Page 137 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

‘Zero,’ said Strike.

‘Nothing’s been let slip during bedroom talk?’ said Northmore.

‘Haven’t shagged him yet,’ said Strike. ‘Playing hard to get.’

Iverson let out a slight gasp that might’ve been a suppressed laugh.

‘Murphy’s never shared confidential information with me, and to my knowledge he’s never shared it with my partner, either,’ said Strike.

‘You’ve had no scruples about illicitly procuring evidence from our team,’ said Northmore.

‘If you’re talking about the photos of the body, Cochran did that on her own initiative,’ said Strike, ‘and she’s now left our agency.’

‘Yeah? Why’s that? Doesn’t like the way you conduct business?’

Suspecting this was an allusion to the recent newspaper stories about his dealings with women, Strike chose not to answer.

‘Were you surprised to find Jim Todd dead tonight, Mr Strike?’ asked Iverson.

‘I was, yeah,’ said Strike. ‘I went there to try and get his contact details out of his mother, if she had them. I didn’t know he was staying with her.’

‘What made you so interested in Todd?’

‘I think he was the one who helped William Wright get the job at Ramsay Silver.’

He had the impression that this answer wasn’t a surprise to Iverson and surmised that the silver vault murder team, too, might have reached that conclusion.

‘What d’you know about Jim Todd’s movements on the seventeenth of June?’ asked Iverson.

‘Not much,’ said Strike.

‘Would you happen to know why he went to Dalston?’

Strike’s interest sharpened considerably.

‘I’d imagine,’ he said, guessing that the Met had been poring over more CCTV footage, ‘he was meeting Larry McGee.’

The impassive expressions facing him seemed to indicate that this was the police’s conclusion, too, but Iverson said,

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Because two blokes connected to the Murdoch silver heading out to Dalston, where they had no known reason to be, around the same time’ (Strike couldn’t be sure it had been at the same time, but was now probing) ‘seems highly coincidental.’

By the lack of pushback, he surmised that McGee and Todd had indeed converged in Dalston at the same time.

‘What d’you know about McGee and Todd’s relationship?’ asked Iverson.

‘Other than that Todd worked at Ramsay Silver, and McGee delivered the Murdoch silver there that day, very little. Todd let slip he knew McGee was dead when I interviewed him, though, which seemed strange, because he’d initially claimed not to know who he was.’

‘You’ve been in contact with McGee’s daughter,’ said Iverson.

‘I have, yeah,’ said Strike, ‘but she told me nothing useful, other than that McGee was a creep around women, which I’d already found out from his ex-colleagues at Gibsons.’

‘Offer the daughter money?’ said Northmore.

‘Why would I have offered her money?’ asked Strike, but the policeman didn’t enlighten him.

‘What made you so interested in McGee?’ asked Iverson.

‘I’m interested in everything that happened to the stolen silver. It’s tied to the murdered man I’m supposed to be identifying,’ said Strike. ‘Basic background, isn’t it?’

He hadn’t forgotten that the police’s interest in what had happened to the Murdoch silver immediately before its arrival at Ramsays had been minimal.

Iverson glanced at Northmore, who drew himself up in his chair before asking,

‘Where did you get the idea that Sofia Medina was tied to the silver vault murder?’

‘That wasn’t me, it was my partner. She spotted that the description of Medina’s body and clothing matched the description given to us of a woman who took objects out of Wright’s room in Newham.

As you’re aware,’ Strike added, again for the benefit of the recording, ‘when we were told about the man and woman who entered Wright’s place in the hours before and the hours after his murder, we passed the information directly to you lot. ’

‘You offered the witnesses money for information,’ said Iverson.

‘Yeah,’ said Strike. ‘They’re skint.’

‘You’ve been throwing a lot of money at potential witnesses,’ said Northmore, and the stench of diseased gums washed over Strike again, ‘which renders their testimony easy to undermine in court.’

‘If you’re telling me the Met’s never recompensed informers—’

‘You paid two of Jim Todd’s ex-neighbours, too. You can’t see how it might muddy the waters, a well-heeled private investigator wandering around throwing cash at witnesses and suspects?’ said Iverson.

The woman had some brass neck, thought Strike.

She’d leaked to Murphy, knowing full well who his girlfriend was, and now sat smugly in her navy trouser suit, acting as though she, unlike Strike, had never deviated a hair’s breadth from a strict professionalism.

Nevertheless, Strike had to admit the case she and Northmore were building against him was a decent one.

Prior to the sale of Ted and Joan’s house he’d been far from well-off; all earnings had been ploughed back into the business, but it would be only too easy to depict him as the son of a multimillionaire rock star who trampled vaingloriously through open murder investigations, corrupting and perhaps suborning important witnesses to his own ends.

Now he understood Northmore’s first, strange hint about keeping Shanker to himself by the power of his wallet, rather than sharing him, like some kind of human metal detector, with the police.

