Page 168 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

And so it was fated that, one day, after patiently picking round a great piece of rock till it was loosened from its ages-old bed, he felt it tremble under his hand, and leaning his weight against it, it disappeared into space beyond.

John Oxenham A Maid of the Silver Sea

Robin left Martin asleep on the sofa bed in the sitting room the following morning and headed for the office.

There was something she wanted to say to Strike face to face, so she forced herself to drive into town, checking her rear-view mirror constantly, and feeling shaky and exposed during the short walk to Denmark Street.

Arriving shortly after nine, she found Pat already at her desk, and Wardle talking to Strike in the inner office.

‘Didn’t we have three fish in there?’ Robin asked Pat as she hung up her coat, because the large black fish and the smaller gold one appeared to have lost a companion.

‘Travolta died,’ grunted Pat. ‘He says he found him floating when he got in this morning.’

‘Travolta?’

‘Yeah, we had Cormoran, Robin and Travolta. Yours is the only one that hasn’t given any trouble. Makes sense,’ added Pat darkly.

Strike emerged from the inner office, unshaven and looking exhausted.

‘Morning,’ he said to Robin. ‘You missed a real shit show last night. I was just telling Wardle…’

She followed him into the inner office, where Wardle stood, arms folded, leaning against the wall.

‘We intercepted Plug, two mates and his son as they were heading for the front door of fifteen Carnival Street,’ said Strike. ‘They jumped to the conclusion we were allied with the dog killer and pulled out knives. Long story short, Shah got stabbed in the leg.’

Robin gasped; the speech she’d been about to make to Strike fled her mind.

‘Is he OK?’

‘Ish. He was let out of hospital this morning but the wound’s deep. Barclay restrained Plug, and I took down his biggest mate, but the third guy scarpered. We managed to persuade Plug’s son to stay put, though, poor little bastard. You weren’t lying about half his face being chewed off, were you?’

‘No,’ said Robin. ‘I think he’s going to be scarred for life – in more ways than one. Where is he now?’

‘With his great-uncle and his gran,’ said Strike.

‘With luck, Plug’ll get a long stretch inside and the boy’ll now have a fighting chance at a normal life.

Anyway, we had to give statements to the police and it’s bloody lucky we had plenty of photographic evidence to prove we’ve been tailing Plug for months, or I think we’d have been done for assault, which, as we know, the Met would bloody love.

And we’re down one man, maybe permanently. ’

‘What d’you mean?’ said Robin.

‘I think there’s a possibility we’re going to lose Shah to Navabi.’

‘What?’ said Robin, horrified. ‘Dev wouldn’t leave!’

‘I wouldn’t bet on that. He and I had an argument last night while we were waiting for Plug to make his move.

He had all Kim’s arguments down pat. We shouldn’t have taken the silver vault case, we were exploiting Decima, “colluding in covering up her baby”, going on jaunts round the country, et cetera.

I think old mates at the Met have been telling him he works for a proper wrong ’un.

He also thinks I sexually harassed Kim.’

‘Wh—?’

‘She’ll have told him so,’ said Strike wearily. ‘She and Navabi seem very keen on fucking with me. Have they tried to poach either of you yet?’

‘No,’ said Robin. ‘I suppose I should feel offended.’

‘ I’ll talk to Shah about bloody Cochran,’ said Wardle, scowling. ‘I’ll tell him exactly who she is. I told you before, she caused trouble on every single job she worked. Fucking liability.’

‘That’d be helpful, cheers,’ said Strike, rubbing his eyes, which were stinging with tiredness, ‘and while you’re at it, you can tell Shah the silver vault case continues, and I’m paying for it out of my own pocket.’

‘ What? ’ said Robin, her spirits lifting immeasurably at this news.

‘I’d better go,’ said Wardle. ‘I’m on that cheating civil servant in half an hour.’

When Wardle had closed the dividing door behind him, Strike looked up at Robin said,

‘What’re you looking so happy about?’

‘You mean it? The silver vault case continues?’

‘Yeah, I do.’

‘I’ll contribute financially, too. You can’t bear all the expenses; you won’t have anything left of your inheritance at this rate.’

‘I don’t need it for anything,’ said Strike indifferently.

‘Don’t you ever want to buy a place?’

‘What for? Nothing’d be as convenient as the flat,’ said Strike.

He might have said that if Robin wanted to move in with him, he was more than happy to start house-hunting, but naturally didn’t.

