Page 185 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

My own hope is, a sun will pierce

The thickest cloud earth ever stretched;

That, after Last, returns the First,

Though a wide compass round be fetched;

That what began best, can’t end worst,

Nor what God blessed once, prove accurst.

Robert Browning Apparent Failure

‘In a way,’ said Decima Mullins, ‘I feel as though he did die.’

It was late on Friday afternoon and their erstwhile client had requested a final meeting with Strike and Robin, at the office.

Decima was better groomed today than either detective had ever seen her; still too thin, but quietly attractive, though with haunted eyes.

As she’d already explained, she’d moved back to London with her son and intended to resume work at her restaurant shortly, though part time.

Robin, who theoretically had the day off, had wanted to be present for the meeting and had arrived wearing the dusky pink dress and high heels she’d worn to the Goring. Strike had already glanced at her left hand. It remained ringless.

‘If he’d just told me…’ Decima said.

‘I think,’ said Robin, ‘he was so horrified by the discovery—’

‘But to just run out on me like that… he knew I was looking for him, Albie and Tish told him so…’

‘I’m not defending him taking off,’ said Robin. ‘I know he ought to have stayed and been honest.’

‘There are times I wish we’d never known,’ said Decima miserably. ‘It could’ve been fine if we’d never found out. What’s the use in knowing? He called me again last night, you know. We were on the phone for six hours.’

‘ Six? ’ said Robin.

‘Yes. It’s always like that, when we talk; we can’t stop talking,’ said Decima.

‘I was so angry… and then we both cried, and then… after a while, it was almost like it used to be, but I felt as if I was talking to his ghost. But it’s over, obviously.

I’ve got to think about him completely differently…

we’ll never… we can’t go back. It’s a filthy mess, all of it…

he says he wants to come back to London, get a job here and help me with Lion.

He wants a proper relationship with him… ’

She took a deep breath, and arrived at what Strike had guessed was the point of the meeting.

‘Val and Cosima won’t tell anyone, they’re too ashamed. So—’

‘None of our subcontractors know anything about it, and Cormoran and I will never breathe a word,’ said Robin. Strike nodded agreement.

‘Thank you,’ said Decima. ‘I don’t want Lion to hear any rumours, or find out before we’ve worked out how to… how to tell him.’

‘Do you need to?’ asked Strike, and Robin looked at him in surprise; she’d have assumed Strike would think the truth, however unpalatable, was always preferable to a lie, and she couldn’t help remembering his angry advice to her: we aren’t fucking social workers .

‘Why does he have to know anything except that his parents wanted him, but the relationship didn’t work out?’ said Strike. ‘He’s all right physically, isn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ said Decima, ‘he’s fine. I suppose we’re lucky nobody in the family’s got any serious genetic conditions. We’re all healthy.’

‘This kind of thing probably happened a lot more often than people realised, in the days before everyone could get a DNA test,’ said Strike.

‘I’d say your son’s a damn sight luckier than a lot of children.

Parents who love him and are on good terms with each other.

Father who wants to be involved in his upbringing.

Yeah, I’d say he’s an extremely fortunate kid, compared to some. ’

Robin noticed a kind of wonder in the look Decima now gave Strike.

She appeared deeply struck by this practical view of the situation and Robin felt a wave of fondness for her partner, which immediately occasioned an inner spasm of guilt, because it was Murphy’s birthday, and she was due at dinner in an hour and a half, and she wasn’t supposed to melt inwardly at Strike showing unexpected sensitivity and compassion when the man she claimed to love was probably debating right now when exactly he should produce that diamond ring…

she realised Decima was talking again and dragged her thoughts back to the present.

‘… found out who the dead man in the vault was. And that poor girl’s safe.’

‘And that’s down to you,’ said Strike. ‘Without you, there’d have been no justice for Tyler Powell, no end of the trafficking ring and Niall Semple’s wife still wouldn’t know where he was. Bottom line: you were right. William Wright wasn’t Jason Knowles.’

Decima smiled. She looked better than she had when she’d entered the office; less drawn and anxious.

‘I’d better go,’ she said, ‘the childminder clocks off at six. Thank you both.’

