Page 169 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

At the silver bell’s shrill tinkling,

Quick cold drops of terror sprinkling

On the sudden pavement strewed

With faces of the multitude.

Robert Browning Christmas-Eve

Martin returned to Yorkshire after a second night at Robin’s.

Carmen had accepted his apology after what seemed to have been a further twenty-four hours of mutual recriminations, delivered by phone.

Robin had been given no option but to listen to Martin’s side of the arguments, and even to catch most of Carmen’s, so loudly did she scream.

In between bouts of arguing with Carmen by phone, Martin had confided in Robin that Dirk slept only an hour at a time, that Carmen’s episiotomy scar continued to trouble her and that her nipples had bled so much that she’d had to give up breastfeeding.

Robin hadn’t wanted these grisly details, but Martin seemed to gain some relief from telling her about them.

Robin saw him leave with mixed feelings.

His proper place was undoubtedly with his partner and baby, but she’d found his presence reassuring.

Robin continued to alternate between days in the office and at her flat, which, as she’d feared, had started to feel more like a cell.

Unfortunately, unless Strike was at the office with her (she didn’t like admitting this to herself, but it was the truth) Denmark Street didn’t make her feel much safer.

That was where the letter ‘G’ had been painted on the door, and Denmark Street and Charing Cross Road were noisy and busy, making her even jumpier.

When she woke on the twenty-second of March, Robin decided the day would be spent at her flat, because her business partner was tailing the allegedly unfaithful civil servant.

Her front door was double-locked, her alarm on, and a dining room chair propped beneath the handle of the front door.

She was trying not to feel envious of Midge, who was currently keeping watch for Hussein Mohamed in Forest Gate.

Robin had given Midge a full briefing, telling her that she was especially interested in knowing whether Mohamed had ever seen weights inside Wright’s flat, but she wished she could have conducted the interview in person.

She’d made an appointment with the therapist Prudence had recommended, and while she couldn’t be seen for another three weeks, Robin felt, as she’d told Prudence, a certain comfort in knowing that she’d be accessing help.

She hadn’t told anybody else about the appointment, not even Murphy.

What that said about the state of her relationship, Robin didn’t want to ponder.

After finishing breakfast, Robin sent a new WhatsApp message to Chloe Griffiths, who’d gone silent after her last, angry outburst.

Chloe, I realise you don’t want to be questioned about this, but the police have found out Tyler was on the phone from Ironbridge to someone in London when Anne-Marie and Hugo crashed, so he can’t have had anything to do with it.

Slightly to Robin’s surprise, she received an answer within a few minutes.

So? I never said for sure he did it.

Robin typed,

So why do you think he left Ironbridge?

How do I know? responded Chloe immediately.

Mr Whitehead says you and Tyler were close.

He’s talking shit. I told you, Tyler’s a creep.

Your dad and Wynn Jones think Tyler went to work in a pub. Did Tyler ever mention that to you?

Yeah, once he said he was thinking of going to work in a pub somewhere else.

Can you remember where?

Wolverhampton, probably. He’d want to be near Molineux Stadium.

That’s where Wolves play, right?

Yes.

Sorry for being pedantic, Chloe, but when you first messaged me you told me Tyler ‘never wanted to live anywhere else before’.

This time, Chloe didn’t answer. Robin was about to put down her phone when it rang.

‘Where are you?’ said Murphy’s panicked voice.

‘At home, wh—?’

‘Thank Christ. There’s a terrorist attack on Westminster Bridge.’

‘Oh my God, what’s—?’

‘Some bloke deliberately ploughed his car into pedestrians. I’ve got to go, I just wanted to check you were out of the way.’

Murphy hung up. A wave of cold sweat passed down Robin’s body. Strike was in Westminster, tailing the civil servant. She called him. He didn’t pick up.

She sped to the television and turned on Sky News.

The terrorist’s car had mounted the pavement on the bridge and mown down pedestrians, one of whom had fallen over the balustrade into the Thames.

He’d driven on, crashing into the perimeter fence of the Palace of Westminster, then fled on foot, armed with a knife, and stabbed an unarmed police officer.

Eyes fixed on the screen, Robin called Strike yet again. No answer.

‘Oh, please God, let him be OK,’ she whispered.

The driver of the car had been shot dead by armed police. The entire attack had spanned eighty-two seconds, but tens of broken and bloody humans had been harmed and possibly killed.

Robin’s mobile rang: Strike.

‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘had my mobile on mute to listen to her talking to a friend.’

‘Where are you?’ said Robin, who could hear sirens and good deal of shouting.

‘St Stephen’s Tavern.’

‘You were right by it!’ said Robin, who knew the pub; they’d been there together.

‘Yeah, and we’re not allowed to leave, there’s armed coppers everywhere,’ said Strike, who was having to raise his voice over the surrounding commotion. ‘I’ll keep you posted, but I’m fine.’

‘Great,’ said Robin faintly.

Her legs were trembling. When Strike had rung off, she dropped down onto her sofa, staring at the television. The act of wanton brutality had ratcheted up her feeling of ever-present danger.

Then an ugly thought flashed through her head. Would she have been as terrified and stricken if it had been Murphy who’d been in Westminster, Murphy whom she hadn’t been able to contact?

Of course I would, she told herself furiously. Of course.