Page 14 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

… a Brotherly affection and kindness should govern us in all our intercourse and relations with our brethren…

Albert Pike Morals and Dogma of the Ancient and Accepted Scottish Rite of Freemasonry

Strike called a team meeting on Wednesday morning, because the ex-wife of the cricketer Pat preferred to call ‘Mr A’ had boarded a plane to the Canary Islands.

Plug was at his mother’s house in Camberwell, over which Midge was keeping watch.

Strike was keen to brainstorm, with particular emphasis on getting rid of Mr A as soon as possible.

He arrived at the glass door of the office at nine o’clock to find it unlocked and office manager Pat Chauncey already at her desk.

Sixty-eight years old, simian of face and with unconvincingly boot black hair, Pat had, as was her invariable practice, an e-cigarette clamped firmly between her teeth.

‘Happy birthday,’ she croaked, in the baritone that often led to her being misidentified as Strike on the phone.

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Yeah. Thanks.’

He hadn’t forgotten his birthday, he’d just hoped the rest of the agency would.

He didn’t want an early morning tea party, with candles and present opening, and he didn’t particularly want to remind Robin that he was forty-two.

However, a large envelope and a sizeable cube-shaped present wrapped in blue were sitting on Pat’s desk, and, glancing towards the kitchen area, he saw an old cake tin decorated with pictures of Princess Diana that definitely didn’t belong to the office.

‘A woman called Decima Mullins called,’ said Pat. ‘She wants to know when you’ll be getting a contract to her.’

‘When I’ve decided whether we’re taking her case,’ said Strike, heading towards the kettle.

‘And Mr A left a message last night. He wants an update.’

‘Fuck’s sake.’

The glass door opened again. Strike turned and saw Robin.

‘Morning,’ she said, smiling.

‘You look remarkably good, for someone who’s just got off their sickbed.’

‘Yes, well, that’s blusher and concealer for you,’ said Robin, with unfeigned cheerfulness. She felt significantly better than she had at the weekend, and much happier for being back in the office. ‘Happy birthday, by the way.’

She headed a little awkwardly towards Strike to give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek, which he accepted gladly.

‘And I got you this,’ said Robin, pulling a weighty wrapped package out of her tote bag, which made the operation site twinge, and handing it to him. ‘That one,’ she said, indicating the large present on Pat’s desk, ‘is from all of us. You can open mine now. It isn’t very imaginative.’

She didn’t say that she’d had to ask Murphy to buy it while she was temporarily housebound, which was why it was fairly impersonal. Strike unwrapped the box and found a bottle of what had once been his favourite whisky. Robin wasn’t to know it now reminded him of his dead ex-fiancée, so he said,

‘Fantastic, thanks very much.’

‘So why are we having a team meeting?’

‘Opportunity,’ said Strike. ‘Mrs A’s away. Midge is on Plug, but she’s going to dial in – and Two-Times—’

‘You’re kidding me,’ said Robin, freezing in the act of hanging up her jacket. ‘Two-Times is back?’

‘Morning,’ said Kim, entering the office before Strike could answer. ‘Happy birthday, Cormoran!’

‘Cheers,’ said Strike, now heading for the cupboard where they kept the fold-up plastic chairs. ‘I haven’t agreed to take Two-Times on yet,’ he told Robin over his shoulder. ‘Until we’ve made a firm decision on Decima Mullins, I don’t know whether we’ll have room for him.’

‘I should have something soon, on how certain they are that body was Knowles,’ Kim informed Strike confidently. ‘I’ve tapped a couple of contacts. People are being weirdly cagey about it, though. The lead investigator, Malcolm Truman, has been suspended.’

‘Has he?’ said Robin. ‘Why?’

The glass door opened again.

‘Morning,’ said Glaswegian Barclay. Tall, beaky-nosed and prematurely grey-haired, he, like Strike, was ex-military. ‘Oh yeah,’ he added, spotting the package on Pat’s desk. ‘Happy birthday.’

‘Cheers,’ said Strike again.

‘Told Robin about Two-Times yet?’ asked Barclay.

‘Who’s Two-Times?’ said Kim.

‘Guy who likes being cheated on,’ said Barclay. ‘He pays people tae catch his girlfriends in the act.’

‘Ah, cuckolding fetish,’ said Kim with authority.

‘Who’s the lucky woman this time?’ Robin asked Strike.

‘His wife.’

‘Oh my God – someone married him?’

‘We’ve all made mistakes,’ said Kim. ‘Admittedly, I never married one of mine.’

