Page 147 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

… perfect honesty, which ought to be the common qualification of all, is more rare than diamonds.

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

Several things happened in quick succession the following morning to thoroughly destabilise Robin.

Firstly, she was woken at six a.m. by a call from Barclay to tell her she needn’t bother tailing Mrs Two-Times, because the woman was spending the day at a spa with some girlfriends, which Two-Times had forgotten to tell the agency.

Robin was delighted to have an unexpectedly free Saturday, which she intended to spend on sleep and laundry.

Unfortunately, she was woken again, shortly before nine, by Murphy, who called to inform her that his parents were unexpectedly in town, and to ask her over to his place for lunch.

‘I wasn’t expecting them, they just turned up,’ he said, sounding harassed.

‘For a “surprise”, because I haven’t been in touch enough.

So can you come over, because they really want to meet you?

I’ll cook. Dad wants to watch the football.

They’re not staying overnight, thank Christ, they’re at Mum’s sister’s. ’

It so happened that even though Robin and Murphy were now into the second year of their relationship, Robin had never yet met any of his family.

His retired parents lived in Ireland, where his father had been born.

Robin had once answered the phone to his mother, who was English, and had made pleasant small talk with her while Murphy was finishing a shower, but this was the sum total of their direct contact.

Robin therefore felt refusing lunch was impossible, so dragged herself reluctantly out of bed and began looking for something suitable to wear among her small stock of clean clothes.

She’d just started running a bath when her phone rang yet again.

This time it was Strike. After a brief explanation of the surprise visit to the office from Mrs Two-Times the previous evening, he asked whether Robin could possibly forfeit her day off to cover Two-Times, because literally every other detective at the agency was busy, either keeping watch over Plug and his possibly murderous cronies, who hadn’t yet attacked the man who’d had Plug’s monstrous dog put down, tracking the movements of Lord Branfoot, trying to catch Uber driver Hussein Mohamed at home or following Albie Simpson-White.

Robin thought she heard a note of exasperation when Strike mentioned the last of the names, and assumed she was being reminded, none too subtly, that she was the one who’d added this extra burden to the rota.

When Robin explained that she really couldn’t get out of lunch with Murphy’s parents five minutes after agreeing to it, Strike said shortly,

‘Fine. Better hope Mrs Two-Times doesn’t get pissed off we’re not doing as she asked, and go to the press, then.’

As this was the first time in years that Robin had declined a job for personal reasons, and as she’d been bearing a heavier workload than all subcontractors lately, she considered Strike’s impatient tone quite unwarranted, but before she could say so, he’d hung up.

Now cross in addition to exhausted (whose fault was it that the agency was currently vulnerable to bad press?) Robin took her bath.

Once dried and dressed, she opened her bedroom curtains and saw – her eye was drawn to him instantly, as if she’d been expecting him – a man in a green jacket standing on the opposite pavement.

He’d turned quickly as the curtains opened, as though to hide his face, even though she couldn’t have seen it from this distance without binoculars.

Her conscious mind tried to tell her she couldn’t be sure, but her gut instinct told her a different story: same green jacket, same build, same height as the man who’d worn the gorilla mask to threaten her with the masonic dagger.

Heart pounding, Robin watched as he sloped away, keeping his face averted. She was certain he’d been watching her windows.

The repeated wearing of the jacket in which she’d already seen him up close didn’t argue a very bright man.

Nevertheless, Robin knew very well that stupid males could be just as dangerous as intelligent ones.

She went to check her bag for her rape alarm and pepper spray, telling herself he wouldn’t dare do anything on such a busy street, by daylight, and reminding herself that it was a very short walk from the building’s front door to the Land Rover.

She considered calling Strike, but decided against, given how grumpy he’d just been on the phone.

In any case, there was nobody free at the agency to come and give her assistance.

Now she wished, for the second time in as many months, that she didn’t live alone, before reminding herself that if she’d been living with Murphy, she’d be in an even bigger quandary.

He still knew nothing about the man in the green jacket, nor about the small rubber gorilla or the masonic dagger hidden in her sock drawer.