She shook both their hands and departed. When they’d heard the glass door close in the outer office, Robin said quietly,

‘It’s awful, isn’t it?’

‘Could be better,’ admitted Strike.

‘I think they’re going to love each other for ever and never be able to do anything about it.’

Trying to dissemble the feeling of depression Robin’s words had just given him, Strike said, ‘Want a coffee?’

Robin checked the time on her phone. She still had well over an hour before she was due at the Ritz. Every time she thought about it, she experienced a ripple of panic in her stomach.

‘Yes, great,’ she said, glad to have a little longer where she could think only about work or, at least, try to.

Pat was still at her computer in the outer office. She always remained to make tea or coffee if a client was present, even if, as today, that meant staying past five o’clock.

‘You’re off duty,’ Strike reminded Pat, as he put on the kettle.

‘Gonna finish these accounts now I’m started,’ growled the office manager, her e-cigarette waggling in her mouth as she continued to type. ‘Won’t have to do it Monday.’

‘You got a replacement for Travolta,’ said Robin, realising the fish tank had a new occupant, this one speckled in white, black and orange.

‘Yeah,’ said Pat gruffly. ‘It looks too empty with just two.’

‘What’s this one called?’

‘Elton,’ said Pat, and Robin laughed.

When the two detectives had returned to the inner office with coffee, Robin said,

‘I haven’t asked how your ear is.’

‘Seems to be attaching itself back to my head,’ said Strike, ‘which is good, because I’d look a right prick trying to wear sunglasses without it.’

‘Is it still painful?’

‘No,’ said Strike, unsure exactly why he was lying, though he suspected he hadn’t yet lost the habit of trying to appear as fit and physically un-fucked as Murphy.

‘Been wall-to-wall star-crossed lovers, this case, hasn’t it?

’ he said, preferring to get off the subject of his own physical decrepitude.

‘It has,’ Robin agreed. ‘Rupert and Decima. The Semples. Pamela Bullen-Driscoll and her husband…’

Strike grinned, but said more seriously,

‘And Tyler and Jolanda… it was that fucking bracelet that screwed them. Griffiths might’ve had his suspicions she was getting too close to Tyler, but the bracelet was the big mistake.’

Robin thought, yet again, of the silver charm bracelet hidden at home in her evening bag.

‘I can’t bear the thought of Tyler going down to London, falling in with all the disguise stuff,’ she said, ‘passing his interview at Ramsay Silver, thinking he’s getting a home ready for Jolanda… trying to find out if it was worth joining the Freemasons, for protection…’

‘Yeah,’ said Strike, ‘I know.’

Like Robin, the silver vault investigation was one of Strike’s least enjoyable ever.

There was, of course, satisfaction in knowing that Griffiths and his fellow rapists and traffickers were in custody; he took theoretical pride in having found out where each of their five possible William Wrights had gone, or met their ends, but what he’d primarily feel when looking back over the past few months was bitter regret and endless self-recriminations that had nothing whatsoever to do with the silver vault, and everything to do with Robin.

‘I’d better get going,’ she said reluctantly when she’d finished her coffee.

Strike accompanied her to the outer office, where Pat was pulling on her coat, receipts evidently dealt with.

‘Have a good weekend,’ she said gruffly.

‘You too, Pat,’ said Robin. ‘Thanks for staying.’

As the door closed behind the office manager, Strike gestured at Robin’s dress.

‘Going somewhere nice?’

‘Yes,’ she said, without looking at him. ‘It’s Ryan’s birthday. We’re going to the Ritz – the restaurant,’ she added quickly, in an attempt to turn both their thoughts away from the bar. ‘Well, I’ll see you Monday.’

The glass door opened and closed again, and Robin had gone.

Strike was suddenly flooded with adrenaline.

He might have been back on that yellow dirt track, knowing what was about to happen, because he’d spotted the youth who’d planted the IED running away from the road, dragging a small boy he was determined to pull clear of the imminent explosion.

He’d yelled ‘brake’, but too late to avoid calamity.

He was almost certainly too late now. Nevertheless, he wrenched open the glass door.