Page 27 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

Yea, and not only have we not explored

That wide and various world, the heart of others,

But even our own heart, that narrow world

Bounded in our own breast, we hardly know,

Of our own actions dimly trace the causes.

Whether a natural obscureness, hiding

That region in perpetual cloud,

Or our own want of effort, be the bar.

Matthew Arnold Merope: A Tragedy

Strike called Robin on Saturday morning to give her two bits of news, neither of them particularly welcome.

‘Barclay was arrested last night.’

‘Shit!’ said Robin, freezing with a mug of coffee halfway to her mouth.

‘Yeah. He got taken by surprise by two men who found him trying to get inside that bloody compound Plug was visiting, north of Ipswich. Barclay managed to get onto the roof of a building from which – allegedly – there have been thefts of agricultural tools. So he’s been fucking fingerprinted and the police are going to recognise him if he goes sneaking around there again. ’

‘What did he say he was doing?’

‘Said he climbed on the roof for a bet. Pretended to be pissed.’

Against her will, because it would be highly inconvenient if Barclay ended up in court, Robin laughed.

‘Glad someone finds it funny,’ said Strike.

‘Could he see anything from the roof, before he got dragged off it?’

‘No, he said the place was in total darkness, but there are dogs. That’s what tipped off the blokes who dragged him down, the guard dogs barking. Hope to fuck he’s not charged.

‘But in slightly better news, Kim’s cracked Mr A’s case,’ Strike went on. Having explained about the taking of the photograph in the Dorchester bathroom, he said, ‘… so you can take tomorrow off.’

‘Great,’ said Robin, trying to sound enthusiastic while imagining Kim’s smug self-satisfaction.

Delighted to learn that Robin had an unexpected day free, Murphy suggested lunch at the Prospect of Whitby, which she’d never visited before.

It was the oldest of all the pubs that sat along the Thames, with wood-panelled walls and model ships on the window sills.

The pair of them ate outside on the deck, watching the great river roll past, Robin well wrapped up against the cold.

The peaceful interlude reminded Robin how well she and Murphy got on when neither of them was exhausted or stressed.

With a glass of wine inside her, she concurred with more enthusiasm than she’d shown previously that they should start house-hunting in earnest, a decision made far easier because Robin’s upstairs neighbour had thrown a party on Friday that had meant she’d had barely an hour’s sleep.

There was to be a viewing the following day of the terraced house in Wanstead for which Murphy had already sent Robin the details, and they agreed over lunch that they’d go, ‘just to get our eye in’, as Murphy put it.

They further agreed that no properties would be viewed in Clapham, Ealing or Deptford, where Robin had lived with her ex-husband, or in Barnet, where Murphy had lived with his ex-wife.

Murphy was cheerful, conversation was easy and Robin felt nothing but affection for her boyfriend.

Yes, there were things she wasn’t telling him – the GP’s letter, still unacted upon; the visit to Ramsay Silver to view the place where William Wright had been murdered and mutilated; the fact that she’d be attempting to locate Wright’s former residence the following day – but in the bracing chill, with the slight fuzziness given by the wine and the muddy Thames gliding past them, this didn’t trouble Robin overmuch.

Nobody was talking about eggs, or their freezing; neither of them mentioned Cormoran Strike.

To complete her good day, she received a text from Strike while she was buying more drinks at the bar, informing her that Barclay had been released with only a caution.

Great , she texted back. She hadn’t told her CID boyfriend about Barclay’s arrest, so when he asked why she looked so hazily happy on returning to the table, she said,

‘I’m with you,’ and was rewarded with a kiss.

On Monday morning, which was cloudless and chilly, Robin set off for St George’s Avenue, Newham, in the still-rattling Land Rover. She’d been driving for fifteen minutes when she received a call from Midge.

‘Hi,’ said Robin, having to shout over the Land Rover’s engine and its rattle. ‘What’s up?’

‘I’ve lost a bloody wodge of expense receipts,’ Midge said, sounding grumpy, ‘and Pat said to call you about it.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Robin. ‘Just write up what you think you spent and we can match it all against your credit card statement. Are you OK?’ she added, because Midge sounded immensely stressed, which she didn’t think could be entirely receipt-related.

‘No,’ said Midge bluntly. ‘Tasha’s not answering my fookin’ texts and Kim’s doing my fookin’ head in. Can I ask you something?’

‘Go on,’ said Robin.

‘Is there something going on with Strike and Kim?’

The receipts, Robin immediately realised, had been a pretext for Midge to call and ask this question.

‘What d’you mean?’ she asked, her heart rate suddenly accelerating.

‘Strike. Kim. Shagging. Because I’ve just met her at the office, and she was banging on about Friday night.’

‘Yes, she did really well,’ said Robin automatically.

‘I’m not talking about the photo – although that was hardly difficult, they were groping each other right there in the open.

No, she says she and Strike were discussing their exes all evening and then he ran into one of them, at the party.

And Kim told this woman they were off to shag, and the way she was saying it…

I know he’s a player,’ said Midge, ‘but I didn’t think he’d shit on his own doorstep, y’know? ’

‘Nothing’s going on,’ said Robin, hoping she was telling the truth.

‘D’you like her?’ asked Midge baldly.

‘She’s good at the job,’ said Robin.

‘’S not what I asked.’

‘Midge—’

‘All right, fine,’ said Midge grumpily.

She hung up. Robin continued driving.

Would Strike sleep with Kim? Had he? Surely not. No, he couldn’t have done… he wouldn’t (as Midge had put it) shit on his own doorstep. If there was one thing that Strike put first, above everything, it was the agency.

So he’d run into an ex at the Dorchester.

Well, it couldn’t have been Charlotte (a nasty mental image intruded of that beautiful face seen through bloody water)…

maybe Ciara, the model? Elin, the radio presenter?

Lorelei, owner of a vintage clothing store?

Madeleine, the jewellery designer? Bijou, the lawyer?

Robin drove on towards Newham, her thoughts dwelling on the succession of gorgeous women who’d been briefly entangled with Cormoran Strike, and she was angry at herself for ruminating on Midge’s words, and angry, too, at her detective partner, though she’d have found it hard to justify that emotion if interrogated.

Strike wasn’t proven to have done anything wrong…

he wouldn’t have slept with Kim… God , she hoped he hadn’t…

She arrived in St George’s Avenue at eleven o’clock and parked. As she was getting out of the Land Rover, Strike’s BMW passed her.

‘Morning,’ he said, when they met on the pavement between their respective cars. ‘Just been talking to Shah. He’s going to have a go at that compound this afternoon. Try and get in the front, posing as a vet who’s been called out and mistaken the address.’

‘Great,’ said Robin, trying to dispel thoughts of Kim and the gala. ‘So, we’re looking for a place with multiple bells, right?’

‘Yeah,’ said Strike, wondering whether he was imagining a slight aloofness in Robin’s manner.

‘All right, why don’t you go that way, I’ll go this, and we can call each other if we find a likely house.’

So the partners split up, Strike walking up the street and Robin down.