Page 150 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

Ha ha, John plucketh now at his rose

To rid himself of a sorrow at heart!

Lo,—petal on petal, fierce rays unclose;

Anther on anther, sharp spikes outstart;

And with blood for dew, the bosom boils;

And a gust of sulphur is all its smell;

And lo, he is horribly in the toils

Of a coal-black giant flower of Hell!

Robert Browning The Heretic’s Tragedy

At half past eight on Monday morning, Strike set off for a journey to the West Country in his BMW.

He hadn’t needed to set off so early, but he didn’t want to run into Robin at the office, nor had he replied to the email she’d sent him about what he considered Rupert Fleetwood’s very flimsy family connection to Belgium.

Convinced that Murphy had proposed and been accepted, and that Robin’s uncancellable lunch on Saturday had been with her future in-laws, Strike required longer than forty-eight hours to build himself up to the congratulatory expression and tone he’d need when they next spoke.

At a quarter to nine Strike received a call from Midge.

‘I’ve got the address of Branfoot’s flat,’ she said triumphantly.

‘Fantastic,’ said Strike, his mood very slightly improved by this news, because scaring off Branfoot and his henchmen was one of his top priorities. ‘Where is it?’

‘Black Prince Road, Lambeth, second floor of smart block,’ said Midge. ‘Tailed him there last night. He went in around eleven, an hour later a black guy in leather and a drunk girl went in. Lights went on on the second floor and stayed on for about three hours.

‘At four, Branfoot creeps outside again. At six, the girl staggers out onto the pavement to get into a taxi, looking rough as hell. Half an hour later, the porn sleaze comes out. Got pictures of all of them.’

‘Excellent work,’ said Strike.

‘Cheers,’ said Midge. ‘Right, well, I’m supposed to be catching that Hussein Mohamed between his Uber shifts. Need coffee. Speak to you later.’

Strike drove on down the M40 for half an hour, then Robin called him, as he’d half-expected she would. Steeling himself, he answered.

‘Pat says you’re driving to Hereford,’ she said. ‘Why—?’

‘I’m meeting Rena Liddell. She responded to me last night on one of her old Twitter accounts: “Hereford, 2pm tomorrow” – and Hereford’s got a Golden Fleece.’

‘Wow, great,’ said Robin. ‘Well, Midge has found—’

‘I know, she just called me,’ said Strike, ‘so when I get to Hereford I’m going to call de Leon and warn him I’m about to go to Branfoot myself and tell him I know what he’s up to in that flat, and if de Leon wants to sit on his arse and wait for the story to break without putting a decent spin on his own involvement, that’s his problem. ’

‘Well, I’ve got other news,’ said Robin, who was currently in the inner office, and Strike’s stomach clenched.

‘Or rather, Pat has,’ Robin continued. ‘She’s found a pub in Yeovil called the Quicksilver Mail that had a barman for a couple of weeks last June who called himself Dave. He was short and had big ears. They let him go because he wasn’t very good.’

‘Ah,’ said Strike. ‘Well, I’ll be in the rough vicinity of Yeovil in a couple of hours. I could head there after Hereford and show them Tyler Powell’s picture.’

‘That’s a lot of driving in one day,’ said Robin. ‘Hereford and Yeovil aren’t that close to each other.’

‘Sure I’ll manage. Anything else?’

Robin, who didn’t much appreciate the spikiness of Strike’s tone, said,

‘No, I just dropped in to file some receipts, but I’m interviewing Faber Whitehead this evening, as I told you.’

‘OK, I’ll let you go,’ said Strike.

‘Strike,’ said Robin sharply.

‘What?’

‘If you’re still pissed off about Saturday, say so. You gave me literally no notice, and it’s not as if I haven’t forfeited a lot of free time late—’

‘I’m not pissed off about Saturday, I know it was short notice. I was worried Mrs Two-Times was making veiled threats about press, that’s all.’

‘Well, as I’m not the one who’s made us a target for the tabloids—’

‘Tabloid attention’s an occupational risk,’ said Strike. ‘Ask your boyfriend.’

As he’d half-hoped to provoke her into doing, Robin hung up.

She stood in fury beside the partners’ desk, staring at her mobile as though she could see Strike glaring back at her. You total prick. Robin wrenched open the dividing door so forcefully that Pat looked round, startled.

‘Everything all right?’

‘Fine,’ said Robin. ‘I’ve got some receipts for filing.’

She was halfway to the filing cabinet when she noticed a large margarine tub full of water set beside the fish tank. It contained the black fish called Cormoran, which was swimming lazily around its limited space.

‘Why’s that fish out of its tank?’

‘He’s got me feeding it bloody peas,’ said Pat grumpily.

A card was propped against the tank, carrying instructions in Strike’s hard-to-read handwriting. Diverted in spite of herself, Robin picked this up to read it.

Goldfish are bottom feeders

If they gulp too much air at the surface they can bugger up their balance and start floating upside down.

SOAK FOOD BEFORE GIVING IT IN FUTURE

Feed only small amount of mashed peas until it improves

It’s OK to go back in main tank once swimming upright

‘It is the right way up now,’ Robin told Pat.

‘Is it?’

Pat joined Robin, both of them peering down at the fish with the knobbly growth on top of its head, stout body waggling, double tail fin wafting behind it as it circled the tub. Long strings of goldfish excrement swirled beneath it.

‘Shall I tip it back in?’ said Pat.

‘I would,’ said Robin. ‘It hasn’t got a lot of space in there.’

Meanwhile the black fish’s reluctant saviour was heading along the M40 while castigating himself for what he’d just said to Robin.

A really smart move, he told himself, to behave like a dick in the immediate aftermath of her engagement.

It was as though he was determined to push her into leaving and setting up Murphy and Murphy, Inc.