‘Why’re you so pleased we’re keeping it going?’ he asked.

‘Because – don’t yell, all right?’ said Robin.

‘What’s happened?’ said Strike ominously.

‘Nothing, but probably only because Martin was there.’

Robin described the previous evening’s happenings and concluded,

‘I don’t want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. I want to end this case, properly.’

‘Did you call the police about King breaking his bail conditions?’ said Strike, exercising maximum control to do as she’d requested, and keep calm.

‘Yes,’ said Robin, ‘and I reminded them I’ve still got two other things he foisted on me, but—’

‘They weren’t interested.’

‘I don’t think it’s lack of interest,’ said Robin.

‘The terrorism threat’s at severe; I can see how a bit of A4 with a gorilla on it isn’t absolutely top priority.

Anyway,’ she went on quickly, because she could tell Strike was struggling not to start laying down the law about security and protection, ‘I want to interview Hussein Mohamed.’

‘We’ve been through this. I don’t want you out on the street,’ said Strike, still struggling to keep his temper. ‘And I’d have thought last night proves—’

‘OK, fine,’ said Robin, ‘one of the others can interview Mohamed; I don’t care, I just want it done.’

‘Why?’

She took a deep breath.

‘All right, you might think this is crazy, but Martin told me last night about this man he knows who put his company logo on the weights in his home gym. He’s a businessman who’s got an obsession with Excalibur and he puts it on everything, apparently.’

‘You think Wright ordered custom weights?’ said Strike, with raised eyebrows.

‘We know Oz and Medina went back to Wright’s flat in the early hours for something even Oz could barely carry, right? You were the one who said it was probably the weights. Well, what if they had something on them, some personal – I don’t know, a motif, a personal slogan—?’

‘Custom weights would be a bloody extravagant purchase for a bloke who only had enough money to live in that shithole,’ said Strike.

‘I know,’ said Robin, ‘but they needn’t have been custom-made, exactly, they could have had – I don’t know, stickers on them, or something.

Stickers Medina couldn’t scrape off, and even if she’d managed to do it, the traces might have pointed to something the killer wanted to hide, something that would have identified Wright.

Or else the weights were a brand, or a colour, or something, that might have pointed to who Wright was.

We know Mandy and Daz never went inside Wright’s room, but Mohamed might have done.

I know it’s a really long shot, but Strike, I think we’re a long way ahead of the police.

We’ve taken the possibility Wright wasn’t Knowles seriously much longer than they have. I just feel as though—’

There was a knock on the door and Pat entered, looking grumpy.

‘That was Plug’s uncle. He wants you to pretend the boy wasn’t there. Says it’s not his fault, his dad made him.’

‘Fuck’s sake,’ exploded Strike, ‘we’ve already given statements to the police. What next? Does he want Shah to pretend he stabbed himself in the leg?’

‘That’s a “no”, then,’ said Pat, scowling, and she closed the door again.

Strike now lowered his voice.

‘Was she banging on about that bloody fish when you arrived?’

‘Travolta?’

‘What?’

‘It’s what she called it. I’ve just found out.’

‘The fuck’s she naming them for?’

‘People do that, with pets,’ said Robin, amused.

‘I knew it was going to be like this,’ said Strike in exasperation. ‘The look she gave me when I told her it had died, you’d think I’d fucking eaten it… where were we?’

‘Mohamed,’ said Robin. ‘Plus, I got this, late last night, from Chloe Griffiths. Look…’

She handed him her phone and Strike read:

Hi Chloe, this is Robin Ellacott. I’m sorry to contact you again, but I’ve got a few more questions and I think you’re the only person who can answer them. I do understand how difficult this is for you, and I wouldn’t disturb you again if I didn’t think it was important.

What questions?

I’ve spoken to Hugo’s father and he mentioned a big argument you had with Tyler and Anne-Marie about a bracelet.

So?

I’m just a bit confused about your and Tyler’s relationship.

Haven’t you got FUCKING EYES? Does that look like Tyler on my fucking Instagram?

I wasn’t suggesting Tyler’s interrailing with you.

To this, Chloe had made no reply.

‘Bit aggressive,’ said Strike, handing Robin’s phone back.

‘It is, isn’t it? I know she might just not want to be bothered with it—’

‘ I don’t want to be fucking bothered with it,’ said Strike, running a hand over his unshaven face, ‘but Rena Liddell called me at seven o’clock this morning.