She laughed. Robin, the sole divorcee among the detectives present, felt the rise of an increasingly familiar antagonism, but told herself that Kim meant no offence.

When Shah, who was shorter than both his male colleagues, and so good-looking he was generally selected to sweet-talk female witnesses or suspects, had arrived, Pat dialled in Midge Greenstreet on FaceTime.

‘Happy birthday, Cormoran,’ said Midge, who had short, slicked-back dark hair, clear grey eyes, and was currently sitting in her car. ‘What are you now, forty-five?’

‘Two,’ said Strike, ‘forty-two. Right, shall we—?’

‘Have you opened our present yet?’ asked Midge.

‘You’re not easy to buy for,’ said Pat, now heaving the large package off her desk and holding it out to Strike. ‘We went for something practical.’

Strike opened the package and was relieved to find nothing that would need to be tried on in front of them all, nothing pointless he’d have to keep in his flat out of politeness, but a bulk order of his favourite vape juice.

‘Enough nicotine to kill a bull,’ said Strike. ‘That’s great. Genuinely. Thanks very much…

‘Right, better start with Plug, in case Midge needs to get going. What’s he up to?’ Strike asked the onscreen Midge.

‘He’s been shouting at his poor old mum again, the bastard. I could hear him from the street, but he hasn’t been—’

‘I’ve told Cormoran this already,’ said Kim, talking over Midge. ‘On Sunday—’

‘All right if I finish what I was saying?’ said the onscreen Midge crossly.

‘Sorry,’ said Kim, eyebrows raised. ‘Go on.’

‘—hasn’t been out,’ Midge finished, glowering.

‘Right,’ said Kim, with a little laugh. ‘Well, on Sunday he drove to Ipswich, where he met up with another couple of blokes in a pub. One of them was noting things down in a kind of ledger. I got photos of numberplates and I’m going to ask a Met mate to run them through the files.’

‘Good work, that could help,’ said Strike, and Robin, remembering Murphy’s ‘she had quite the rep at work’, tried without success not to feel resentful, ‘but we haven’t got the manpower to start tailing a bunch of Plug’s mates unless we can get rid of Arse—’ he caught Pat’s glare ‘—Mr A. Speaking of whom—’

‘She’s nae shaggin’ fuckin’ Culpepper,’ said Barclay. ‘If he wants to stop shit appearin’ aboot him in the papers he could try not bein’ an arsehole.’

‘Yeah, but the stuff in the papers is about his past arseholery,’ said Shah, ‘and if it’s not coming from his ex, who’s leaking it?’

A fifteen-minute discussion ensued about the people Mr A and his ex-wife routinely met. Robin’s mobile buzzed while this conversation was still going on. Murphy had texted her.

I’ve got what you wanted, but it’s a lot more sensitive than I realised.

Robin texted back:

Ryan, thank you so, so much. Would it be ok for Strike to hear what you’ve got, as well as me?

Having ticked Mr A off the list of things to discuss, Strike moved on to Decima Mullins.

While he gave the others an overview of the current position, omitting mention of Decima’s baby, Kim reiterated her hope that one of her police contacts might be prepared to share the DNA findings on the body in the silver shop vault.

Robin waited on tenterhooks for Murphy’s response, which was slow coming; the detectives had already discussed various expense-related matters, the subcontractors’ upcoming Christmas and New Year leave requirements, and agreed a couple of job swaps, before at last it appeared.

Yeah ok but we’ll do it face to face and NOBODY ELSE can know I’ve given you anything. It’s properly sensitive.

Robin looked up. Pat was removing a homemade iced cake from the tin decorated with pictures of Princess Diana. E-cigarette clamped firmly between her teeth, she stuck two candles in it, a large four and a two.

‘Wasn’t gonna put the lot on,’ she told Strike, carrying it over to the desk. ‘Fire hazard.’

Strike did his best to look appreciative while ‘Happy Birthday’ was being sung.

Noticing the forced nature of Strike’s smile, Robin started to laugh before the song was finished, noting with gratitude that laughter no longer caused her much pain.

Strike, unwillingly amused by Robin’s amusement, found himself genuinely grinning by the time Pat instructed him to blow out his candles.

‘Did you make a wish?’ asked Kim archly, as Pat began cutting everyone slices.

Strike, who hadn’t, didn’t answer.

‘Strike, could I have a quick word after this, about Decima Mullins?’ asked Robin.

‘Yeah, definitely,’ said Strike, accepting a bit of chocolate sponge from Pat. ‘I’ve got a couple of things to tell you, as well.’

Robin took secret satisfaction at the sight of a flicker of annoyance on Kim’s face.