Page 178 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

… many a man,

Seeking a prey unto his hand,

Hath snatch’d a little fair-hair’d slave…

Matthew Arnold The Sick King in Bokhara

The blow fell upon Jones’ skull with a loud crack and he fell forwards, smacking his forehead on the opposite edge of the rectangular hole in the floor and falling clumsily through it, hitting first a short ladder then, with a resounding thud, the basement floor.

Strike moved forwards to see Jones’ sizeable body sprawled, unmoving, on concrete.

Well aware there was a strong possibility he’d just killed a man, he stepped onto the ladder and, hampered by the heaviness of his overcoat, climbed with some difficulty down into an underground space that smelled much more strongly of the musky smell he’d already detected, now with faecal and urinous overtones.

‘Who are you?’ said a girl’s terrified voice.

She was sitting against the far wall. As Strike’s eyes acclimatised to the pitch darkness, he saw a skull-like face and sunken eyes.

The pallor of her skin shone, moonlike, in the darkness, and he could see on a cursory glance that she was wearing very little.

He pulled off his coat and approached her, stooping so his head didn’t hit the very low ceiling, then dropped the coat over her.

‘I’m here to help you. Are you tied up?’

‘Yeah,’ she said, her voice shrill and panicky. ‘ Who are you? ’

‘A detective.’

The basement room looked as though it had been dug out by the owner himself.

The concrete floor was uneven and lumpy.

There was a toilet in the corner. A low pipe ran around the bottom of the wall.

Two enormous dildos lay on a small wicker table.

There was also a washing-up bowl of soapy water with a sponge floating in it.

He bent down to examine the girl’s arm, which was both tied and chained to the pipe that ran around the bottom of the cavern wall; it certainly wouldn’t be quick work to free her.

‘You’re Sapphire?’ he asked.

‘How did you know?’

‘We’ve been looking for you. I’ll get you free,’ he promised her, ‘I just need to check whether that fucker’s dead.’

Still stooping, Strike returned to Jones and felt for a pulse in his neck. He found one, but wasn’t prepared to bet Jones hadn’t broken his neck in the fall. Notwithstanding his receding hairline, the porky Jones looked absurdly young, unconscious.

Strike was certain his phone, which was still in the pocket of the coat covering Sapphire, wouldn’t have reception underground.

‘I’m just going to get my mobile and go back upst—’

‘No – let me go, first! Let me go!’ Sapphire cried, her voice rising to a wail.

‘I need to call some people who can help free you.’

‘ Let me go! LET ME GO! ’

‘ Shut up! ’

Strike had heard something above: the unmistakeable sound of the back door opening, followed by a rumble of men’s voices.

‘ Oh God, no, no, no, get out, he’ll kill me— ’

Strike gestured furiously at the girl to be quiet as he crept back towards the opening in the ceiling, rapidly calculating odds.

He didn’t doubt Wardle or Barclay had tried to warn him that Griffiths and friends were on their way home, and it wasn’t their fault he was currently in a concrete chamber underground without phone reception, but that didn’t alter the undoubtedly perilous position he and the girl were now in.

His glib response to Barclay’s ‘an’ if Ah hear ye yellin’ “help”?

’ was no longer so funny; possibly his colleagues were waiting for a sign or a shout that he required assistance, but as making any noise right now would expose his presence to what sounded like four or five men, one of whom he knew to be a serial killer, Strike chose instead to move into the shadows behind the ladder.

Loud music began to play from the sitting room: Steely Dan.

While the music played…

Any moment now, somebody – possibly the ‘Mickey’ mentioned by Jones, who ‘wanted a go’ – was going to turn the corner in the hall and see the open trapdoor and the unconscious Jones. The men’s loud conversation mingled with the music.

‘Get out of ’ere,’ whimpered Sapphire. ‘’E’ll think it’s my fault—’

‘Be quiet!’

‘ ’E’s killed people! ’ Sapphire whispered.

‘I know, be quiet !’

He needed Wardle and Barclay; if they could at least make the men above believe they were police, he might have a chance—

‘The fuck?’ said a male voice, directly overhead, and a shadow appeared on Jones’ motionless body. ‘Jonesy?’

A small, trainered foot on the topmost rung of the ladder. Strike reached through the gap, grabbed the ankle and pulled.

Ian Griffiths fell with a yell Strike hoped would be masked by the music playing upstairs, landing on and then rolling off the unconscious Jones.

