Page 43 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

The only difficulty was to decide how to look into it – what to do, and how.

John Oxenham A Maid of the Silver Sea

On Saturday morning, which was foggy and cold, Robin awoke, exhausted, in Murphy’s flat in Wanstead.

She’d have liked another couple of hours’ sleep, because in spite of telling her boyfriend that she’d be ‘coming to bed soon’ and ‘just needed to send another couple of emails’, Robin had sat up in Murphy’s sitting room until two o’clock, perusing the Facebook page of Calvin Osgood, the genuine music producer, and the Instagram page of Calvin ‘Oz’ Osgood, his impersonator.

After making her way through a digital labyrinth of connections and dead ends, she’d reached a website for missing young people and been unable to go any further.

She’d crept into bed so as not to wake Murphy, but her night had been restless and punctuated with nightmares about Chapman Farm.

However, as she and Murphy had an appointment to view another house together, she rose, swollen-eyed but uncomplaining, at eight, dressed and ate breakfast, before setting out into the thick, chill mist. They were in Murphy’s Toyota Avensis, because Robin had now taken her Land Rover to a garage for its MOT.

Leaving it there, she’d felt not unlike a pet owner waiting to hear whether the vet could save her beloved animal: the car’s rattle, which she still hadn’t traced to its source, had grown louder.

Murphy was in a better mood today. The Met had re-arrested the driver of the car from which the shooting of the two young brothers was believed to have happened. Murphy now told her, with cautious confidence, ‘I think we’ll get the bastards this time.’

The fog lay thickly on the road as they drove west to Wood Green, but the Avensis was warm and snug, and Robin thought of the old Land Rover and tried to tell herself it mightn’t be a bad idea to have a car with a working heater.

‘Do They Know It’s Christmas?’ was playing on the radio when Robin’s mobile rang and immediately connected to Bluetooth, revealing Strike’s name.

‘Hi,’ she said, answering, ‘what’s up?’

‘Got news, if you can talk.’

‘Actually,’ said Robin, slightly panicked – she didn’t want Strike to say anything that would reveal to Murphy what they were up to, and least of all did she want Strike to mention that they knew the body wasn’t Jason Knowles – ‘could I call you back? I’m on my way to see another house.’

‘No problem,’ said Strike, ‘speak later.’

Robin hung up. ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas?’ came back over the speakers.

‘What aren’t I allowed to hear?’ said Murphy.

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Robin. ‘I’m just tired. I can’t be doing with a long work chat right now.’

They drove on through the fog, and after a while, Robin initiated a conversation about their imminent trip to Masham.

See? she thought. You’re the one I’m taking home. You’re the one I’m spending Christmas with.

‘This looks all right,’ said Murphy enthusiastically, half an hour later, when they arrived in Moselle Avenue. The terraced houses were of red brick, and all of them looking in far better repair than the one they’d recently viewed in Wanstead.

Robin had just got out of the car when her mobile rang again, and she recognised the same Ironbridge number she’d seen before. As she’d left yet another message for Dilys Powell the previous day, she said,

‘Ryan, I’ve got to take this, it’s about Rupert Fleetwood. You go in, I’ll be five minutes.’

‘I’ll wait for you.’

She wondered whether he thought it was Strike calling back.

‘It’s freezing, go in and look interested, we don’t want to miss the slot.’

So Murphy headed across the road, and was admitted to the house, while Robin answered her call.

‘Robin Ellacott.’

‘This is Dilys,’ said a cracked voice.

‘Mrs Dilys Powell?’ said Robin. ‘Tyler’s grandmother?’

‘Yes,’ said the woman, who sounded suspicious and befuddled.

‘I’m very glad to hear from you, Mrs Powell. I’m a private detective, and I was hoping to talk to you about your grandson.’

‘What? You called me.’

‘Yes,’ said Robin, speaking slowly and clearly. ‘Your great-niece told me you were in hospital.’

‘What?’

‘I hope you’re better now?’ said Robin loudly.

‘Well, I’m home,’ mumbled Dilys Powell.

‘I called because we heard you were worried Tyler might have been the man at the silver shop. The body in the vault. Has he turned up since you contacted the police?’

‘No, he hasn’t turned up,’ said Dilys Powell. ‘Not a word.’

‘What made you think he might have been the man at the silver shop, Mrs Powell?’

