Page 26 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

Strike glanced around. Mrs A was walking towards the ballroom doors, the same fake-fur coat she’d been wearing in Mount Street hanging open to reveal a floor-length sequinned purple gown.

She was accompanied by a blonde wearing a corseted gold dress so tight Strike wasn’t sure how her internal organs could still be in their rightful places.

‘I’ll go and see if anything interesting’s being said at the coat check,’ said Kim, getting up to follow the women.

‘I’ll be in the bar,’ said Strike, getting to his feet: Mrs A ought not to see him sitting there alone.

They weren’t going to be able to follow her into the gala dinner, of course, but Strike knew from similar jobs that once food had been consumed, and as long as you were appropriately attired and carried yourself with the right degree of casual entitlement, these events were very easy to gatecrash.

After years of tailing the well-heeled, Strike was familiar with the layout of most of London’s five-star hotels, so turned left at the end of the lobby.

The Dorchester’s bar was decorated in gold and green with Art Deco touches, and was bestrewn with more Christmas foliage and fairy lights.

He was informed by the man at the door, who emphasised Strike’s good fortune, that they could squeeze him in at the bar itself.

Having ordered a double whisky, Strike had just pulled out his phone to kill time, when it rang in his hand.

‘Strike.’

‘Yeah,’ said a female voice so loud that Strike winced and held the phone away from his ear, ‘i’s Jade Semple.’ Her Estuary accent was so strong she pronounced her surname ‘Sempaw’. ‘Niall’s wife. You’ve wrote to me, on Facebook.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Strike, ‘thanks for getting—’

‘’Ow do I know you’re ’oo you say you are?’

She was throwing her voice as though speaking to him from the bottom of a well, and Strike was reminded of Bijou Watkins, who’d been similarly loud.

‘We can switch to FaceTime if you’d like. I could screenshot my driving licence?’

He heard a male voice speak in the background, and knew he was on speakerphone.

‘Not hard to fake a driving licence,’ the man said.

‘Or we could meet face to face?’ said Strike.

The phone now seemed to change hands, because the man spoke next at full volume.

‘Who’s hired ye?’

‘I can’t disclose that, I’m afr—’

‘Newspaper,’ said the man confidently. ‘Told you, babe.’

The line went dead.

Strike immediately saved Jade Semple’s mobile number, which she’d incautiously failed to hide.

‘Nothing interesting at the coat check,’ said a voice in Strike’s ear. ‘Oh good, we’re drinking. Vodka tonic, please,’ Kim told the barman. ‘They’re all sitting down for dinner,’ she informed Strike.

Kim’s drink arrived at the same time as the man beside Strike got up off his bar stool, and she got onto it instead.

‘Whoops,’ she said, with yet another laugh, as her dress snagged on her heel, tugging it down at the back, leaving Strike with good reason to suppose she wasn’t wearing anything at all underneath it. She downed several gulps of her drink before saying,

‘ God , I needed that… anyway, get this. Right after Navabi called me, I had my ex turn up at my front door. I was wearing this,’ she said, gesturing down at the dress, ‘so obviously he thought I was off meeting someone new… nice big row, obviously. He’s such a fool.

We split up,’ she went on, although Strike hadn’t asked, ‘because he got made redundant and that became his entire personality, being jobless. I’m not even kidding! “Hi, I’m Ray, I don’t work.”’

She laughed again. Strike didn’t think she was drunk, but there was a slightly frenetic air about her that recalled Kenneth Ramsay, jabbering desperately in an effort to sell what wasn’t wanted.

Strike had no desire whatsoever to hear about Kim’s private life, but protracted silence might provoke questions about his mood he didn’t want, so he asked,

‘What did he do?’

‘Worked for a hospital trust,’ said Kim, ‘and now it’s all “you left me when I was at my lowest”. I mean, there are other jobs, Ray. Just grow a pair and send out your bloody CV, hahaha. Oh dear God, look at her…’

Kim’s eyes were following the reflection in the mirror over the bar of a tall, willowy woman who’d clearly had a lot of cosmetic work done to her face. Strike was reminded of Charlotte’s mother, Tara, whose picture, the last time he’d seen one, had shown extensive overuse of fillers.

