Page 144 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

But still, as we proceed,

The mass swells more and more

Of volumes yet to read,

Of secrets yet to explore.

Matthew Arnold Empedocles on Etna

On the rainy evening of the first of March, Strike, tired after an afternoon’s tedious surveillance of Mrs Two-Times, which he’d just handed over to Wardle, made a detour to House of Computers on Tottenham Court Road to buy a new laptop.

He then dropped in at the Flying Horse, where he called the agency’s usual tech man, and received instructions on installing an anonymising browser on to the new device.

It seemed foolish not to enjoy a couple of pints and a burger since he was there, so it was half past eight before he finally headed home.

On entering Denmark Street he was surprised to see a light on in the office window, because Robin had the evening off, and Pat was the only other member of the agency who had keys. He climbed the metal staircase to the second floor and entered through the engraved glass door.

Robin was sitting in her usual seat at the partners’ desk, a half-eaten pizza at her elbow and a wide variety of research materials spread before her, including the plans of Wild Court and Freemasons’ Hall Strike had procured from Holborn Library.

She had personal reasons for wanting to stay at the office instead of going home, and one of them was that her anxiety about being followed or threatened remained acute.

Absorbed in everything she was reading and examining, she’d lost track of the time and jumped when she heard Strike’s key in the lock.

Seeing it was him, though, her heart lifted far more (as she instantly and guiltily realised) than it ought to have done.

‘Sorry,’ she said automatically, before realising this was nonsensical.

‘No need to apologise, it’s your office too,’ said Strike. ‘What’re you doing here so late? Thought you had the night off.’

‘Ryan had to work, so I thought I might as well keep at it,’ said Robin.

This wasn’t entirely true. Murphy was indeed busy, but the second reason Robin hadn’t wanted to go home too early was that she feared her boyfriend might drop in at her flat ‘as a surprise’.

He was currently alternating between neediness and tetchiness.

The latter was undoubtedly down to the pain of withdrawal after an abrupt cessation of drinking, but he kept trying to pin Robin down with plans, to pepper the calendar with future commitments, seeking guarantees that they’d still be together in six, eight, twelve weeks’ time.

The previous evening he’d suggested spending his rapidly approaching thirty-fourth birthday in San Sebastián, where his sister lived.

Robin had said she’d think about it. She was currently resistant to any arrangement that couldn’t be easily cancelled.

Depressed by the implication that, for Robin, there was no point going home if Murphy wasn’t there, Strike set down the new laptop on the desk.

‘Your old one playing up?’ she asked, noticing that Strike was wearing the blue shirt she liked.

‘No,’ said Strike, heading towards the kitchen area. ‘I don’t want to leave any trace of what I’m about to look up on the office PC. Dark web. Can’t be too careful, with MI5 keeping an eye on us.’

He took the whisky Robin had given him for his birthday out of a cupboard.

‘Want a drink?’ he called through to her.

‘Can’t, I’m driving,’ said Robin, trying to sound matter of fact.

Both of them here, alone, after dark: she was remembering the night they’d spent together on Sark, and also that night when they’d eaten a takeaway curry here together, before she and Murphy had even met, when Strike had told her she was his best friend.

She oughtn’t to be thinking about those things.

She shouldn’t be noticing Strike’s shirt.

‘Dev just texted me,’ she called out. ‘He wants a week off over Easter if we can manage without him.’

Strike returned to the office with his whisky and glass and sat down opposite her.

‘A whole week’s going to be a stretch unless we’ve got rid of this bloody silver vault case,’ he said. ‘Is there something up with him, by the way?’

‘Who, Dev? No, I don’t think so. Why?’

‘He’s been fairly brusque with me lately, and I notice he’s coming to you with queries about leave, not me.’

‘He hasn’t said anything,’ said Robin. ‘Um… I might have worked out what that note Niall Semple left for his wife means.’

‘What?’ said Strike, thoroughly taken aback.

‘I’ve been reading that book you downloaded. Morals and Dogma of the Ancient— ’

‘—and Accepted Whatever of Bollocks, yeah,’ said Strike. ‘How did that help?’

Robin looked at her computer screen and read aloud:

‘“ Question: What is the most occult number?

‘“ Answer: 5, because it is enclosed in the centre of the series.

‘“ Question: What is the most salutary number?

‘“ Answer: 6, because it contains the source of our spiritual and corporeal happiness.

‘“ Question: What is the most fortunate number… ” You get the idea,’ she said. ‘If I’m right, Niall was leaving Jade an eight-figure code: two, five, zero, six, two, zero, one, six. I suppose it’s too much to hope that opens the Ramsay silver vault?’

