Page 166 of Troubled Blood

“He is,” said Strike, turning the monitor back toward himself, typing another couple of words and turning it to face Robin again. “I did a bit more searching on variations of his name, and…”

She saw an author page of the Amazon website, listing the books written by an author called Carl O. Brice. The photograph showed the same man from the newspaper, a little older, a little balder, a little more creased around the eyes. His thumbs hooked in his jeans pockets, he wore a black T-shirt with a white logo on it: a clenched fist inside the Mars symbol.

Carl O. Brice

Carl O. Brice is a life coach, entrepreneur and award-winning writer on men’s issues including masculism, fathers’ rights, gynocentrism, men’s mental health, female privilege and toxic feminism. Carl’s personal experience of the gynocentric family court system, cultural misandry and male exploitation give him the tools and skills to guide men from all walks of life to healthier, happier lives. In his award-winning book series, Carl examines the catastrophic impact that modern feminism has had on freedom of speech, the workplace, men’s rights and the nuclear family.

Robin glanced down the list of books beneath the author biography. The covers were cheap and amateurish. All featured pictures of women in various slightly pornified costumes and poses. A scantily dressed blonde wearing a crown was sitting on a throne for From Courtly Love to Family Courts, A History of Gynocentrism, whereas a brunette dressed in a rubber stormtrooper outfit pointed at the camera for Shamed: The Modern War on Masculinity.

“He’s got his own website,” said Strike, turning the monitor back to himself. “He self-publishes books, offers to coach men on how to get access to their kids, and flogs protein shakes and vitamins. I don’t think he’ll pass up the chance to talk to us. He seems the type to come running at the sniff of notoriety or money.

“Speaking of which,” said Strike, “how’re you getting on with that woman who thinks she saw Margot at the window on—?”

“Amanda Laws,” said Robin. “Well, I went back to her offering her expenses if she’ll come into the office, and she hasn’t answered yet.”

“Well, chase her,” said Strike. “You realize we’re now six months in—?”

“Yes, I do realize that,” said Robin, unable to help herself. “I learned counting at school.”

Strike raised his eyebrows.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “I’m just tired.”

“Well, so am I, but I’m also mindful of the fact we still haven’t traced some fairly important people yet. Satchwell, for instance.”

“I’m working on him,” said Robin, glancing at her watch and getting to her feet. “I think they’re all out there, waiting for us.”

“Why’s Morris brought flowers?” said Strike.

“They’re for Pat. For Valentine’s Day.”

“Why the hell?”

Robin paused at the door, looking back at Strike.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

She let herself out of the room, leaving Strike to frown after her, wondering what was obvious. He could imagine only two reasons to buy a woman flowers: because you were hoping to sleep with her, or to avoid being criticized for not buying flowers on a day when flowers might be expected. Neither seemed to apply in this case.

The team was sitting in a cramped circle outside, Hutchins and Barclay on the fake leather sofa, Morris on one of the fold-up plastic chairs that had been bought when the team outgrew the existing seats, and Pat on her own wheeled desk chair, which left another two uncomfortable plastic chairs for the partners. Robin noticed how all three men stopped talking when Strike emerged from the inner office: when she’d led the meeting alone, she’d had to wait until Hutchins and Morris finished discussing a mutual police acquaintance who’d been caught taking bribes.

The bright pink daisy-like gerberas sat in a small vase on Pat’s desk now. Strike glanced at them before saying,

“All right, let’s start with Shifty. Morris, did you get anywhere with that bloke in the tracksuit?”

“Yeah, I did,” said Morris, consulting his notes. “His name’s Barry Fisher. He’s divorced with one kid and he’s a manager at Shifty’s gym.”

Appreciative, low-toned growls of approval and interest issued from Strike, Barclay and Hutchins. Robin contented herself with a slight eyebrow raise. It was her experience that the slightest hint of warmth or approval from her was interpreted by Morris as an invitation to flirtation.

“So, I’ve booked myself in for a trial session with one of their trainers,” said Morris.

Bet it’s with a woman, thought Robin.

“While I was talking to her, I saw him wandering about talking to some of the other girls. He’s definitely hetero, judging by how he was looking at one of the women on the cross-trainer. I’m going back Monday for a workout, if that’s all right with you, boss. Try and find out more about him.”

“Fine,” said Strike. “Well, this looks like our first solid lead: a link between Shifty and whatever’s going on inside Elinor Dean’s house.”

Robin, who’d spent the night before last sitting in her Land Rover outside Elinor’s house, said,

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