Strike barrelled into Griffiths before the latter could stand, slamming him down onto the concrete floor, large right hand over Griffiths’ mouth, the other groping for Griffiths’ wrist, but too late—

Strike felt a burning pain as a blade slashed the side of his head; he was lucky his face hadn’t been ripped, but his ear had been sliced—

Blood now gushing from his head wound, Strike succeeded in grabbing the wrist of Griffiths’ knife-holding hand, then slammed it down on the rough concrete floor, too, until he heard the blade fall out of Griffiths’ grasp, while Griffiths tried to shout out as loud as he could with Strike’s other hand clamped over his mouth.

Strike banged Griffiths’ head repeatedly on the floor, trying to dissuade him from struggling—

The music playing from the sitting room stopped. Strike heard a pounding on the back door. Then came a shout he recognised as Wardle’s.

‘Open up, police!’

Strike heard running feet above; a shadow slid over Strike and Griffiths and the trapdoor closed, kicked shut by somebody who didn’t seem to have looked below. The three men and the girl were now sealed up together in darkness and Strike heard the rug being slid back over the hatch to hide it.

A loud groan echoed through the cramped space: Jones was coming round.

Strike, who guessed Jones was at least twenty years younger than him, didn’t fancy his chances against him, given Jones’ bulk, a sliced ear that was already making him feel nauseous, a second man to keep at bay, and a knife lying somewhere in the dark.

‘The fuck?’ came Jones’ groggy voice. ‘Fuck ’appened?’

Strike was still fighting to keep the struggling Griffiths pinned to the ground, hand over his mouth. He couldn’t hear properly out of his left ear, because it was full of blood.

‘Fuck ’appened?’ repeated Jones, and Strike heard movement; far from being glad Jones hadn’t broken his neck, he now wished he had. Griffiths was trying to speak through Strike’s hand and producing only a strangled hum.

‘’Oo’s there?’ said Jones, sounding fearful. ‘’S’goin’ on?’

Though deadened by the trapdoor and rug, shouting and banging now became audible above.

As Barclay and Wardle were outnumbered by more than two to one, Strike doubted he could count on immediate assistance.

Taking his hand off Griffiths’ mouth, because it didn’t much matter if the fucker yelled now, he aimed a punch at the place he knew Griffiths’ face to be and heard his yelp of pain.

Blood continued to rain down from the knife wound to Strike’s ear.

‘Wha’s going on?’ repeated Jones, and Strike felt a large hand grope for his shoulder, which was covered in blood. ‘The fuck are you?’

‘STRIKE?’ came Wardle’s voice.

‘DOWN HERE,’ bellowed Strike.

‘Wha?’ said the unseen Jones, and Strike heard him stagger to his feet then his cry of pain as his head smacked into the low ceiling.

The trapdoor opened and Strike saw Wardle looking down at him.

‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ he said in alarm, and Strike realised his left shoulder was drenched in shining scarlet.

‘Need assistance,’ panted Strike, still sitting on Griffiths.

‘Barclay!’ yelled Wardle, before dropping into the space without using the ladder.

Had Barclay not slid into the cellar then, Strike doubted things would have gone well for Wardle, because young Jones, though still groggy, appeared to have realised the strangers didn’t have his good at heart.

His attempt to rush the ex-policeman was frustrated by the Scot, who, seizing the ladder off its legs, swung it round, narrowly missing Strike’s head, and knocked Jones sideways, upending the table on which the dildos were sitting.

‘Knife, somewhere,’ panted Strike, pinning the struggling Griffiths to the floor.

‘Got it,’ said Wardle, snatching it up from the floor before going to assist Barclay, who was attempting to cuff Jones’ hands behind his back.

‘What’s happening up there?’ asked Strike.

‘Three of ’em legged it soon as we got through the door,’ panted Wardle. ‘We’ve got the slowest two cuffed, but I don’t know if any of them’s—’

‘This is the main man,’ said Strike, still fighting to subdue Griffiths.

‘Did ye know yer ear’s hangin’ off?’ Barclay asked Strike.

‘You’ve got a daughter, right?’

‘Yeah,’ said Barclay, looking understandably perplexed by the non sequitur.

Strike, who had a confused idea that the father of a daughter was the next best thing, in the absence of a woman, nodded towards Sapphire.

‘She’s tied to that bloody pipe. Can you get her loose?’

‘Nae bother,’ said Barclay, straightening up as far as was possible, Jones now safely handcuffed and lying on his front. ‘Ye’re all right, hen,’ he told Sapphire, advancing on her. ‘We’ll have ye oot o’ here in no time.’

‘Help me get these cunts upstairs,’ Strike panted to Wardle, as Griffiths continued to struggle.