Page 102 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

Weary of myself, and sick of asking

What I am, and what I ought to be,

At this vessel’s prow I stand, which bears me

Forwards, forwards, o’er the starlit sea.

Matthew Arnold Self-Dependence

So that was that, thought Robin: Strike had lied to her face.

He who berated her for not immediately informing him of a minor incident (for the purposes of her present resentment, it suited Robin to minimise the impact on her of the gorilla-faced, dagger-waving stalker) was deliberately concealing a further risk to the agency of scandal and press intrusion (and it suited her to attribute all her rage and hurt to this, rather than investigate the weight in the pit of her stomach, which grew heavier every time she thought of Strike as a father).

As she and Barclay entered Wycliffe Road in the latter’s car early the following morning, Robin had yet another source of aggravation: a smarting right eye, from which tears kept leaking.

The previous evening she’d chopped up a lot of very hot chilli peppers in her kitchen, and evidently she hadn’t washed her hands thoroughly enough afterwards, because in touching her eyelid she’d inflamed her tear ducts.

The chilli-chopping had been part of a project she didn’t intend to tell Murphy about, firstly, because he still didn’t know about either the man in Harrods, or the one with the masonic dagger, and secondly, because it was illegal to carry or use pepper spray in the UK.

Nevertheless, Robin felt a little safer this morning, knowing that she was carrying a potent mixture of chillies, cayenne pepper, garlic and vinegar in a clear plastic spray-bottle in her handbag.

She’d worry about the legal consequences later, if she had to use it.

The internet had advocated the spray as a way to repel garden pests, but she might be on flimsy legal ground should she claim she was carrying it around in her handbag for the benefit of three pot plants she’d left at home.

Nevertheless, if Robin had any choice in the matter, no more men would seize her by the neck from behind without suffering consequences, nor would any of them get near enough to her to wave even blunt daggers in her face.

Barclay parked a short distance away from the maisonette where Fyola Fay, whose utility bills were addressed to Fiona Freeman, lived with her boyfriend, a very large, muscled and entirely bald porn director called Craig Wheaton, whose personalised number plate read, in part, GYM.

Fiona used social media only to promote new films she’d been in, or tease her OnlyFans account.

Her most recent post was an advertisement for a fleshlight modelled on her own genitalia, with the tagline Get Inside Your Favourite Star!

Thus far, the agency’s surveillance hadn’t identified any times when Wheaton was regularly absent, and Fiona at home.

Robin definitely didn’t want to attempt an interview until she was sure Wheaton was out of the way, because she’d once before spoken to a woman whose partner had returned unexpectedly, physically assaulting Robin in his fury at finding her in his house, and she didn’t want a repeat.

The plan was that Barclay would keep an eye on Wheaton if he went out.

If the couple stayed home all day, nothing would be attempted.

‘Poke me if I fall asleep,’ said Barclay, with a yawn. ‘Ah was on Mrs Two-Times till two this morning. Mind, it’s nice not tae be pukin’.’

‘When were you puking?’ asked Robin, mildly interested.

‘Did Strike not tell ye about the prawn?’

‘What prawn?’

‘Ate one, accidentally, coupla weeks ago, while I was watchin’ Plug’s mum’s house.

Bought a sandwich from some shithole that doesnae label their stuff properly.

You put seafood anywhere near me, I turn into a double-ended fuckin’ volcano.

Strike had tae come an’ take over for me.

It was that night you caught that cleaner upskirting. ’

‘Oh,’ said Robin.

She looked back at Fiona Freeman’s front door, thinking of that night, and her conviction that Strike had been with Bijou Watkins, either for a clandestine hook-up, or to sort out the mess of Bijou’s baby’s paternity.

So he hadn’t been with Bijou, after all.

But did that change anything? Strike was still hiding the truth from her, wasn’t he?

Still failing to admit that another explosion of sordid press might be about to jeopardise the agency?

‘Aye, aye,’ said Barclay, as the sitting room curtains opened in Freeman’s maisonette, and they caught a glimpse of Fiona wearing a lime green sports bra and leggings.

‘Shit,’ said Robin, as Fiona’s platinum head vanished. ‘Looks like she’s going to the gym.’

‘Could have a treadmill at home,’ said Barclay.

Twenty minutes passed, then the front door of Freeman’s house opened and Wheaton emerged alone, wearing a tracksuit. He jogged down the steps and got into his car.

‘I’m going to chance it,’ said Robin, opening the passenger door.

‘OK, good luck.’

‘Keep in touch,’ said Robin.

