Page 155 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

To envenom a name by libels, that already is openly tainted, is to add stripes with an iron rod to one that is flayed with whipping…

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

‘Nah, Dave was quite, you know – porky,’ one of the barmaids had told him, sketching an invisible hula hoop around her own middle to demonstrate the sizeable girth of the vanished Dave.

Tempting though it was to believe that Tyler Powell had packed on the pounds to become ‘Dave’, Strike thought it unlikely he could have gained that substantial a belly in a month, so having thanked them all he returned to his BMW and headed off for London.

In spite of his touchily defiant statement to Robin that he’d cope just fine with another few hours’ driving, his right leg was cramping.

He was also extremely hungry; his Beefy Boys’ Dirty Boy Burger now a distant memory.

The anger he continued to feel towards Ralph Lawrence kept recurring, like heartburn.

Ten miles from the city, his phone rang.

‘It’s me,’ said a panicky voice. ‘Danny de Leon.’

‘Got my message, did you?’ said Strike. Too tired, sore and hungry for any social niceties, he said, ‘I warned you when we met I’d have to go ahead without you if you left it too long to spill the beans.’

‘I didn’t know who to contact,’ said the agitated voice. ‘OK? I didn’t know how you do something like this—’

‘Then you should’ve called and asked me,’ said Strike.

‘I’ll send you the contact details for a journalist called Fergus Robertson, who’s already interested in Branfoot, but you need to make the call now if you’d rather not live the rest of your life known as Branfoot’s predator-for-hire, and make sure you act bloody contrite about what you did. ’

‘Make sure I what?’

‘ Act contrite ,’ said Strike loudly. ‘Ashamed. Guilty. If you don’t want to be charged, and you want to avoid his retaliation, expose the fucker now .’

Strike ended the call and drove on, wondering whether it mightn’t be a good idea to stop at the next services to eat, rather than waiting until he reached the heart of London.

Ten minutes later, at Heston services, Strike texted Danny de Leon Fergus Robertson’s contact details, noting as he did so that there was still no response from Robin to his texted apology.

He then visited the bathroom and, having peed, headed to get some food, thinking of nothing except his own depression and the appropriate noises he was going to have to make when Robin announced her engagement.

When his mobile rang yet again, and he saw it was Fergus Robertson, he let the call go to voicemail.

Presumably de Leon had just contacted the journalist and Robertson wanted confirmation from Strike that the man was legit, but as Strike had just reached the front of the queue for food, he ignored the call.

Strike was mildly surprised when Robertson called again while he was waiting for his coffee, and for a third time as Strike was about to take a seat to eat his sandwich.

‘What?’ said Strike, answering at last.

‘I’m trying to do you a favour,’ came Robertson’s impatient voice.

‘Been in touch already, has he?’

‘What?’

‘De Leon. About Branfoot.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I… never mind. What favour are you doing me?’

‘Culpepper’s about to run a fucking massive piece on you. I heard from a mate. He’s got a new source.’

It was as though a frozen snake had slithered down Strike’s oesophagus. He’d thought it was over, done, finished with, but he knew instantly who the new source was likely to be.

‘Kim Cochran?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What kind of piece is it?’ he said, but he already knew.

‘Apparently you’ve been in a love triangle with a hot brunette and Andrew Honbold.

Honbold took out a super-injunction to stop the papers printing that he didn’t know whether the mistress’s baby is his or yours.

It’s just been overturned. Public interest: family values crusader cheating on his wife. ’

‘The baby’s his,’ said Strike. ‘I’m not the father.’

‘OK, well, if you’ve got proof, now would be the time to sling it at a lawyer,’ said Robertson. ‘It’s probably too late to stop the piece running, but you’ll be able to get it amended.’

‘All right,’ said Strike, marvelling at how calm his own voice was. ‘Thanks for the heads-up.’

He stood up, leaving his sandwich unwrapped and his coffee undrunk, and limped back to his BMW, where he sat for a minute, staring ahead into darkness.

If the piece ran, he was fucked. Journalists would descend on Denmark Street yet again.

Every insinuation Culpepper had so far made about him would be magnified a hundred times.

He’d be That Guy who did all the stuff with those women: Candy the sex worker, Nina, who he’d screwed and spurned, Charlotte, dead in a bath, Bijou, her illegitimate baby and her tabloid-bashing lover.

His business would be finished. Everyone who worked with him would be tainted.

He called Bijou. She answered on the second ring.

‘You’ve heard?’ she said, sounding just as panicked as he felt.

‘I have, yeah. Tell me the truth: did you admit to Honbold we’d screwed?’

‘No, never ! I said I hinted we had to people at work, to try and make him jealous! I’ve shown him the DNA tests and he actually said, yesterday, he was sorry he’d doubted me, but now— ’

‘Right. You stick to the story we never had more than drinks, and so will I,’ said Strike. ‘No one can prove otherwise. I’m going to try and sort this. Got to go.’

He hung up. He could see only one possible solution to his dilemma, and nothing but this extremity could have brought him to it. Strike took a lungful of nicotine and called his half-sister Prudence.