‘Why do they do it?’ Kim asked. ‘What’s the point? Look at her neck and her hands… you’re not fooling anyone… would you ?’ she asked Strike, smirking.

‘What, have plastic surgery?’ asked Strike, knowing full well what she meant.

‘No,’ said Kim, laughing as she nudged him, ‘ you know…’

All he had to do, Strike thought grimly, was get through the next couple of hours.

He ordered another drink, so Kim did, too.

She gabbled on and on, and though Strike paid as little attention as he could, and his responses were perfunctory, he unwillingly learned far more than he’d ever wanted to about his newest subcontractor.

Ray, she told him, had been the husband of a friend also on the force (‘well, ex-friend now, obviously, hahaha’); their relationship had been the main trigger for Kim leaving the Met (‘it’s all politics, anyway, I’d had enough’); she’d also had two long, complicated affairs in her twenties, both with married policemen.

Strike found it strange, to put it mildly, that she was telling him all these things unbidden, although she seemed to assume that he took her tales as sophisticated and exciting, rather than tawdry.

‘… wanted kids, which I don’t, so that was the end of that…’

Judy Garland was singing ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ over hidden speakers.

Strike’s thoughts drifted back to Robin.

A good long road trip to Scotland to interview Jade Semple would mean an overnight stay four hundred miles away from Murphy, which was exactly the kind of situation he’d been hoping this case would provide.

He had to put pressure on Jade Semple. Robin and Murphy might be viewing the house he’d seen on Robin’s phone at this very moment.

What if there was a ring-shaped Christmas present in Murphy’s gym bag?

‘… literally offered me money to stay. Can you imagine? Money! ’

Someday soon we all will be together

If the fates allow…

‘… glad to be working over Christmas, to be honest… I’ll go and check whether we can get in there yet,’ said Kim, and she slid off the barstool and walked back off towards the ballroom, her rear view attracting plenty of attention from men in the bar.

Strike ordered a third whisky, picked up his phone again and, in search of distraction, opened the website Truth About Freemasons and began to read answers to the many questions people had come on to the website to ask.

GI-67:

Can Jewish people be masons?

Stolkin:

Yes, masons can be any religion although Catholics aren’t allowed to join by their own church.

AustinH:

Is it true Freemasons protect each other?

Gareb 7:

In a brotherly sense, yes. If you’re thinking of concealing crimes, no, that’s the mafia.

‘Doors are open,’ said Kim’s voice in Strike’s ear. ‘She’s pissed and dancing.’

Strike paid the barman and followed Kim back out into the lobby. As they approached the double doors into the ballroom, Kim slid her hand under Strike’s arm, chattering and laughing, and they passed into the gala without challenge.

Tall vases full of white flowers and crystal icicles stood on the circular tables.

Uniformed waiters and waitresses were winding through the party, clearing away empty bottles.

The dancefloor was crowded, but Strike spotted Mrs A on its edge, dancing face to face with the woman in the gold dress to ‘Shout Out to My Ex’.

‘How fucking appropriate is that?’ said Kim jubilantly, already gyrating to the music. ‘Shall we dance?’

‘Not my forte,’ said Strike. ‘Leg.’

‘OK, I’ll go it alone,’ said Kim, and she sashayed away from him towards Mrs A and her friend, affording him another look at that long, bare expanse of back.

‘What,’ said a frigid voice beside Strike, ‘are you doing here?’

Strike looked down to see a pale, petite brunette with large dark eyes, who was wearing a strapless black dress.

Oh, fuck.

‘Friend invited me. Good cause,’ said Strike.

‘Bullshit,’ said the Honourable Nina Lascelles.

He’d slept with her twice, six years previously.

She was pretty enough, but that wasn’t why he’d done it; she’d simply helped him gain important evidence in a case.

It had seemed rude at the time not to have sex with her, because she’d clearly wanted it, but their awkward, if minimal, history was far from the only reason to deplore Nina’s presence here tonight.

Nina happened to be the cousin of Dominic Culpepper, the journalist Mr A suspected his ex-wife of sleeping with, and Nina had clearly drunk enough cheap champagne to make her disinhibited.