She loitered on the street for a further ten minutes to make sure Wheaton wasn’t going to double back for something he’d forgotten, then crossed the road, climbed the steps and rang the doorbell.

A few seconds later, Fiona opened up. From her online research, Robin knew that Freeman was twenty-three.

She was a well-built young woman, literally every visible inch of whom had been embellished or enhanced to send one loud, crude signal: long platinum hair and a deep artificial tan; thick eyelash extensions and pointed, neon pink false nails; fake breasts, filler in her lips and cheekbones – even her toes were adorned with rings and nail varnish, and there was a chain tattooed around her right ankle.

‘Fiona, my name’s Robin Ellacott. I’m a private detective, I work with a man called Cormoran—’

Fiona made to slam the door. Robin shoved her foot in the gap and said, very fast,

‘We’re investigating the body in the silver vault. We know you think it was Dick de L—’

‘Get out. Get fucking out! ’ panted Fiona, in a voice almost as deep as Pat’s.

‘Anything you say would be in complete confidence – nobody needs to know you spoke to me. It’ll be better for you if you talk—’

‘Fuck – OFF !’

In danger of having bones in her foot broken, Robin withdrew. The door slammed. Robin remained where she was, on the doorstep, now slightly dishevelled and breathless.

A minute later, Fiona appeared at the window beside the door.

‘FUCK OFF OUT OF HERE!’ she bellowed through the glass.

‘It’ll be better for you if you talk to me!’ Robin shouted back.

Fiona flipped her the finger and disappeared again. Robin remained where she was, hoping that her vague threats might work, once they’d had time to percolate.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw another flash of lime green. Fiona had returned briefly to the window to see whether Robin was still there, but whipped herself back out of sight again.

Five more minutes passed. Robin wondered whether Fiona was waiting for Wheaton to come home and deal with her. Then the front door opened a crack.

‘I told you to fuck off, ’ said Fiona. ‘Fuck off. ’

‘It’s either talk to me, in which case I can protect your identity, or you can explain in court why you wrote that note,’ said Robin. ‘That’s the choice.’

For a few more seconds the door remained open just a crack. Then, it opened six inches.

‘I dunno what you’re fucking talking about,’ said Fiona. ‘I never wrote no fucking—’

‘Yes, you did,’ said Robin. ‘You wrote an anonymous note in a masonic code and put it through our agency’s door.’

‘You’re out of your head. I never—’

‘You were caught on camera,’ Robin bluffed. ‘We can prove it was you.’

Fiona’s fake tan was too opaque to enable Robin to see whether she’d blanched, but a taloned hand flew to her mouth and the pupils of her light blue eyes dilated. She remained stock still, apparently robbed of speech, the other hand gripping the door.

‘Just tell me what you know, and I’ll leave,’ said Robin.

The neighbour’s front door opened.

‘Get in,’ whispered Fiona, backing away to allow Robin entrance, and clearly frightened of her neighbour knowing what was going on.

Fiona appeared to be close to hyperventilating.

She led Robin towards the kitchen, one taloned hand still covering her mouth, her enormous, cosmetically enlarged buttocks undulating beneath the lime green Lycra.

There was a butterfly tattooed just above her waistband.

Robin took out her mobile, set it to record, and hid it in her bag again.

The kitchen was white-walled, with a white island in the centre, on which sat a clean ashtray, a pack of Marlboro Lights and an iPhone in a pink sparkly case.

An expensive-looking exercise bike faced French windows overlooking a small backyard.

The décor was dominated by a framed blown-up black and white photograph of Wheaton and Fiona from the waist up, both naked.

He stood behind her, muscles oiled, bending to kiss her on the mouth, his hands over Fiona’s breasts.

Fiona started pacing in the tight space between kitchen island and bike. ‘Craig’s gonna kill me,’ she gasped, through the fingers still covering her mouth. ‘He’s gonna go fucking nuts .’

‘Craig’s your partner?’ said Robin, pretending she didn’t know.

‘Yeah.’

‘He doesn’t know about the note?’ Robin said.

‘No, he doesn’t know about the fuckin’ note, of course he fuckin’ doesn’t!’ said Fiona wildly.

‘You’ll probably just be confirming things we already know,’ said Robin.

‘Other people have talked?’ said Fiona, stopping in her tracks.

‘Yes,’ said Robin. It was semi-true. Shanker had talked.

‘And what’ve they said?’

‘That the man in the vault was killed because he had information on somebody rich and important.’

‘Oh fuck ,’ moaned Fiona, starting to pace again.

‘I promise you, we can keep you out of this, if you tell us what you know.’