Page 30 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

We for a certainty are not the first

Have sat in taverns while the tempest hurled

Their hopeful plans to emptiness, and cursed

Whatever brute and blackguard made the world.

A. E. Housman IX, Last Poems

‘So,’ said Murphy, setting a glass of tonic water and a packet of crisps in front of Robin six hours later, ‘that was a waste of bloody time.’

‘I know,’ said Robin.

They were sitting in the corner of a loud and noisy pub situated close to the small terraced house in Wanstead they’d just viewed.

Having spent an hour in Mandy and Daz’s bedsit that morning Robin would have expected anything to look good by comparison, but she doubted the ‘three bedrooms, separate lounge and kitchen’ had been decorated or restored in thirty years.

Robin and Murphy had trailed around the place in the wake of a middle-aged couple who appeared to be looking at the house as an investment opportunity: renovate, sell and reap a fat profit.

Murphy had only ten minutes to spare before he needed to set off back to work. He hadn’t told Robin exactly what was happening on his gang shooting case, or what he’d be doing this evening, had arrived late for the house viewing and been almost monosyllabic throughout. He kept checking his phone.

‘Are you OK?’ Robin asked tentatively.

‘Yeah,’ said Murphy.

He took a sip of his zero-alcohol beer, then said,

‘The mother’s given a big interview to the Mail .’ Robin knew him to be referring to the woman who’d lost one child, and whose other was now blinded, in the gang shooting. ‘Probably be online soon.’

‘Oh God, I’m sorry,’ said Robin.

‘I’m just sick to the back fucking teeth of it all,’ muttered Murphy furiously. ‘We had the guy who was driving the car the shooter fired from in custody. We applied for an extension to keep questioning him and it’s been fucking refused.’

‘Why was it refused?’

‘Because he’s got a shit-hot piece of shit lawyer, that’s why.’

Robin could tell her boyfriend was in the state where neither sympathy nor further questions would be welcome. She took a sip of tonic water and opened her crisps.

‘How was your day?’ said Murphy, with an obvious effort.

‘Fine,’ said Robin, with forced brightness.

‘What were you doing?’

‘Trying to find Rupert Fleetwood. We didn’t.’

Murphy forced a smile.

Five minutes later, after finishing his drink, he said,

‘I’m gonna have to go.’

‘OK. I’m going to stay a bit longer. Might get more crisps.’

Murphy kissed her, and left.

Robin had to admit to herself that it was a relief to see him disappear. Now she could let her face fall, relish the anonymity of this crowded, noisy pub and try and address her own mood, which was a combination of anxious, miserable and another emotion she didn’t particularly want to identify.

Aside from the depressing visit to the rundown property they’d just viewed, and the disquiet that had resulted from seeing that text to Strike from Kim, Robin was now weighed down by the knowledge that she and Strike were in possession of information the police had never been given.

She’d assured Mandy and Daz they wouldn’t share anything the couple had said, but of course, that had been a lie: she and Strike had an obligation to pass on important evidence to the people who ought to be dealing with it, because, whatever Murphy might think, they weren’t in the business of trying to upstage or sideline the proper authorities.

Robin had been inwardly debating whether she should tell her boyfriend about the man and woman who appeared to have taken things from William Wright’s flat before and after he’d been murdered, but, given his mood when he’d finally turned up at the terraced house, she’d decided against doing it this evening.

Had she gone for a debrief drink with Strike, they could have discussed all of this, of course…

SO SEXY. Staring at the tinsel-decked bar, Robin asked herself when she’d ever needed to send Strike a text with the words SO SEXY in it.

Unless she was reporting an overheard conversation, she couldn’t imagine any circumstances under which she’d have done so, even after years of deepening friendship.

At the very least, they suggested a hitherto unsuspected degree of familiarity and complicity between Kim and Strike.

Her mobile screen lit up. Strike had texted her.

How was the house?

Though Robin didn’t know it, Strike was also currently sitting alone in a pub: the Flying Horse, his favourite local.

He, too, was feeling depressed, although at least he had the compensations of alcohol.

It had taken him half an hour to decide on sending the four-word text.

He wanted to push her into admitting that she and Murphy were moving in together because, unwelcome though the announcement would be, no carefully targeted offensive action could be taken against a hidden enemy.

Robin contemplated Strike’s message for several minutes. Annoyed at him as she currently felt, she was vaguely touched that he’d bothered to ask. They were friends, after all. Best friends.

Horrible , she texted back.

Strike was very slightly cheered by this answer. At least cohabitation wasn’t imminent. He began to type again:

I think I’ve found that website William Wright was looking at, at work. www.AbusedAndAccused.org

Robin pressed the link and was taken to a website headed by the logo Kenneth Ramsay had described: two stylised hands, each of them holding an eyeball.

She scrolled slowly downwards. The website was clearly the very last resort of the desperate.

Lawyers of the less reputable type posted advertisements there, trawling for those looking for compensation or appeals against convictions.

Laymen were either profligate with free advice that strayed into the criminal, or had visited the site in a spirit of Schadenfreude.

Anon9:

I have been arrested drunk driving but nobody give my miranda rites does this mean I can apeal

Dogger:

Miranda warnings are only given in the states you twat

AustinH:

my girl frend ‘s father spread rumors I done sonething really bad . how do I stop this do I need a lawyer

Kojak:

I can sort that for you no lawyers involved

Kibosh:

Have been accused of ‘inappropriate touching’ of work experience girl, suspended on full pay, would be grateful to hear of anyone else who has been subject of similar baseless accusation.

