Page 151 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

… necessity alone, and the greatest good of the greatest number, can legitimately interfere with the dominion of absolute and ideal justice.

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

Strike deposited his BMW in a multi-storey car park close to the middle of Hereford and set off in search of an early lunch, because breakfast felt a long way behind him.

A short walk brought him within sight of a restaurant called the Beefy Boys, which he chose out of an angry self-sabotaging impulse, because what was the point of trying to compete with Murphy in the leanness stakes now?

Having settled himself at a table outside so that he could vape and ordered the house speciality, the Dirty Boy Burger, he called Danny de Leon, who didn’t pick up.

Strike therefore left a voicemail message warning de Leon that the detective agency had now identified the flat where Branfoot was covertly filming oblivious drunks being screwed by porn stars, and that he would shortly be confronting Branfoot with the information.

Danny would therefore have to suffer the consequences of not having spoken to the press, which would have mitigated the risk to himself of Branfoot’s revenge.

Strike then reached into his coat pocket for Jim Todd’s book, Know When To Hold ’Em: Win Big Every Time , which he’d brought with him to complete his perusal of Todd’s scribbled notes. Opening it at a fresh page, he examined a list of nicknames for various pairs of pocket cards.

King-King – Cowboys

King-Queen – Marriage

King-Jack – Kojak

King-Nine – Canine

He was about to turn this page, on which Todd had only written poket 8s without explanation, when a tiny ripple in his subconscious told him not to be so hasty.

77 – walking sticks… (‘I even got it in army green so nobody’ll think you’re a big girl’s blouse.’)

4-4 – sailboats… (‘Eyes on the horizon if you feel ill…’ )

Fuck’s sake, was everything going to remind him of Robin?

He kept reading until he heard his phone buzz, and took it out in the hope that Robin had sent him an irate text, which would provide him with an opportunity to make a low-effort, typed apology for having been snide about Murphy.

However, it was only Barclay, informing him that Two-Times had just ducked into a hotel looking furtive.

Strike sat, phone in hand, wondering whether he should apologise to Robin even in the absence of a first text from her.

He knew perfectly well that punishing her for not reciprocating feelings he’d never voiced was the behaviour of a total arsehole.

He was still trying to formulate a message that didn’t seem to carry an obvious undertone of ‘I just hate you being with Murphy’ when his burger arrived and he set his phone aside with relief.

The ingestion of a huge cheeseburger, complete with bacon and fried onions, gave Strike’s spirits a slight boost. Having eaten his last chip, he picked up his phone and texted Robin.

I’m sorry about what I said. I’m knackered but that’s no excuse.

He sat watching his phone for a minute, hoping to see the three dots that meant Robin was typing, but nothing appeared.

Having drunk a coffee, paid his bill and had a pee in the Beefy Boys’ bathroom, Strike set off for what Google Maps told him would be a short walk to the Golden Fleece.

On entering the pub Strike found a narrow, cramped and corridor-like interior, and a large television screen showing Sky Sports. Strike bought himself a zero-alcohol beer and was about to take a seat when the barman leaned forwards and said,

‘You Cameron Strike?’

‘Yeah,’ said Strike.

‘You’re to go up there,’ said the barman, pointing towards the door at the rear of the pub.

It transpired that the barman had meant ‘up there’ literally.

A very small external paved area contained no tables, but a steep metal staircase leading up to the roof.

Strike assumed that Rena Liddell wasn’t aware he had a false leg.

He hauled himself upwards with the aid of the handrail, his pint slopping over his hand.

He emerged onto a rooftop space where a few tables and plastic palm trees in square tubs stood on artificial grass. Cross of Saint George bunting wound around the railings, beyond which Strike could see the tall spire of St Peter’s church.

Only one table was occupied. Facing Strike with a half-smile on his lips was the tall, salt-and-pepper-haired, square-jawed Ralph Lawrence, allegedly of MI5.

He wasn’t wearing a suit today, but jeans and an open-necked shirt beneath a dark green cashmere sweater, and his blue eyes were concealed behind a pair of Aviator sunglasses.

Strike knew his expression had betrayed both surprise and displeasure, and he also saw that this gave Lawrence satisfaction.

With a long drive behind him, an aching knee and hamstring, a forced climb up the stairs at the connivance of a man who knew he had half a leg missing, and a wet sleeve where beer had slopped over it, Strike was hard put to conceal his resentment.

As he sat down opposite Lawrence, a kind of Rolodex of theories whirled inside his head, and it halted on the most obvious question.

‘Rena invite me here, or was that you?’

‘She did,’ said Lawrence smoothly, ‘but we were watching.’

‘Where is she?’

‘She’s been sectioned.’

‘Why?’

‘She’s been trying to get hold of a gun.’

‘What for?’

‘You’ve found her social media. You tell me which group of people she might think deserves shooting.’

Strike wasn’t about to fall into that trap. Lawrence sipped what looked like water and, while pulling out his vape, Strike entertained himself for a moment by imagining slapping it out of the man’s hand.

‘This is the kind of thing people assume spooks do, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Get people locked up for being crazy if they know too much?’

‘What makes you think Rena Liddell knows anything?’

‘She knows something,’ said Strike, ‘or you wouldn’t be sitting here. You’d’ve let me think she’d just stood me up if you weren’t worried she’d already told me something.’

‘Maybe I’ve got questions for you.’

‘Go on, then,’ said Strike.

‘You’ve clearly had contact with her, other than over social media.’

‘Have I?’

‘First contact didn’t happen there. Who approached who?’

‘It’s all a bit hazy now,’ said Strike.

‘Angela told me you think you’re funny,’ said Lawrence.

‘No, she didn’t,’ said Strike calmly.

‘Look,’ said Lawrence, and Strike was happy to see he hadn’t liked the fact his snide comment had glanced off Strike without leaving a mark, ‘I’m doing you a favour here, little though you seem to realise it.

You’ve had online contact with a mentally ill Islamophobe who was trying to get herself a gun. ’

‘You aren’t going to intimidate me by hinting I’ve had contact with a terrorist,’ said Strike.

‘I know full well why you’re here, and it’s got fuck-all to do with guns.

You fucked up, warning Rena not to give me the time of day.

That’s what gave her the idea of contacting me in the first place.

If she’s become a liability, that’s your fault, not mine. ’

‘Mr Strike, I’m asking for your cooper—’

‘And I might’ve given it, if you hadn’t forced me to walk up onto the fucking roof and spill my pint.’

Strike pushed himself back into a standing position.

‘There are still civil liberties in this country. You’ll have your work cut out, keeping her in a psychiatric facility indefinitely. I can wait.’

He turned and, doing his absolute best not to hobble, set back off down the steep metal staircase. As he’d rashly committed to driving to the Quicksilver Mail pub in Yeovil, he supposed he should get going.