Page 125 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

All that gay courageous cheer,

All that human pathos dear;

Soul-fed eyes with suffering worn,

Pain heroically borne,

Faithful love in depth divine—

Poor Matthias, were they thine?

Matthew Arnold Poor Matthias

‘Shall we find somewhere to sit down?’ were Robin’s first words, once Richard de Leon had returned inside Clos de Camille. Though the gash made by the spade had stopped bleeding, the left side of Strike’s swollen face was turning purple as the bruises rose to the surface.

‘I’m fine,’ he said, well aware he must look anything but.

‘Well, I could use a coffee or something, after all that,’ said Robin.

To her relief, because she’d feared they might have to return to the Avenue to find somewhere, an establishment on Rue de la Seigneurie was open for custom, though this necessitated an upstairs climb to the Captain’s Bar, where portholes were painted on the sloping eaves.

No longer in a fit state to appreciate nautical décor, Strike slumped into a seat by the window and on being informed by Robin that the place didn’t serve coffee, asked for the beer he really wanted.

‘Alcoholic,’ he added, because in the absence of painkillers he was happy to improvise, and Robin was immediately reminded of Christmas Eve, and Murphy’s sudden rage because she’d questioned him on the alcohol content of his pint.

‘So… that’s it,’ said Robin, when she rejoined Strike at the table with his beer and her own tonic water. ‘De Leon’s out. He was your favourite for Wright, as well.’

‘He was, yeah,’ admitted Strike. ‘I could see a reason for him being polished off in the vault, but I can’t see why the hell Powell or Semple—’

‘Or Rupert—’

‘Or Fleetwood, if we must – had to die there.’

‘Nor can I,’ said Robin. After a moment or two she said, ‘D’you think the dead man was someone else entirely, who was killed for reasons we don’t know?’

‘I think that every other hour,’ said Strike.

‘But if it was someone we’ve never heard of, the police don’t seem to have heard of them either, and it seems bloody odd literally nobody’s come forwards to say it might’ve been that man.

But I think it’s safe to conclude that whoever Oz is, he’s not the man Branfoot paid to kill de Leon.

Shanker’s been hoodwinked. I’ll have to let him know the supposed killer’s full of it. ’

Rain began to fall again as they sat beside the window and each sipped their drinks.

‘So, it turns out there are brothers who tell each other everything,’ said Robin.

‘Doubt Danny wanted to tell him,’ said Strike. ‘Probably thought he might need Richard as back-up, if Branfoot’s henchman turned up.’

‘They’re fond of each other, though, you could tell… Have you seen Al lately?’ she asked, referring to the only half-brother with whom Strike had contact.

‘No,’ said Strike. ‘Still pissed off I didn’t want to reconcile with Rokeby after finding out he had prostate cancer. We haven’t talked since.’

‘I like him,’ said Robin, who’d met Al only once, but retained the memory of someone who seemed both fond of and impressed by his older brother.

‘So you keep telling me.’

‘You do, too,’ said Robin, smiling.

‘He’s all right,’ said Strike, with a slight shrug. ‘We’ve just got fuck-all in common.’

‘Like Martin and me,’ said Robin, who then clapped a hand to her forehead and gasped, ‘oh, bugger.’

‘What?’

‘I forgot to call Mum back yesterday, about Dirk.’

‘About what?’

‘Dirk, Martin’s son. My newest nephew. He was supposed to be going home yesterday. There were some problems with the birth; he’s got a paralysed arm.’

‘Shit,’ said Strike.

‘They think it’ll resolve,’ said Robin.

‘Your family’s been doing a lot of breeding lately.’

Robin experienced again that slight inner wince that was now accompanying all mention of babies and pregnancy, unaware that Strike had noticed a slight external flinch.

‘Listen,’ she said, keen to get off the subject, ‘I doubt we’re going to be able to get a takeaway for dinner, I haven’t seen anywhere that’s open. Why don’t I go and buy some food we can cook at the Old Forge this evening?’

‘It’s raining.’

‘Which is why it’s lucky I’m not made of papier maché.’

‘OK, I’ll come,’ said Strike, picking up his pint with the intention of downing it.

‘No,’ said Robin. ‘You stay here and rest your leg. Don’t look at me like that, we’ve still got to walk to the B we could take on more work with another subcontractor. I think he’d more than pay for himself.’

‘What’s made him want to leave the police?’

While Strike explained the combination of personal circumstances that had made Wardle keen on a change of career, Robin had time to remember that Murphy didn’t like Eric Wardle.

He’d never explained why, but usually had a critical comment to make whenever his name came up.

However, it wasn’t up to Murphy who the agency hired, any more than it was up to him which cases they decided to investigate.

The rain had passed off again, but the light was rapidly fading and, their progress being so slow, the sun had set before they reached the lonely lane along which the Old Forge was supposed to lie. Soon they were immersed in velvety darkness.

‘The stars are incredible, aren’t they?’ said Robin, looking upwards. In the absence of street lights, they shone hard and bright against the deep black, every constellation clearly marked.

‘Yeah,’ said Strike, who might, under other circumstances, have attempted to wax poetic, but was now in a lot of pain and mainly concentrating on the damp, uneven terrain, which Robin was illuminating with her phone torch.

The wind was whispering through the hedgerows; Robin kept glancing back, expecting to see a vehicle behind her, but it was a relief to think that nobody in a gorilla mask was about to appear.

‘I think this is it,’ she said at last, as a building loomed to the right.

Forbearing to say ‘Christ, I hope so,’ Strike followed her carefully up a short gravelled drive, down a few stone steps, and at last, with enormous relief, through the unlocked door of the B&B, where Robin turned on the lights.

They stood in a large hallway, with a wooden walkway overhead connecting two upstairs bedrooms. To the right was a bedroom, to the left, a shower room. Their bags, still with the green tags attached, were sitting in the middle of the wooden floor.

‘D’you want to take the ground-floor bedroom?’ said Robin.

‘Cheers,’ said Strike. ‘All right if I get a shower before we eat?’

‘Of course, I’ll cook,’ said Robin, taking the bag of shopping from him.

Their fingers touched as he handed it over. Robin felt a tiny thrill pass through her, and then a sudden sense of mingled excitement and panic.