Page 115 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

What of a hasty word?

Is the fleshly heart not stirred

By a worm’s pin-prick

Where its roots are quick?

Robert Browning A Lovers’ Quarrel

Robin’s Valentine’s Day started badly. Murphy had stayed over at her flat. In addition to a card, he’d bought her a plush dog with a heart in its mouth, in allusion to his previous offer to buy her a puppy. After Robin had laughed and kissed him, he said,

‘You can take him with you on surveillance or whatever you’re doing tonight. Valentine’s date by proxy.’

Robin chose to ignore this broad hint that Murphy was still annoyed she had to work that evening, but the residual guilt and annoyance it had caused was still with her that afternoon, while watching Mrs Two-Times, who was shoe shopping alone.

When Robin’s mobile rang, she was relieved to see the office number rather than her boyfriend’s.

‘Hi, Pat.’

‘A man called Wynn Jones called,’ said Pat. ‘Friend of that Tyler Powell’s.’

‘Oh, good,’ said Robin, who’d phoned the farm at which Jones worked and left a message, asking him to call her. ‘What did he say?’

‘That he doesn’t want to talk to you. He says he knows who’s hired you.’

‘Did he say who?’

‘“Fucking Faber Whitehead”,’ quoted Pat sniffily.

‘That’s the father of the boy who crashed Tyler’s car,’ said Robin. ‘I don’t suppose you saved Jones’ number?’ she added hopefully.

‘I did, yeah,’ said Pat.

‘Please could you send it to me?’ said Robin, as a beeping in her ear told her she had a call waiting.

‘Will do,’ said Pat, and she rang off, leaving Robin to check the screen of her mobile. When she saw Murphy’s name, she had a strange sense of foreboding. Sure enough, when she answered, his first words were:

‘We’ve been fucking gazumped.’

‘What?’

‘Some bastard’s offered the seller another five grand. The estate agent’s just called me.’

‘Oh, shit,’ said Robin.

But she was shocked by the relief that had just washed over her.

‘You don’t sound exactly upset,’ said Murphy.

‘Of course I’m upset, but I’m in the middle of Selfridges, Ryan, I can’t burst into tears without attracting attention,’ said Robin quietly, while Mrs Two-Times tried on a pair of emerald green stilettos. ‘What’s the estate agent’s advice?’

‘Offer more, obviously.’

‘OK, well – d’you want to? Or shall we look for something el—?’

‘I don’t fancy another twelve months of this. I’ve had to virtually drag you just to see three bloody houses.’

‘That isn’t true,’ said Robin, taken aback by his sudden aggression, and certain he was pushing for an argument to vent his frustration about the gazumping. ‘I like this one, I was the one who argued for getting it, remember?’

‘But you’re happy to let it go and keep looking.’

‘I’m not happy , I’m just asking whether we can afford another five thousand!’ said Robin, as Mrs Two-Times admired herself in a full-length mirror.

‘What’s the end game, finish up with something even smaller?’

‘I haven’t got an “end game”, I’d just rather we didn’t bankrupt—’

‘Well, it’s not like you need to save for a new car, now Strike’s bought you a Land—’

‘ He didn’t buy me a Land Rover, it’s owned by the business of which I’m a partner,’ said Robin, keeping her voice low with immense difficulty, because she’d now lost the struggle not to become openly angry, ‘and if you’ve got something you want to say about the smallness of houses, go right ahead and say it. ’

‘I’m not—’

‘Oh, aren’t you?’ said Robin in a loud, furious whisper. ‘Don’t tell me “no pressure”, then hint that I don’t want space for kids!’

‘That’s in your head, not mine!’

‘Don’t gaslight me, Ryan, I’m not a fool. I’ve got to go.’

She hung up.

A few minutes later, Murphy called her back.

Robin didn’t pick up, because she was still feeling anxious and upset, not only about this fresh burst of temper from Murphy, but by her own feeling of relief, which she knew was telling her something that she’d been suppressing and denying ever since she’d first agreed to move in with him.