‘What?’ said Dilys Powell. ‘Speak up, I can’t hear you.’

‘Could I come and see you?’ said Robin, raising her voice and enunciating clearly. ‘To talk about Tyler? I could come to Ironbridge.’

‘Took off,’ said Dilys Powell. ‘Told Griff where he was going. Never told me.’

‘Is Griff a friend of Tyler’s?’ asked Robin, now groping one-handed for her notebook.

‘He’s up the road. What d’you want?’

‘To talk to you,’ said Robin, even more loudly and clearly, ‘about Tyler. Could I come to Ironbridge? Maybe after Christmas?’

There was a brief pause.

‘Yeah, you can come.’

‘Thank you very much,’ said Robin. The front door of the house for sale had opened, and she saw Murphy watching her. ‘Could I call you back, Mrs Powell, and we can arrange a date to meet?’

‘Call me back? Yeah. All right.’

Robin hung up, then hurried across the road.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It was urgent.’

A chatty pregnant woman of around Robin’s age started showing them around the house, which was bandbox neat. Her husband was entertaining a toddler and an older girl in the sitting room.

‘They were going to go to the park, but it’s so cold and Nate’s getting over a cough,’ the mother told Robin and Murphy as they moved past the rest of the family to look at the small, sparklingly clean kitchen.

‘It’s a lovely area, lovely neighbours. We’ve been so happy here, we just want a bit more space with another baby coming, and I’d like to be nearer my parents.

Garden,’ she added, smiling, pointing towards the small, well-kept lawn outside the kitchen window.

Upstairs, she moved aside to let them look into the box room, which held a bed with the name Nathan carved into the headboard, and had planes in primary colours painted on sky blue walls.

Murphy reached out for Robin’s hand and squeezed it.

She felt a slight clenching of her stomach, and unbidden into her mind came the thought,

I will never live in this house.

‘And this is Laura’s, obviously,’ said the proud homeowner, beaming, as they looked into a second, larger bedroom, decorated in white and bubble-gum pink, ‘and ours.’

‘Lovely,’ said Robin automatically, looking blankly at the yellow duvet cover and pine furniture.

‘And the bathroom.’

Spotless, with blue and white tiles: a nice house in every way, except that Robin had already made up her mind. The stairs were narrow, and Murphy released her hand to let her walk down first. As they were descending, the doorbell rang.

‘Whoops, I think that’s the next lot, early!’ said the homeowner.

‘Have you had a lot of interest?’ asked Murphy.

‘We have,’ said the woman, with a note of apology. ‘If you’d like to go into the garden and have a proper look?’

So Robin and Murphy exited through the back door, to stand on the frosty lawn and breathe in the dank, sooty taste of the gradually lifting fog.

‘What d’you think?’ asked Murphy.

‘Nice,’ said Robin, who didn’t want to find fault too quickly.

‘I bet you it goes for way over the asking price.’

‘I was thinking that, too,’ she said, feigning regret, ‘and parking could be tricky, with two cars. Still, it is nice.’

Through the kitchen window they saw a family of four looking around.

‘Want to have another look upstairs?’ said Murphy.

‘There are good photos online. We could go and get a coffee, have a look at the area?’

‘Good idea.’

So they headed back through the house, thanked the owners, and emerged again onto Moselle Avenue. As they were about to cross the road, Murphy’s mobile rang.

‘Work,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’

He walked away up the street, answering the call only once he was out of earshot. Robin waited until he was fifty yards away before calling Strike back.

‘How was the house?’ he asked.

‘Not great,’ said Robin, and she felt a sense of release in saying it, although she knew it wasn’t the house she hadn’t liked, but Murphy’s squeeze of her hand – in consolation? Hope? Encouragement? ‘Tell me your news, because I’ve got some, too.’

Strike told Robin about Ralph Lawrence’s visit to the office the previous afternoon.

‘God above,’ said Robin, immensely relieved that she’d prevented Strike telling her all this over the car Bluetooth. ‘MI5 are warning us off?’

‘Assuming he’s telling the truth about who he is,’ said Strike. ‘MI6 would be involved initially, if Semple was Regiment.’

‘What regiment?’

‘ The Regiment,’ said Strike. ‘SAS, and, if I had to bet, I’d say E Squadron.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Covert ops, which explains why there were no details given in the press on how he got his brain injury. He was doing something the British public and the enemy aren’t supposed to know about.

