed vaguely at his own door.
She just nodded.
“Come inside, please,” he said with a sigh that could be exhaustion or exasperation, holding the door open for her.
Trying to surreptitiously rub her left breast, which had received most of the man's considerable weight, Ellacott entered a small office with an empty desk and a very old and ugly sofa. No receptionist then, redhead or otherwise.
Her accidental assailant on the other hand had a presence that seemed to fill the room. He was massive; his height, his general hairiness, coupled with a gently expanding belly, suggested a grizzly bear. One of his eyes was puffy and bruised, the skin just below the eyebrow cut. There were nail tracks on his left cheek and the right side of his thick neck, revealed by the crumpled open collar of his shirt.*
“Mr. Strike?” She asked, wondering what could have happened to elicit that kind of aggression on him and guessing that the woman in the stairs was probably the author of some of the bruises.
“Yeah, I’m really sorry about-”
“It’s ok,” she said, even though she was still in pain. “I’m detective Robin Ellacott, SD. I’ve called twice to try to fix an appointment with you-”
“Yeah, sorry,” said the man, now trying to straighten up his shirt and hair. “Last temp was useless.”
Ellacott looked at him for a moment wondering if he wanted to apologise for something else. He seemed to be still affected by whatever had happened before she arrived because for a moment he just looked around the office as if he didn’t know why he was there.
“Right,” Ellacott said, trying to bring him back to the present. “I need to talk to you about a case.”
His eyes fixed on hers again and his expression adjusted from bewilderment to what she thought was professional. “Right. Please, come into the office. Take a seat.”
She walked into a dingy office that reminded her of her previous thoughts about cliches. One large table with an outdated computer occupied most of the space. It was meticulously arranged, but everything seemed to be old or scarcely used.
“Can I offer you a cup of tea- no, sorry, I just remember I run out-”
“No matter,” Ellacott said. “Please, there are some questions we would like to ask you.”
“Alright,” he said, taking a seat at the other side of the desk and pointing at the empty chair in front of him.
She sat down and took out a blue notebook. “Have you been contacted by anybody regarding the death of Lula Landry?”
For a second he looked puzzled, and she could tell the exact moment when he realised who she was talking about. “The model who committed suicide?”
“Yes.”
“Why would somebody contact me about that?”
She didn’t answer but studied him, trying to decide if he was being genuine or if he had indeed being contacted and was fishing for something she could let slip. His frown, and the way he was no longer slumped on the chair but rather attentive didn’t look like an act to her.
“The person who might contact you doesn’t go by Landry, but Bristow.”
At this, Strike showed signs of recognition. His eyebrows arched and he reached for a pad of paper at the table.
“John Bristow,” he said, looking at a note hastily scribbled on top of it.
“Yes.”
He scratched his chin, thoughtful. “He called here yesterday. He’s scheduled to come tomorrow.”
“Did he tell you why?”
“I haven’t talked to him. The temp took the note. I’m actually surprised she got it right.”
His eyes suddenly became focused for the first time since she entered the office. “The verdict was suicide,” he said simply. “Why would he want to contact me?”
Detective Ellacott took a second to respond, wondering how much information she could bargain to get something from him.
“The last time we called he mentioned your name. He's sure you'll find something where we failed," she said unable to suppress a smirk. "He's not convinced with the verdict."
“Is there any reason for him not to be?”
“Sometimes family members have a rough time-”
“I know, but if it were just that, you wouldn’t be here.”
Now Ellacott really looked at him, wondering for the first time if he could be any good as a detective. She had looked him up, and learned about his past in the military and his injury, but other than a flawless file, nothing there gave her a hint of something different from a resented war veteran who decided to go his own way. There were many of them these days.
Maybe she had been mistaken.
“This case is high profile,” she answered. “The press was all over it, and the pressure on the force was high.”
“I can see that.”
“What we would like,” she cleared her throat. She was not asking for a favour. “... for you to do is to talk to us before talking to the press. If you happen to find something.”
This time it seemed it was him the one doing some considerations. His eyes fixed on hers for a second and then he nodded.
“I’ll have to check with the client first, but I’m no fan of the press.”
Ellacott nodded. “That’s good to hear.”
“Who was in charge of the case?” he asked offhandedly, but she suspected it was a very calculated question.
She doubted for a second, but he could look it up very easily and maybe, if she were to volunteer some information, she could prevent damages later on. “Carver. Detective Inspector Roy Carver.”
He wrote down the name on the same notepad that had Bristow's contact information. From where she was seating, Ellacott could make out spiky, almost unreadable handwriting.
“And you?” he asked.
“And me. I'm DS.”
He nodded, still writing.
“What do you reckon, then?” he asked after a short pause, looking back at her.
She sighed. Maybe he was just a gossip and a fraud after all, like almost every private detective she’d met. “Mr Bristow gathered information on his own, and we passed on everything we could give him. You’ll be able to start there… if that’s what he wants.”
Strike gave her a lopsided smile. He too seemed to have realised she had avoided the question.
“Well, Mr Strike,” she said standing up. From the insides of her bag she produced a card. “Here is my contact information.”
He looked around his desk and found a card of his own. “Here’s my mobile number,” he said. “I don’t know when I will get a new temp.”
“Alright.”
She glanced at the card. It was a cheap print, probably from a do-it-yourself place, which added to the appearance of an office that wasn’t really overflowing with clients. Without a word, she put it inside her bag and turned around. The steps following her, she just noticed, indicated a slight limp.
“Pleasure to meet you,” he said, and once again he seemed distracted by their surroundings.
“Likewise,” Ellacott said, stretching his hand.
He nodded and, with a small professional smile, she left.