For the second time in a few days, Robin imagined fleeing somewhere warm and light, where she’d have space to decide what she really wanted.

Distance, she felt, might give her perspective; unfamiliar surroundings might jolt her out of this pattern of agreeing because she felt she ought to agree, because when you said ‘I love you’, certain obligations ensued.

She reminded herself yet again about how kind and considerate Murphy had been after the ectopic pregnancy, and following her long stay at Chapman Farm, not to mention how open and upfront he’d been in the discussion about children.

She thought – knew – she loved him, but when he phoned her a third time, she let him go to voicemail again.

Robin handed over surveillance of Mrs Two-Times to Midge at four o’clock, then set out for the garage where the new Land Rover was parked, because she was supposed to be taking over from Strike, who was watching the house in Carnival Street where Plug Junior had received his dog bites, and which Plug Senior was currently visiting.

She’d just put the key in the ignition when a text arrived from Murphy.

Seeing as you’re not answering my calls, I’m texting.

This isn’t how I wanted Valentine’s Day to go.

I hoped you’d be as disappointed as I was about being gazumped, but you didn’t sound it, that’s all I was saying.

I said the thing about small places because we both like a bit of space. It wasn’t anything to do with kids.

Bullshit, thought Robin, and she typed back,

You talked about me having an ‘end game’. What ‘end game’? I don’t appreciate the remark about the car, either. I’d have thought you’d be glad I didn’t have to lay out thousands of my own money when we’re trying to buy a house together, but any chance to drag Strike into an argument, you take it.

Robin’s phone buzzed several more times while she was driving to Haringey, but she ignored the new texts.

A tight knot of anxiety and fear had lodged behind her rib cage, though of what she was afraid she couldn’t have said.

Being honest with herself? Being honest with Murphy?

The fallout that was likely, if she expressed the slightest reservation about moving in together?

Why had she let herself get pulled along into this situation?

Hadn’t she learned anything about listening to her own doubts, from the calamity that had been her short-lived marriage?

But this isn’t the same, she argued against herself. He’s not Matthew.

Carnival Street comprised a terrace of dilapidated houses on one side and a scrapyard running the length of the other.

Robin arrived to see Strike’s BMW parked just a few spaces ahead of her.

Assuming he’d leave now he’d seen her arrive, Robin parked, took out her mobile and saw a text from her mother.

Martin and Carmen back together xxx

Great , Robin texted back, before turning to Murphy’s latest messages.

I don’t take every chance to drag Strike into arguments, because I know what happens when I mention him. You go off on one.

The next text read:

I wanted us to get a place we could live in long-term, not somewhere that starts feeling cramped within months.

I get the impression you’d rather keep everything as temporary as possible, as if we’re students who might move on within a year.

And I don’t think it’s a hanging offence to want spare bedrooms.

The last said:

Just because I wanted an open conversation about it the other night, you make this all about kids. I’m not pressuring you, but I’m not going to apologise for wanting them, either. All I want is two-way honesty.

The passenger door opened. Robin jumped, her hand moving instinctively for her bag and the pepper spray before she registered that it was Strike climbing into the car.

‘Got a few things to tell you.’

‘OK,’ said Robin, putting her mobile down and trying to focus.

‘Plug’s mate in Ipswich who got done for animal cruelty headed for the compound an hour ago, with a dog in the back of his van that, and I quote Barclay verbatim, “looks like a fucking tiger”. Apparently a lot of other blokes have rolled up since, all in vans, and on an unrelated subject – shit.’

Plug and a friend had just emerged from the house, dragging a gigantic dog that looked to Robin the kind of creature that might guard the gates of hell: a muzzled, snarling, jet black, heavily muscled cross between a Rottweiler and a giant Bulldog.

It took the combined efforts of both men to force it into the back of Plug’s van.

‘Don’t you want to—?’ Robin began, as she turned on the engine.

‘No,’ said Strike, pulling on his seatbelt, ‘I’m coming.’