Belter:

Nonce

C2J88:

Nonce

Japh:

Nonce

Robin texted Strike back.

It does look like WW was hiding or on the run from someone/something.

Yeah. I’m going to call Wardle about that couple who took stuff from Wright’s flat, btw. We can’t sit on that.

Robin relaxed somewhat. She wouldn’t have to tell Murphy and, hopefully, her boyfriend would never hear where Wardle had got the information.

Strike, meanwhile, was interested in Robin’s willingness to engage in a text conversation with him. This seemed to suggest she wasn’t with Murphy right now. He sent another text.

I’ve emailed that Osgood bloke. No response yet.

Robin responded:

No. Well, he didn’t seem very fond of unsolicited emails

Strike typed true , then sent a further text.

Been wondering why a man would be carrying around a blood sample.

That must have been a lie?

I’d have thought so. Also been wondering whether the getaway car containing the Murdoch silver also contained a curly-haired man and a long-haired woman.

Yes

Wouldn’t mind pictures of the body. See whether there were defensive wounds.

Don’t want much, do you?

Might get lucky on some of it. Kim says she’s got an in.

A shard of red-hot resentment pierced Robin.

For God’s sake, calm down. You need information, said a rational voice in her head, but it was no match for the angry self that wanted to type, why don’t you just team up with bloody Kim on the case instead, if she’s got so many ins?

She lifted her glass to her lips, only to find it empty. Looking up, she realised that a group of women close by were throwing her unfriendly glances for hogging a table and texting, when she was neither drinking nor eating. Robin gathered up her things and left the pub.

The night was freezing, the stars overhead glinting, remote and unfriendly. Once inside the Land Rover, Robin locked the door and turned back to her phone. While she’d been walking to the car, Strike had texted again.

What do you think of her, incidentally?

Robin stared at these words for a few seconds, before typing back,

Who, Kim?

Yes

Unbeknownst to Robin, Strike was consciously trying to disarm what he feared might be a ticking bomb.

He couldn’t be sure that Robin had seen the SO SEXY text, and maybe it was vanity to imagine that she’d have been remotely concerned, but he didn’t like the idea of what Kim might be saying behind his back, and after their evening at the Dorchester, he wouldn’t put it past her to be hinting at a mutual attraction that didn’t exist.

Back in the Land Rover, Robin was afraid of taking too long to answer.

She’s good at the job.

Strike pondered this answer, scowling slightly. Was this diplomacy, or had Robin not noticed a trace of flirtatiousness in Kim’s manner towards him? Or didn’t she care?

What do you think of her personally?

Robin, who was now wondering whether she was being asked to give her seal of approval for Strike’s affair, hesitated. She feared responding negatively, because she didn’t want Strike to realise… what? Then she saw the three dots that meant Strike was typing again, and waited.

Because she’s starting to piss me off

Suddenly the stars dimly visible through Robin’s misty windscreen were winking benignly. She could be generous, now.

She’s good at the job, though.

It’s just me who thinks she’s bloody full of herself then, is it?

No, thought Robin, feeling even more relieved than she had when Strike had said he’d tell Wardle about the couple who seemed to have stolen items from Wright’s flat, it isn’t.

She considered telling Strike about Midge’s question of that morning, but something held her back.

The thought of Murphy was somehow tangled in with her reasons for not opening a conversation about Strike being fancied by Kim: better, perhaps, not to go there at all.

She’s quite pleased with herself, but you can’t say she hasn’t anything to back it up. It was good work, getting that picture at the Dorchester. Have you shown it to Mr A, by the way?

Yeah. He’s pleased. Just hope there’s no fallout.

What do you mean?

I ran into someone at that dinner who knows me: cousin of Dominic Culpepper’s. If A uses that picture to try and wreck Culpepper’s marriage, it won’t take Culpepper long to work out who was keeping watch over his wife and Mrs A that night.

The smile now faded off Robin’s face. So whichever ex-girlfriend Strike had run into at the gala dinner was Dominic Culpepper’s cousin? That didn’t fit any of the former girlfriends she knew about. Exactly how many exes did Cormoran Strike have?

Oblivious to the new hole he’d inadvertently dug for himself, Strike was typing again.

I’ve been going through the footage from Ramsay Silver’s interior camera this afternoon.

Anything interesting?

A couple of bits I wouldn’t mind discussing. Have you had any luck on Tyler Powell?

I tried calling his grandmother this afternoon. No answer. I think I’ve also found his parents, but no landline for them. The whole family’s in Ironbridge. Odd that the grandmother called the helpline, not his mum or dad.

Robin’s fingers were becoming increasingly numb in the cold, but she typed on.

How did Dev get on at that Ipswich compound, by the way?

No dice. There was a kind of watchman who didn’t seem to buy his story.

Strike, I’m going to have go to, I’ve got to drive home and I’m freezing.

No problem. We’re both free Weds afternoon, we could review the Ramsay camera footage then?

Great , texted Robin.

Nine miles away in the Flying Horse, Strike replaced his phone in his pocket and contemplated the bottles behind the bar, feeling morose.

He needed to start his bloody Christmas shopping.

His sister, Lucy, kept sending him anxious texts about the sale of Ted and Joan’s house.

There was bound to be a house out there, somewhere, that Robin and Murphy would like.

Nevertheless, he thought, getting to his feet, he’d secured another afternoon alone with Robin. Given her house-hunting activities, every conversation from now on had to be considered in the light of an opportunity.