Page 166 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)
Oh ’tis jesting, dancing, drinking
Spins the heavy world around.
If young hearts were not so clever,
Oh, they would be young for ever:
Think no more; ’tis only thinking
Lays lads underground.
A. E. Housman XLIX, A Shropshire Lad
So the case was closed. The agency had replaced Decima with the top client on the waiting list, and the mutilated body of the man called William Wright continued to lie unidentified, eyeless and handless in an unknown morgue, and Robin wasn’t supposed to care about him, or about dead Sofia Medina or missing Sapphire Neagle, but her mind refused to expel the disconnected facts of the silver vault case, on which it continued to chew uncomfortably, as if on bits of grit.
Had Wright really had a pregnant girlfriend?
Why had he visited Abused and Accused? Where was the Murdoch silver?
What did the eight digits Niall Semple had left for his wife mean?
Why had Chloe Griffiths become so aggressive about a bracelet?
What were the things that Albie Simpson-White had said Decima was better off not knowing?
Robin knew she had to let it all go. The case was the Met’s now and, as if to underline the fact, a police spokesman announced on Thursday that Jason Knowles hadn’t been the body in the vault after all.
The Sun newspaper was the only one to give any prominence to the story, which ran beneath the headline MASONIC BODY: COPS ‘GOT IT WRONG’ .
At Strike’s insistence, Robin was continuing to work either in her flat or at the office.
She was starting to feel like Pat’s assistant, dealing with paperwork and small bits of research that could be done online.
On the other hand, she knew her mental state was as bad as it had ever been.
As the days passed, instead of getting better, she seemed to be worse.
Unexpected noises, even her phone ringing, startled her; she couldn’t sleep for more than a couple of hours at a time, and kept having flashbacks of the man who’d tried to throttle her in the Land Rover.
The smallest things made her want to cry: spilled orange juice, a lost button.
She was trying her best to hide all of this from everyone around her, including Murphy, certain that telling the truth would lead to a row, or an insistence that she stop work altogether for a while.
Wade King was out on bail, and he knew where to find her.
Having loved living alone for the freedom it gave her, Robin now felt unsafe in her flat, which was why she was travelling to and from Denmark Street every day.
Her preference would have been for being in the company of people she knew and trusted, at all times.
As she turned into Blackhorse Road on Thursday evening, expecting Murphy for dinner, he called her.
‘I’m not going to be able to come over this evening.’
‘Oh,’ said Robin, angry at herself for wanting to cry again. ‘Why?’
‘An hour ago I visited a suspect at home who’s just turned out to have what looks like two pipe bombs at the bottom of his wardrobe.’
‘Shit!’
‘Yeah, and the terrorism threat’s at “severe”, so we’ve evacuated half the street and we’re waiting for the bomb squad.’
‘Well, that puts my afternoon docketing receipts into perspective,’ said Robin, and Murphy laughed. She was surprised at how relieved she was to have amused him; it felt as though there hadn’t been a lot of laughter between them lately.
‘Tomorrow night?’ he said, and Robin agreed.
Darkness was drawing in. Once parked outside her block of flats, she reached into her bag for the fresh bottle of pepper spray she’d made, her first having been confiscated by the police, then sat where she was for several minutes, trying to muster the courage to cross the dark car park.
No matter how much she told herself there was nobody lurking in wait, she didn’t seem to be able to convince her subconscious.
‘Come on,’ she told herself firmly, and got out of the car.
She was halfway to the door of the building when she heard male voices, shouting. Flooded with panic, she started to run back towards the Land Rover.
Two men burst out of her building, heading straight for her.
She was shaking so badly she dropped her car keys.
As she bent to pick them up she heard the snarled words ‘fucking bitch ’ and then the first man had dashed past her, curly hair silhouetted in the street lamp – it’s him – but the second man, who was taller and broader, was slowing; he’d nearly reached her—
‘NO!’ Robin screamed, pulling out her pepper spray.
‘Rob, it’s me,’ said a familiar voice. ‘It’s me!’
‘ Martin? ’ said Robin weakly, leaning back against her car, pepper spray in hand, keys still on the ground. ‘What—?’
‘Who was that guy?’ he said.
Martin was holding a crumpled piece of paper. Robin couldn’t marshal her thoughts. Unable to stop herself, she burst into tears.
‘Rob,’ said her brother, putting his arms around her. ‘The fuck’s going on?’
‘Nothing, nothing,’ she gasped, knowing what a ludicrous response this was. ‘Why are you here? How did you—?’
