Page 18 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)
And then the sudden sleights, long secresies,
The plots inscrutable, deep telegraphs,
Long-planned chance-meetings, hazards of a look,
‘Does she know? does she not know?’
Robert Browning In a Balcony
The work rota was so arranged that Strike and Robin didn’t meet again until Friday, which was cold and cloudless.
Central London was now fully decked in its Christmas finery, and eleven o’clock found Robin in Mount Street in Belgravia, standing beneath one of the extravagant banners of silver lights that stretched across the road, pretending to be talking on her phone while the ex-wife of their professional cricketer client shopped in Balenciaga.
Though she was gloved and coated, the chill nipped at every exposed bit of Robin’s skin.
She felt low and tired, because she was still not sleeping well.
Strike’s visit had left an uncomfortable undercurrent in its wake.
Murphy had returned to the subject of the body in the vault the following morning, outlining the dangers of provoking a man who’d already ordered his own nephew killed and reminding Robin, yet again, that more people than Strike would be put in danger if Lynden Knowles came to believe he was being investigated for Jason’s death.
Robin had tried very hard not to sound defensive or angry as she reiterated that neither she nor Strike had any intention of going near Jason’s uncle, and assured him that the secret of the plainclothes man was completely safe with them.
She might have said far more. She might have reminded Murphy that she stood in no need of lectures on the dangers of tangling with career criminals, because she and Strike had already come up against a criminal family every bit as sociopathic as Lynden Knowles’ appeared to be.
She might even have said aloud the thing that both of them knew, which was that everything Murphy was saying was coloured by his dislike of her partner.
She’d refrained, though. She didn’t want an argument.
Robin would ordinarily have texted Strike to ask what he thought about taking Decima’s case, but lurking embarrassment at having been caught out in the lie about Bijou Watkins prevented her doing so.
Now she stood staring across the road at a motif carved in stone over the windows of Balenciaga; it was either a tree or a sheaf of corn.
Possibly she was being influenced by the masonic symbolism she’d been reading up on during her Tube journey that morning: the sheaf of corn, she now knew, represented bounty and charity to Freemasons.
Hearing her name, Robin started and looked round. Strike was walking towards her. She’d been expecting to hand over to Shah, and then only in an hour’s time. Pretending to finish her call, Robin slipped her phone back into her pocket.
‘Plug’s heading for Ipswich again,’ were Strike’s first words. ‘Christ knows what he’s up to there. Anyway, Shah’s tailing him, and he told me you were here.’
‘You’re early,’ said Robin. ‘I’m still on her for another hour.’
‘I know. I wanted to talk over the silver vault case in person. I’ve just had Decima Mullins on the phone again.’
‘Hang on,’ said Robin, eyes on the door of Balenciaga, ‘Mrs A’s on the move.’
The brunette, who was wearing a long black coat of faux-fur and very high-heeled boots, had emerged from the shop carrying a large shopping bag, and now sauntered on up the street. Robin and Strike set off on the opposite pavement, keeping pace with her, though twenty yards behind.
‘What did you tell Decima?’ asked Robin.
‘The truth,’ said Strike, ‘leaving out the plainclothes bloke, obviously. I said the circumstantial evidence points strongly towards it being Jason Knowles, but that there’s no absolute confirmation yet that it’s him.’
‘And what did she say?’ said Robin.
‘She begged me to try and prove who Wright was,’ said Strike. ‘So, what d’you think?’
‘I thought you didn’t want the job?’
‘I’m not going to lie,’ said Strike. ‘I’m getting interested in that body.’
But this, of course, wasn’t the whole truth.
Since realising how little Murphy wanted them to investigate the corpse in the vault, Strike had come to see how many opportunities this case offered with regard to the furtherance of his plans regarding Robin.
Given the sensitivity around the undercover NCA agent, Strike had a perfect excuse to insist he and Robin did the bulk of this case together, excluding the subcontractors.
The need for confidentiality would justify regular closed meetings between the two of them and, as a bonus, they might need to visit the home towns of the other candidates for William Wright, so as to rule them out.
That would mean long car trips, plenty of joint interviews and debriefs and, with luck, overnight stays.
He even had an excellent excuse to bring up Charlotte’s suicide note again, when outlining why Sacha Legard and Valentine Longcaster might not be keen on talking to him.