With a view to keeping the conversation civilised, Strike asked,

‘Who’re you here with?’

‘My fiancé,’ she said.

‘Ah,’ said Strike, ‘congratulations. Which one’s he?’

Nina pointed at a large blond man staggering around on the dancefloor beside Mrs A.

‘Nice moves,’ said Strike. Nina didn’t smile.

‘What are you really doing here?’

‘I just told you,’ said Strike. ‘Kids. Good cau—’

‘You’re here after someone.’

‘I’m a donor. The charity helped out my godson.’

‘Oh,’ said Nina. She clearly imagined even Strike wouldn’t lie about having a seriously ill godson. ‘Right. Sorry.’

He wanted to walk away, but thought it inadvisable to do it in any way she’d consider rude. Why the fuck hadn’t he just said ‘thank you’, or sent her flowers, six years ago?

Shout out to my ex…

‘Dominic’s pissed off at you,’ Nina shouted up at him. ‘He says you’ve got too grand for him. You’ll only give tips to Fergus Robertson these days.’

‘Would you say Robertson’s grander than Dominic?’ asked Strike. Robertson was a short, balding Scottish journalist of working-class origins, whereas Nina’s showbiz reporter cousin was ex-public school. When Nina’s expression remained icy, Strike said, knowing full well he wasn’t,

‘Dominic here?’

‘No,’ said Nina. ‘Is that your date?’ she asked, watching Kim dancing virtually back to back with Mrs A.

‘Yeah,’ said Strike.

‘Huh,’ said Nina, with a faint sneer. She took a clumsy swig of wine.

‘Shout Out to My Ex’ had ended. Mrs A and her friend staggered, laughing, off the dancefloor and headed for what Strike assumed would prove to be the powder room. Kim followed.

‘What’s her name?’ asked Nina, her eyes following Kim.

‘Linda,’ said Strike, off the top of his head, then wondered why the hell the first name to spring to his lips was that of Robin’s mother, who detested him.

‘Is she a detective too?’

‘No, she works in a shop.’

‘Sure she does,’ sneered Nina.

‘People do work in shops,’ said Strike. ‘Not everyone works in publishing or PR.’

‘I know that, thank you,’ snapped Nina, taking another gulp of wine.

Strike wished he still had a drink, and wished even more that Nina would sod off. Didn’t she want to dance with her fiancé, who was now staggering around to ‘Rockabye’?

‘Still at Roper Chard?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Actually,’ she added, with a slightly snide laugh, ‘if they knew I was talking to you, they’d want me to offer a deal on your memoir.’

‘There won’t be a memoir,’ said Strike.

‘I didn’t think so,’ snorted Nina. ‘Not a truthful one, anyway.’

Strike’s ego wasn’t sufficiently enlarged to believe that this degree of anger could be accounted for by a very brief liaison, six years previously.

‘What’s that mean?’ he asked.

‘It means, ’ said Nina, ‘you really fucked up a friend of mine’s life.’

‘How did I do that?’ asked Strike.

‘Never mind,’ spat Nina.

Strike spotted Kim wending her way back towards him.

‘Linda,’ said Strike, before Kim could speak, ‘this is Nina. Nina, Linda.’

‘Hi,’ said Kim brightly. ‘How do you know Cormoran?’

‘We fucked twice, a few years ago,’ said Nina, leaving Strike to deplore the tendency of the upper classes to call a spade a spade.

‘Oh,’ said Kim, without a flicker of discomposure. ‘He’s good, isn’t he? Speaking of which, Corm, I’d rather be doing that. Let’s go.’

She linked her arm through Strike’s.

‘Night,’ said Strike to Nina, as he and Kim walked away.

Kim unlinked her arm from his just as Strike was about to pull away.

‘Got her, bang to rights,’ she told Strike, and held out her mobile to show him the photo she’d just taken.

Two women, one in purple, the other in gold, were closely entwined in a passionate kiss, leaning up against a tiled bathroom wall.

‘The woman in gold is Lady Violet,’ said Kim triumphantly. ‘Dominic Culpepper’s wife.’