Page 111 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

… so the game is ended

That should not have begun.

A. E. Housman XIV: The Culprit, Last Poems

The knowledge that Robin and Murphy were definitely moving in together was still lying like lead in Strike’s stomach when he entered the Savoy Hotel from the Thames-facing side of the building at half past three the following afternoon.

He collected his key card from the reception desk in the grand green and cream lobby, then proceeded upstairs in the red lift, the walls of which were lacquered and patterned in gold.

He was confident he hadn’t been tailed, yet as the small red and gold box moved upwards, he felt as he imagined guilty men did, walking into court for sentencing.

The long, deserted corridor into which he emerged was carpeted in eau-de-nil and lilac, muffling his footsteps. He turned, unobserved, into the ‘Superior Queen’ he’d booked, which overlooked a chilly courtyard. The room was vaguely Art Deco in style and had cost Strike several hundred pounds.

He sat down in the upright chair at the desk and turned on the television, seeking distraction, but a few minutes spent watching President Trump justify his decision to curtail the emigration of Muslims to the States caused him to turn it off again.

He opened emails on his phone and saw a long, miserable one from Decima Mullins, repeating every similarity between Wright and Fleetwood she’d already shared with him.

Having skimmed this, he put his mobile aside in favour of the only available reading material in the room, a thick magazine catering to those who either bought, or coveted, luxury goods.

The cover showed a very beautiful young blonde wearing a large amount of diamonds, and the tagline beneath the picture caught Strike’s eye.

COSIMA LONGCASTER: IT GIRL EXTRAORDINAIRE

Strike flicked past advertisements for men’s watches, crocodile-skin handbags and platinum fountain pens until he found four pages of pictures of Cosima modelling further diamond necklaces and rings, her blonde hair flying in a wind machine.

On the fifth page was something loosely resembling an interview.

Favourite food: Anything spicy, the hotter the better!

Favourite drink: I have my own cocktail at Dino’s, the Cosmic – tequila, ginger and honey. Yum!

Your idea of a good time? Any night at Dino’s, my home from home.

Secret passion? I’m a total true crime addict. Anything about unsolved murders.

Best gift you’ve ever been given? Daddy gave me an incredible, unset pink diamond for my eighteenth. I’m still deciding how I’m going to wear it.

Something nobody knows about you? I did one of those ancestry testing DNA kits and turns out I’m 3% Neanderthal!

Strike threw the magazine back down again.

There was a knock on the door. He got up and opened it. Bijou was standing outside, looking harried, her hands on the handle of an expensive-looking pushchair.

‘Anyone follow you?’ said Strike, backing away to let her enter.

‘I think, maybe, a dark woman, but she didn’t get in the lift with me.’

‘Did you go up to the sixth floor before coming here, like I told you?’

‘Yes, I did everything you said,’ she snapped.

Strike glanced up and down the corridor outside.

It was empty. He closed the door, locked it and turned to see Bijou divesting herself of her coat.

She was slightly heavier than she’d been during their extremely brief liaison, but she still looked good, her brunette hair glossy, her blue eyes bright against her olive skin.

Instead of the figure-hugging dresses he associated with her, she was wearing a thick cream sweater and jeans.

The baby in the pushchair was fast asleep; Strike could see tightly closed eyes beneath a pale pink hat. He’d wondered whether he’d know, on seeing the child, whether they were genetically linked, but it looked like a bald monkey and he felt nothing except antipathy tinged with apprehension.

‘I’ve got the kit in here,’ said Bijou, rummaging in her bag and bringing out a cardboard box. ‘You just have to swab the inside of your cheek and put it in this liquid. I’ll do ours now, as well.’

For no real reason he could think of, Strike retreated to the black and white bathroom so that she couldn’t watch him taking the swab. Once done, he returned to the bedroom, where Bijou sat staring blankly at the parchment-coloured walls and gold, flowered carpet.

‘There you go.’

Her fingers brushed his as she took the sample; he withdrew his hand as though burned.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let me know as soon as you’ve got the results.’

‘And that’s it, is it?’ said Bijou in a tearful voice.

‘What did you expect?’ asked Strike, his hand on the door handle.

‘There’s just – there’s no need to be so foul about all this!’

‘You’ve led a bloody sheltered life if you think this is foul,’ said Strike, and he left.