‘Doubt it,’ said Strike, as Robin passed a Post-it note to him across the desk and he looked down at the string of numbers. ‘There are no nines. The most worn key on that pad was nine… could be a date, though. Twenty-fifth of June 2016.’

‘Oh God, I didn’t spot that! What happened on the twenty-fifth of June 2016?’

Strike Googled it.

‘Five new species of orchid were discovered in the Philippines.’

‘I was thinking more of what was happening in Semple’s life,’ said Robin, amused.

‘That date’s three weeks after the last confirmed sighting of him alive, so your guess is as good as mine.’

Strike opened his notebook to the page with Spanner’s instructions on how to install the anonymising browser.

He wasn’t thinking about Sark, or of the night they’d eaten curry at the office, or of sharing a bed with Robin after she’d escaped Chapman Farm; he was thinking about how this kind of situation had been exactly what he’d hoped would naturally arise in the course of the silver vault case, and how bloody pointless it had been to take on the damn investigation, in the end.

‘I’ve got another bit of news,’ said Robin. ‘Hugo Whitehead’s father called me earlier.’

‘Remind me?’

‘His son Hugo crashed Tyler Powell’s car.’

‘Oh yeah. What did he say?’

‘I told him we’re trying to trace Tyler Powell and he says he’s happy to speak to me, as long as his wife doesn’t find out, because it upsets her too much to discuss the car crash, so I’m going to their house on Monday evening, when she’ll be at a friend’s.’

The office landline rang.

‘Could be Rena Liddell again,’ said Strike, and he grabbed the receiver.

He could hear traffic.

‘Aye… it’s me again…’

Strike gave Robin a thumbs-up.

‘Hi,’ he said, and trying not to panic her, as he had done last time, he asked, ‘how are you?’

‘Ah need tae meet ye. Ah’m scared .’

She started to cry.

‘What are you scared of?’ asked Strike.

‘Ah know they’re watchin’ me.’

‘I want to meet,’ said Strike carefully, ‘but you’re going to have to tell me which Golden Fleece you’re talking about.’

‘Have ye got people listenin’?’ she said, suddenly suspicious.

‘No,’ said Strike.

‘Have ye got a gun?’

‘No,’ said Strike. ‘Why?’

‘Ah want one.’

‘That’s a bad idea,’ said Strike firmly.

‘Aye, mebbe… I was gonnae… but it’s no’ righ’, not even if they’re Muslims, is it? It’s no’ righ’… jus’ come tae the Golden Fleece, all righ’? It’s where he was, Ah can’t say more ’n that, can Ah?’

He heard beeping and knew she was in a call box. Possibly she had no more coins, because the line went dead. Strike hastily started pressing 1471 to retrieve the number she’d been calling from when the phone rang again.

‘Shit – yes?’ he said, answering.

‘It’s me,’ said Midge, who appeared to be in a bar or restaurant. ‘Big news on Plug.’

‘Hang on,’ said Strike, switching to speakerphone, ‘I’m with Robin. Go on about Plug.’

‘He and a few mates are in the Stapleton Tavern in Haringey and they’re planning a stabbing.’

‘ What? ’ said Robin.

‘You know he was keeping his black killer dog with a mate in Carnival Street?’

‘Yeah,’ said Strike.

‘The mate’s had it put down. He obviously doesn’t want to get nicked for being part of the dog-fighting ring. Plug’s doing his nut. The dog was a champion killer, apparently.’

‘Shit,’ said Strike again. ‘Is the revenge attack planned for tonight?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Midge, ‘but I’ve asked Shah to come and back me up, just in case. I’ve got pictures of all of them.’

‘Great,’ said Strike. ‘But be careful.’

‘Will do,’ said Midge, and she hung up.

‘Fuck’s sake,’ said Strike, wiping his face with his hand. ‘Talk about it never rains…’

‘Speaking of that,’ said Robin reluctantly, ‘I think I’m being followed again.

Nothing’s happened,’ she said quickly, in response to Strike’s expression, ‘but twice now, I’ve seen the same man in a Honda Accord.

He was outside Dino’s on Wednesday and he was behind me when I was driving into the office this morning.

When I slowed down to park he just drove on, but I’ve got a partial number plate and a good look at his face.

He’s definitely not the man who threatened me with the dagger – he’s older and fatter.

Very small nose, big face, thick grey hair. ’

‘Shit,’ said Strike.

‘You might think this is mad,’ said Robin, who was trying to make sure no hint of her ever-present fear made it into her voice, ‘but the way he looked – very neat and respectable, clean-shaven – I don’t see him as one of Branfoot’s young men, and I couldn’t help wondering…’

‘Police?’

‘Well, we know the team working the silver vault case aren’t exactly happy with us. Could they be trying to catch us interfering?’

‘I wouldn’t put it past the couple I met to try and get us for something,’ admitted Strike.