‘ What’s going on? ’ repeated Martin.
‘I – I got that man arrested, he—’ but she couldn’t tell Martin about the attack, she couldn’t bear her mother, in particular, finding out, ‘—so he’s got it in for me – how did you even—?’
‘It was raining. One of your neighbours let me in. I was sitting on your stairs waiting for you to come home and that fucker showed up and tried to slide this under your door,’ said Martin, holding up the crumpled paper.
‘I said, “who the fuck are you?” and he got aggressive so I got aggressive back, and then he ran.’
‘What’s on the paper?’ said Robin, pulling out of Martin’s arms, but it was clear he didn’t want to show her. ‘Martin, give it to me.’
He held it out reluctantly. The paper had a picture of a gorilla’s face on it.
Martin knew of the significance of gorillas in Robin’s past.
‘How does he know?’ he asked.
‘It’s online,’ said Robin. ‘Look, I’m really pleased to see you, but why are you here?’
‘Carmen’s chucked me out.’
‘Oh, Mart, I’m sorry,’ said Robin.
Under ordinary circumstances, her dominant emotions on finding Martin on her doorstep would have been annoyance and amazement.
It was typical of him to turn up unannounced, or rather, nearly two weeks after he’d asked whether he could visit, and without having been told it was convenient.
However, she was so grateful he’d been here at this crucial moment, and so delighted to have a guest overnight, she hugged him tightly again.
‘It’s lovely to see you. Come in and you can tell me everything.’
‘You’ve got a new Land Rover,’ said Martin, as they walked back towards her building. ‘What happened to the old one?’
‘It failed its MOT.’
‘You must be making good money these days,’ said Martin, glancing back at the car, his tone between envy and admiration.
‘It’s the business’s,’ said Robin, ‘not mine.’
She loved her brother, but he’d never been shy about asking people in the family for money. Until now, he’d never troubled Robin in this respect, because he’d known she didn’t have any to spare.
Martin retrieved his holdall from the stairs where he’d abandoned it and followed Robin into her flat.
‘Nice place.’
‘Thanks,’ said Robin automatically. The gorilla picture was rustling; she looked down at it and realised she was shaking.
Without taking off her coat, Robin walked through to the kitchen to fetch yet another freezer bag and put the gorilla picture inside it. Would the police take this seriously? They still hadn’t shown up for the masonic dagger or the rubber gorilla forced into her hand in Harrods.
‘Listen,’ she said, turning to face Martin with the now protected picture in her hand, ‘please – please – don’t mention this at home. I’m begging you, Martin. I can’t take Mum having a go at me on top of everything else I’ve got going on.’
‘You gonna call Ryan?’
‘He’s got far more important things to worry about than me, this evening,’ said Robin, thinking of the pipe bombs. ‘Look, there’s a bottle of wine in the fridge—’
Her phone rang: Strike.
‘I’ll take this in my bedroom, help yourself to anything you want.’
Still holding the picture of the gorilla’s face, and wearing her coat, Robin went into her bedroom, sat down on the end of her bed and answered her partner’s call.
‘Hi.’
‘Just checking in,’ said Strike. ‘Get home OK?’
‘Yes,’ said Robin shakily. ‘Where are you?’
‘Haringey. Plug and his son are sitting in his van on Carnival Street.’
‘Oh no,’ said Robin angrily. ‘He’s going to involve his son in a revenge stabbing?’
‘Looks like it. Barclay and Shah are tailing two more members of the revenge posse and they all seem to be converging in this direction. I think tonight’s the night.’
Robin immediately dismissed the idea of telling Strike that Wade King had come calling. He was trying to foil a possible stabbing: now wasn’t the moment. Strike, however, had detected a note of strain in her voice.
‘You sure everything’s OK?’
‘Yes. My brother Martin’s here. He turned up unexpectedly.’
‘Ah,’ said Strike, pleased to hear this on two counts: Robin had a large man there for protective purposes, and assuming Murphy hadn’t already done so, he’d be unlikely to propose tonight. ‘Well, give him my regards.’
‘I will,’ said Robin. ‘Good luck with Plug. I really hope nobody gets hurt.’
‘Might do Plug some good to get clobbered,’ said Strike, ‘but I’ll do my best to stop anyone hurting the kid.’
Robin hid the sheet of paper she was holding in the same drawer as the dagger and rubber gorilla. She was still shaking. On sudden impulse, she picked up her mobile again and, before she could second-guess herself, called Strike’s therapist half-sister Prudence.
‘Robin!’ said Prudence, on answering. ‘How are you?’