‘Did you give Gretchen Schiff money?’ asked Iverson.

‘My partner interviewed Schiff, and no, she didn’t give her money,’ said Strike, who’d decided it was time to pull out his metaphorical stick.

‘Have to say, we were surprised you hadn’t got the information about Oz out of Schiff, especially as Medina isn’t the only young woman who disappeared after meeting him, is she? ’

He had to give Iverson this much credit: she had an excellent poker face. The mention of ‘Oz’ hadn’t caused even a slight tremor of recognition.

‘You know he’s done this at least twice, right?’ said Strike. ‘That a girl called Sapphire Neagle vanished after meeting a man who also posed as a music producer, and also gave her a ruby necklace?’

‘This interview is about what you know, not what we know,’ said Iverson.

‘Just surprised you haven’t appealed for information on him,’ said Strike. ‘Especially given the van business.’

Strike could tell Iverson really didn’t want to ask him to clarify what he meant; it would be an admission of weakness. Finally she said,

‘What van business?’

‘Oz was looking to buy a van,’ said Strike. ‘The real Calvin Osgood got an email about it, but he’d never tried to buy an old van. An abandoned van was found in the vicinity of Medina’s body, wasn’t it?’

He could have said more, could have said that he knew a young woman who’d been either genuinely blonde, or wearing a wig, had got into a van after dropping the silver Peugeot back at the rental centre, but as he owed this knowledge to Murphy, via Robin, he kept it to himself.

‘Strange, the way Truman didn’t want to look at anything that didn’t fit with the body being Knowles,’ said Strike.

Northmore’s eyes flickered towards the recording device.

Strike knew perfectly well he was suddenly worried about what Strike might be about to say on tape, which was precisely why he intended to say it.

If they wanted to intimidate him with the possibility of negative press, they needed to know he had stories of his own.

‘As we’re talking about coincidences, and the corruption of murder investigations,’ Strike continued, ‘I’m not sure it’s public knowledge yet that Malcolm Truman’s a member of the Winston Churchill Masonic Lodge, is it?

Funnily enough, that’s the same lodge Lord Oliver Branfoot joined a couple of years ago.

He’s been taking a keen interest in me lately, so I’ve made it my business to return the favour.

I generally do return favours,’ he said, looking Northmore straight in the eye.

‘We’re going to take a short break,’ said the latter, looking up at the clock on the wall. ‘Pausing our interview at one twenty-five.’

He pressed the ‘off’ button on the recording device, got to his feet and caught Iverson’s eye. The pair of them left the room.

Strike sat alone for twenty minutes before the investigators returned, Northmore even grimmer-faced than when he’d left.

‘You said you like to return favours, Mr Strike,’ said Iverson.

‘You know, I’d feel safer if we were still recording,’ said Strike, folding his arms. Veiled threats to smear him to the papers and the very real possibility that he was about to be charged with breaking and entering didn’t incline him to make deals that could be reneged upon.

After a short pause, Northmore switched the device on again, announced that it was now a quarter to two and repeated the names of those present.

‘You said you like to return favours, Mr Strike.’

‘Whenever I can, yeah,’ said Strike.

‘We might be prepared not to press charges on the breaking and entering charge, given that you thought one or both of the Jamesons might have been capable of being saved.’

‘Very decent of you,’ said Strike, with no hint of a smile.

‘But you’ll be receiving a caution for the improper use of skeleton keys.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Strike.

‘Should any information we’ve shared with you tonight be made public, it would of course compromise our investigation,’ said Iverson. ‘The same goes for any personal details you might think you have about DCI Truman—’

‘Oh, I’m completely confident about the details,’ said Strike. ‘I’ve got photographic proof he attends the Winston Churchill Lodge.’

Northmore failed to disguise a slight wince.

‘Even so—’

‘Can’t see why I’d need to share that information with anyone else,’ said Strike.

‘It’s not fun being done over by the tabloids, as I know.

’ For the benefit of the recording, he added, ‘And, as I think I’ve already proven by passing you all relevant information our agency’s unearthed, I’m far from wanting to derail police investigations. ’

He enjoyed Northmore’s scowl.

‘All that being so,’ said Northmore, ‘we’d be glad to know what, and where, “Barnaby’s” is.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Strike. ‘There’s a scrapyard called Brian Judge’s on Carnival Street in Haringey. Fires up its incinerators and crushes vehicles at odd times of night. Marco Ricci, brother of Luca, was there a few hours ago, dropping off a filthy transit van.’

Northmore and Iverson exchanged glances that gave Strike the feeling that suspicions might have been raised before about the scrapyard or its owner.

Iverson looked again at the clock on the wall.

‘Interview concluded at seven minutes to two.’ Having turned off the tape she said, ‘All right, Mr Strike. You’re free to go.’

Strike was tired, hungry, his leg was throbbing and he’d been forced to leave his BMW in Harlesden. Nevertheless, he felt he’d come through the night on the profit side of the ledger.