Did Green Jacket have a car? Would he follow her to Murphy’s?

Had he done anything to the Land Rover while she’d been asleep, or having her bath?

She’d need to check it before she got in, but her pepper spray would be in her hand as she did so.

Thus resolved, Robin put on her coat, re-checked the contents of her bag, and left her flat.

The day was cool, clouds sliding across the sun.

Robin looked all around and behind her as she walked briskly to her car, but there was no sign of the man in the green jacket.

Pepper spray in hand, she bent low to check the underside of the Land Rover, but saw nothing, nor were there scratches on any of the paintwork.

She got inside quickly and locked the doors.

Now feeling safer, she left her bag open on the passenger seat, pepper spray within easy reach, and set off, checking her rear-view mirror constantly.

The trouble with Blackhorse Road was that it was always very busy.

Robin knew that Green Jacket would have had time, if he had his wits about him, to get into a car and follow her, especially if he knew where Murphy’s flat was.

She had no idea what car Green Jacket might own, whereas she didn’t doubt he knew exactly which Land Rover to follow.

Robin arrived at Murphy’s flat shortly before midday, still unsure as to whether she’d been tailed.

Murphy’s flat door was opened by his beaming mother, a well-dressed, attractive beige-blonde in her early sixties from whom Murphy had clearly got his good looks; she had the same bone structure and full upper lip.

‘How lovely to meet you at last!’ she said, and Robin responded as effusively as she could manage, with her mind half on Green Jacket.

If Murphy’s good looks were owed to the maternal line, he’d got his height and hair from his father, a burly Irishman with a deep voice, who also expressed delight at meeting Robin, and said Murphy had been keeping her hidden far too long.

Murphy seemed slightly on edge, which Robin attributed to the unexpectedness of his parents’ arrival, and the necessity of cooking for them.

He was stuck in the kitchen, so Robin and the two older Murphys sat down together and chatted easily enough, about their relocation to Galway after long years in London, about Murphy’s older sister’s third pregnancy and about Robin’s recent acquisition of two more nephews.

Robin noticed that neither of them asked about her job at all, which was odd, because it was how she and Murphy had met.

She wondered whether he’d told his parents not to bring up the agency.

Lunch was pleasant enough, although the food could have been tastier; Murphy’s steaks were rubbery and the potatoes slightly underdone. There was wine on the table, of which Murphy’s father partook liberally, cracking jokes, some of them funny.

Robin couldn’t help being reminded of her former in-laws.

Matthew’s father, too, had been garrulous, whereas his late mother had been quieter, more polished and watchful, and Robin had always felt that the latter didn’t much like her.

Murphy’s mother was far friendlier than her Cunliffe counterpart, yet Robin still detected signs that she was being covertly assessed.

‘We were sorry to hear the house fell through,’ she told Robin.

‘Yes,’ said Robin. ‘It was a shame.’

The longer lunch went on, the more certain Robin became that Murphy’s parents had no idea about his recent alcoholic relapse.

Mrs Murphy’s searching look suggested she’d sensed there might be more to the story than that they’d been gazumped for a second time.

Perhaps (a dart of unease shot through Robin) Murphy’s parents knew about the ectopic pregnancy.

Robin had made her boyfriend promise not to tell her parents, but had extracted no guarantees about his.

Over lunch, she learned for the first time why the London-born Murphy supported Liverpool: his father had spent most of his teens in the city and remained a passionate supporter; he couldn’t have tolerated his son supporting anyone else, he told Robin, who laughed politely.

Liverpool was playing Arsenal that afternoon, kick-off at five thirty, which was why Mr Murphy senior hadn’t wanted to go out to lunch – you never knew how long these fancy London restaurants would string out a meal.

Robin was told repeatedly by both parents how proud they were of Murphy, and the latter looked strained as they said it.

Robin found herself longing for match kick-off, because ‘we won’t be allowed to talk once it starts’, said Murphy’s mother, with a humorous eye roll. ‘I’ve brought my knitting.’