Also explains his beard. Special Forces are the only ones who’re allowed them. But I’m not worried about Lawrence.’

‘You aren’t?’

‘I think, if he genuinely had evidence Semple wasn’t the body in the vault, he’d have shared it. In the absence of proof, we’re well within our rights to keep investigating.’

Robin said nothing, although she was once again imagining Murphy’s expression, if he could hear what Strike was saying.

‘Anyway,’ Strike continued, ‘I’ve sent another message to Semple’s wife, and I’m hoping to hear back from my SIB mate Hardy, who I’ve asked to dig out some intel on Semple for me. But that’s not the only thing I had to tell you…’

Strike now described the note that had been pushed through the agency’s door. When he’d finished, Robin said,

‘What the hell ?’

‘Yeah,’ said Strike, ‘and I think I know who posted it. There was a woman standing at the end of the road when I left the office yesterday, and she didn’t want me to see her face.

Didn’t think much of it at the time, but I think she was heading for our door to poke the note through the letterbox when she saw me coming out.

When I passed her she was trying to look like she was just waiting for someone, but it’s an odd meeting place, a freezing cold corner in a street full of pubs and kebab shops. ’

‘Say the name again?’

‘Dangerous Dick de Lion.’

‘He sounds like—’

‘A porn star?’

‘I was going to say, a cartoon character.’

‘He’s a porn star.’

‘Wh—?’

‘I’ve looked him up. He’s a bona fide adult actor, and from the looks of the woman lurking in the street, she’s in the industry too.

What’s more, if Dangerous Dick had any social media accounts, he’s deleted them all.

Obviously that might mean a fresh start away from the porn industry – but it might not. ’

Not entirely to Strike’s surprise, ten seconds of stunned silence from Robin ensued.

‘The note said “ had him killed”?’

‘Yeah.’

‘By someone on TV?’

‘So it seems.’

‘But wouldn’t that—?’

‘Tie in with Shanker’s story, about a bigshot with people to do his bidding? It would, yeah,’

‘And how does she know we’re investigating the body?’

‘That, to me, is far more interesting than the dimensions of Dangerous Dick de Lion, which you can look up for yourself if you’re interested.’

‘And why write a note? She could have just emailed us anonymously.’

‘Maybe she doesn’t want to leave a cyber footprint.

She might think we employ computer whizz-kids who can track her down.

The note looked like she’d tried to make sure her handwriting wouldn’t be identifiable, which might explain the cipher, although another name for pigpen cipher is the masonic cipher. ’

‘You’re kidding,’ said Robin, with a glance at Murphy, who still had his back to her.

‘I don’t know whether this is all bullshit or not,’ said Strike, ‘but going forwards, we take precautions. I want to know where you are at all times, and if it’s a question of going to a badly lit or sparsely populated location, you don’t go alone.’

‘And am I going to know where you are at all times?’ asked Robin.

‘If you want,’ said Strike.

‘But that’s less important?’

‘I’m not looking to get hacked to death and dressed in a masonic sash, but I respectfully suggest they’d find it harder to do that to me than to you. What’s your news?’

‘What?’ said Robin. ‘Oh, yes – a few things. Tyler Powell’s grandmother just called me back. She’s been in hospital. She’d be happy to speak to me, if I come to Ironbridge.’

‘Excellent,’ said Strike. ‘We might be able to pick Dilys and Semple’s wife off in a single round trip.’

‘OK, great,’ said Robin.

‘And the other things?’

‘Midge and Tasha have split up.’

‘Ah,’ said Strike. ‘I thought there was something going on. She looked like she was crying when I saw her at the office yesterday.’

‘Right, so try—’

‘Not to be a bastard?’

‘I was going to say “try and cut her a bit of slack”, but not being a bastard works, too.’

‘Fair enough. Anything else?’

‘Well, this might not help,’ said Robin, ‘but I did a deep dive on Facebook and Instagram last night, looking at the accounts of the real Osgood and Oz, and there’s a girl—’

Murphy had turned back, and was now walking towards Robin.

‘Strike, I’ll have to go,’ said Robin hastily. ‘I’ll tell you the rest later, but this is all getting—’

‘Yeah,’ said Strike. ‘It is.’