She’s been discharged from hospital and claims she’s fine now she’s back on her clonazepam, though it hasn’t done much for her paranoia, being sectioned.

She wants to meet me, but she’s scared “they’re listening in”.

We’re going to meet at the Engineer in Camden, where she and Semple had a drink before he disappeared.

Ralph Lawrence turning up again is a risk we’ll have to take. ’

As Strike hadn’t shouted about Wade King, Robin thought she ought to exercise similar restraint, so rather than query the advisability of further antagonising MI5 she said,

‘So Rena’s the reason you want to keep investigating?’

‘No, I’d decided to carry on before she called.

I came in here after I got back from the whole stabbing-and-hospital clusterfuck and I had…

maybe not a revelation, but an idea, about the Gibsons delivery and the Oriental Centrepiece, and the more I think about it, the more I think I might be on to something. Blame Tom Waits.’

‘The singer?’ said Robin, confused.

‘Yeah. Listen to this.’

Strike pressed a button on his keyboard, and a tinkling piano began playing.

‘Wait for the chorus,’ said Strike.

… a soldier’s things,

His rifle, his boots full of rocks,

And this one is for bravery

And this one is for me

And everything’s a dollar

In this box…

‘I… don’t understand,’ said Robin.

‘Come round here,’ said Strike, beckoning her to his side of the desk, and he smelled her perfume again as she moved to look at the frozen footage from Ramsays’ internal camera on Strike’s monitor. While Tom Waits continued to sing, Strike pressed play.

Larry McGee entered the shop, dumped the crates, and left.

Wright took the first crate down to the basement.

The young blonde arrived and engaged Pamela’s attention.

Wright took the second crate down to the vault.

He took the third crate downstairs.

Todd entered the shop and helped Wright lift the largest crate downstairs.

Wright returned to the shop floor.

Todd was still in the basement. He remained there for nearly twenty minutes.

Todd reappeared.

The blonde left.

Pamela descended alone to the vault.

Pamela returned to the shop floor, holding items she then placed in a bag.

Wright left, carrying the bag.

Pamela received her text.

Pamela told Todd to stay.

Pamela received a call. She pointed Todd towards the door. He left the shop.

Wright and Todd returned, staggering under the weight of another large crate.

They carried it down to the vault.

Todd came back upstairs and handed Pamela her bag.

Pamela left.

Todd had his coughing fit.

Forty-four minutes passed.

Wright re-emerged from the basement.

He and Todd argued.

Todd left.

Strike pressed pause. Tom Waits continued to sing:

And everything’s a dollar in this box…

‘D’you see it?’ said Strike.

‘Nothing I haven’t seen every other time I’ve watched it,’ said Robin.

‘OK,’ said Strike, rewinding, and yet again he played the piece of footage in which Todd and Wright carried the largest crate of the original delivery towards the vault. Todd was moving very slowly, crabwise, and looked in risk of dropping it.

‘Are they acting, would you say?’ said Strike. ‘Pretending it’s a lot heavier than it is?’

‘No,’ said Robin. ‘It looks genuinely heavy.’

‘But the Oriental Centrepiece isn’t inside, is it? Because it’s gone to Bullen & Co. Now…’

Strike fast forwarded again and pressed play. Pamela came back upstairs from the vault, holding small items in her arms which she placed into a bag and handed to Wright, who left.

‘Pamela took off the lid of the big crate downstairs, right?’ Strike said to Robin. ‘And instead of the centrepiece, she saw the small items she’d bought for her own business.’

‘Right,’ said Robin.

‘Which she – a woman in her late fifties, with dodgy knees – managed to carry upstairs. So…?’

‘Why was the crate so heavy, going downstairs,’ said Robin, aghast. ‘ Why didn’t I see that? ’

‘Same reason I didn’t. Same reason Pamela didn’t twig, or Wright himself.

Same reason people still fall for the three-cup scam,’ said Strike.

‘And then I started thinking about that footprint in the blood round the head, and the buggered blind, and that warped door behind the desk. Light would’ve been visible through the window if the killer had turned it on in the basement…

‘This doesn’t tell us why,’ said Strike, ‘and it doesn’t tell us who, but it does tell us something important about our killer. That vault was literally the only place where they’ve had a realistic chance of taking William Wright by surprise. Necessity. They had literally no other choice.’