Page 149 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

This man is an imposter. He doesn’t know Taylor Swift, he isn’t working on her sixth album and if you reverse search his pictures you’ll find he’s stolen all of them.

The match finished, Mr and Mrs Murphy at last made moves to leave, gathering up their things, now intent on getting to Murphy’s aunt’s on time.

‘It’s been lovely meeting you,’ said Robin, with every bit of enthusiasm she could muster. ‘Really lovely.’

She was caught off-guard by Murphy’s mother’s embrace.

‘We’re so happy to know you, at last.’

But the embrace felt forced, the older woman’s body stiff, rather than yielding.

‘You want to take the odd weekend off, girl,’ said Murphy’s father, winking at her. Apparently he’d guessed she’d been working while they were watching the game. Had Murphy complained about her workaholic tendencies, too?

The three Murphys left at last, their son walking his parents down to their car. Robin returned to the window to check for Green Jacket again, but saw no sign of him. The Murphys talked for five minutes at the front of the building, then the parents departed and Murphy headed back inside.

Robin knew as soon as he re-entered the sitting room that she was in trouble. Nevertheless, she tried to defuse the atmosphere he’d brought back into the room with him.

‘They’re really ni—’

‘If you don’t want to be here,’ said Murphy in a low voice, ‘just say so.’

Robin stared at him.

‘What d’you mean, “if I don’t want to be—?”’

‘You couldn’t have acted more bloody bored if you’d tried.’

‘Hang on,’ said Robin. ‘I was told we weren’t allowed to talk while the football was on.’

‘She didn’t mean it literally! You couldn’t even come and sit with—’

‘Your father was taking up two thirds of the sofa!’

‘You could’ve asked him to move!’

‘I’ve only just met him, I’m not telling him where to sit in a flat I don’t own,’ retorted Robin.

She, too, was suddenly angry. Exhausted though she was, she’d chatted through a lengthy lunch, laughed at all his father’s jokes, answered all his mother’s questions and stacked the dishwasher single-handedly, so Murphy’s parents could have him to themselves over coffee.

She’d forfeited her Saturday at a moment’s notice to keep him happy.

She’d made every effort to act as though she wanted Liverpool to win the game.

But the real problem, she was sure, wasn’t that she’d remained on her hard seat in the background, but that instead of taking out knitting – especially of a baby’s sweater – she’d taken out a notebook and phone.

Possibly Murphy thought her perusal of the internet had, in fact, been surreptitious texting of Strike, of which he’d accused her on Christmas Eve.

Can you not forget about work for two minutes?

‘I need fresh air,’ said Murphy. He turned, and the front door slammed, leaving Robin standing in shock.

Fresh air? Like all the runs you were taking, and the gym sessions you were enjoying?

With stony-faced efficiency, Robin began her search, firstly of the kitchen cupboards.

She found no alcohol there, nor in the tiny airing cupboard with the boiler, nor under the sofa or hidden behind Murphy’s sparse collection of books.

The bathroom was alcohol free; she even sniffed his shampoo and aftershave to make sure. This left the bedroom.

There were no bottles under the bed or in the bedside cabinets.

Once again she rifled through Murphy’s clothes, taking out the box of charging leads and change, feeling all round the top shelf where he’d hidden the vodka before, but there were no bottles there now, nor was there anything in his gym bag except trainers and a tracksuit.

There was, however, a briefcase at the very back of the wardrobe. Delving into it, her fingers closed over what felt like a small cardboard bag.

She lifted it out and saw that it bore the imprimatur of a high street jewellers.

She looked inside to see a small black velvet box, also clearly brand new, with a receipt coiled beside it.

With a shock far worse than that she’d felt at seeing the door slam, Robin was suddenly sure what she’d see if she opened the box.

Sure enough, when she lifted the lid, she saw a small diamond solitaire winking up at her, set on a white gold or platinum band.

A wave of sweat passed down her body.

Oh God, no.

She lifted out the receipt, not to see the price, but the date. He’d bought it days before she’d discovered the vodka, before they’d agreed to let the new house go.

Robin replaced the ring and receipt carefully back in their bag and returned it to the old briefcase, then closed the wardrobe door and set about gathering her things.

If Murphy really hadn’t run off to the pub or the off licence, he’d probably be back soon, full of contrition, wondering whether this time he’d blown everything.

So flustered was Robin when she left the flat that she forgot all about Green Jacket.

However, she arrived safely at the Land Rover and set off, even more frightened than she’d been on arrival: not of sudden physical attack, but of the silver-coloured band hidden in the depths of Murphy’s wardrobe: a tiny, sparkling shackle.