Strike didn’t doubt that some would call him cynical, but that didn’t trouble him in the slightest. After all, he fully intended to give Decima Mullins value for money, and if they managed to prove that Fleetwood hadn’t been the man in the vault, their client would have the resolution she needed.
The brunette on the other side of the road entered a jewellers. Strike and Robin turned automatically to look into a window opposite, watching the reflected shopfront.
‘But,’ said Strike, ‘if investigating is going to cause trouble between you and Murphy, we’ll pass.’
Caught off-guard, Robin looked up at him.
‘I – even if it did, that’s not a good reason not to take it,’ she said, without thinking.
Interesting, thought Strike, but aloud he said,
‘Well, that’d be my view in your position, but some might say that’s why I’m still single. You haven’t asked me how my date with Bijou went,’ he added, looking down at her.
‘Oh God, I’m sorry about that,’ said Robin, blushing. ‘I never – I forgot to tell Ryan you’d stopped seeing her, I – you didn’t have to—’
‘Doesn’t bother me,’ said Strike. ‘She makes a far better imaginary girlfriend than she did a real one. Not,’ he added, ‘that she was ever a girlfriend.’
‘What would you call her, then?’ said Robin, thoroughly taken aback by the turn the conversation had taken. Strike’s usual form was resolute tight-lipped-ness about his private life.
‘A misguided exercise in distraction and instant gratification that’s cured me of the practice. That was quick,’ Strike added, as Mr A’s ex-wife emerged from the jewellers opposite.
‘Nothing she fancied,’ said Robin, as they turned to walk after her. ‘I think she’s Christmas shopping.’
‘Christ, don’t remind me,’ groaned Strike. ‘I fucking hate it. I’d pay a grand for someone to do it for me.’
‘Where are you spending Christmas?’ Robin asked. For the first time in six years, both partners would be free over the holidays.
‘Lucy’s,’ said Strike. ‘I couldn’t get out of it, not right after Ted dying. I’ve got to go to the Christmas Eve party with all the neighbours, too. I’d rather eat my own fucking feet. What are you up to?’
‘Ryan and I are going to Mum and Dad’s. I’m dreading that too, to be honest,’ said Robin.
‘Really?’ said Strike. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ sighed Robin. ‘It’s just families, isn’t it? The house is going to be packed…’
But there was so much she couldn’t say. There would be two pregnant women in the house, her sister-in-law, Jenny, and her brother Martin’s girlfriend; none of the family knew about Robin’s recent hospitalisation, but she didn’t doubt there’d be a lot of baby and pregnancy talk, and she was afraid Murphy might use that as an excuse to start talking about egg freezing again.
‘… I’d like to stay in London and do my own thing, but it feels as though you’re not allowed to do that unless you’ve got kids.’
‘You’re not allowed even then,’ said Strike. ‘Joan would have been mortally offended if Lucy and Greg hadn’t turned up every year with her great-nephews.’
Ahead, their target threw back her mane of professionally blow-dried hair as she walked.
‘So,’ said Strike. ‘Do we take the case? It’s your call.’
‘Well… from all you’ve said, if we don’t do it, she’ll just hire someone else.’
‘I agree. And we won’t string her along.’
‘No,’ agreed Robin, ‘and I must admit, I’m getting interested in that body, too.’
‘But as I say, if it’ll cause you trouble—’
‘Call her back, and tell her we’ll do it,’ said Robin.
‘You sure?’
‘Definitely,’ said Robin.
‘I’ll ring her now,’ said Strike, drawing out his mobile.
Robin listened to Strike’s side of the call, feeling particularly warm towards him, appreciative of his consideration with regard to Murphy, and grateful that he’d passed off her lie about Bijou Watkins as a joke.
‘Right, I’ll get that contract to you,’ Strike was saying. ‘Right… yeah… no problem at all. Our pleasure.’
He hung up.
‘Very grateful,’ he said. ‘More tears.’
The two partners walked on in silence, Strike thoroughly satisfied with his last ten minutes’ work.
He’d just made an excellent start in establishing that he was no longer interested in casual affairs by saying what he had about Bijou Watkins, and Robin had agreed to the investigation, in spite of her boyfriend’s clear disapproval.
No matter the risks, no matter the possible fallout, he now intended to seize the first auspicious moment to tell her what he felt, and if no such opportunity arose naturally, he’d engineer one.
There’s no pride in having what you never worked for.
Never let the other chap change your game plan.
Stick to your own, and play to your strengths.