Page 53 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

‘She told me she might be away all weekend,’ Schiff told reporters. ‘I didn’t think it was strange. She had lots of friends. I thought she was probably staying at someone’s flat after a party or something like that.’

Medina was a prolific poster on her OnlyFans account, which a friend who wished to remain anonymous says was Medina’s attempt to make enough income to help fund her degree.

‘I warned her she was making it too easy for men to find her in real life. She talked about being a student and posted pictures of herself in the university bathrooms. I’m really scared someone who saw her OnlyFans stalked her and abducted her.’

Forensic analysis has revealed that Medina was raped before she was killed. The murder is believed to have happened in the early hours of Sunday 19th June. Her body, which had sustained multiple stab wounds, was found by a dog walker.

ABANDONED VAN

Police would like to identify the owner of a 2013 VW Up Complete 999cc, which was found abandoned without its number plates on Baydon Road, approximately two and a half miles from where the body was found.

If you have any information about this story, please call…

Robin had thought she might need to explain to Strike why she was showing him the article, but when he’d finished reading, he said,

‘Yeah, I remember seeing that. You think she might’ve been the light-skinned Asian woman who took stuff out of William Wright’s flat, before he was murdered?’

‘Well, she’s obviously not Asian, but that hall’s dark and Mandy only saw the couple briefly.

I know it’s a very long shot, but she does match the basic description of the woman – light brown skin, long black hair, didn’t sound English – and she was murdered just twenty-four hours after Wright.

’ Robin could hear how thin her theory sounded when spoken aloud, yet still felt compelled to lay it all out.

‘I was struck by Sofia telling her flatmate she’d be away all weekend, but not giving details of what she was supposed to be doing. ’

‘Maybe they’d fallen out. Or maybe they weren’t friends, just people who rented a flat together.’

‘I know it could just be that,’ said Robin, ‘but look at this.’

She typed in another search term, then said,

‘This is the description they gave out of the body, before it was identified as Sofia. “ Latina or South Asian, 162 cm, wearing jeans, trainers and a pink T-shirt with a peony design .”’ She looked up at Strike.

‘Mandy said the girl who went in and out of Wright’s flat was wearing a pink top with flowers on it. ’

She could tell by Strike’s expression that he was now interested, so she continued,

‘The last known sighting of Sofia alive was on the Thursday afternoon, so the day before the Murdoch silver arrived at Ramsay Silver. On Friday afternoon, a girl matching Sofia’s description and wearing a very similar or identical outfit drives to St George’s Avenue in a silver car, lets herself into Wright’s room, removes things in a suitcase and leaves the house.

A silver car – possibly the same silver car – turns up early next morning, a curly-haired man goes into the house and comes out with more stuff in a suitcase.

Somebody else is driving. The following day, Sofia’s murdered in the middle of nowhere, near an old abandoned van. ’

‘A van,’ repeated Strike.

‘I know it’d fit better if it had been an abandoned Peugeot 208—’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Strike. ‘A man emailed Calvin Osgood, thinking he was Oz, and asking whether he was still interested in buying his van, remember?’

‘Oh God, of course!’

Strike stroked his chin, eyes narrowed.

‘You know, women can be useful in certain situations.’

‘Thanks,’ said Robin.

Strike almost smiled for the first time since waking.

‘I mean, the presence of a woman usually makes everything seem more innocuous. Rightly or wrongly, people see a man and a woman and they think “couple going about their ordinary business”, not “off to commit theft and murder”.’

Strike took a pull on his vape pen. He really needed to increase the concentration of nicotine, because it wasn’t satisfying him nearly as much as a Benson Robin could almost see her nose quivering with curiosity.

Strike was back within a few minutes, holding a small, flat square box wrapped in Christmas paper, and a card.

‘Happy Christmas,’ he said, handing it to Robin.

‘Th—’

The phone on Pat’s desk rang and Robin felt her stomach clench.

Please God, not Rokeby again.

‘Strike and Ellacott Detective Agency… who?’

Pat’s eyes widened.

‘Just going to put you on hold.’

She pressed a button and looked round at Strike.

‘He says he’s Sacha Legard.’

‘ What? ’ said Kim, eyes widening. ‘The actor ?’

‘I’d better get going,’ said Robin, who was holding her present. ‘Merry Christmas, everyone.’

Had Kim and Pat not been there, and Legard not waiting on hold, she might have said more to Strike, might have reiterated her plea for him not to blow up at his father, for his own sake rather than Rokeby’s, but as it was, she just smiled at him, turned and left.

‘OK,’ Strike said dourly to Pat ( fuck Rokeby, fuck Christmas, fuck fucking Culpepper, fuck fucking everything ), ‘put Legard through to me in here.’

He retreated to the inner office again. The phone on his desk rang.

‘Strike.’

‘Cormoran,’ said Sacha Legard’s beautifully modulated voice. ‘Long time no speak.’

‘Yeah,’ said Strike.

‘I didn’t realise you’d been trying to contact me.’

The fuck you didn’t.

‘I’ve had a call from Dessie Longcaster – Mullins, I mean – sounding pretty upset,’ said Legard.

‘Did she tell you what this is about?’ asked Strike.

‘Yeah, my cousin Rupert,’ said Legard, with a tinge of humorous exasperation.

‘Decima’s very worried about him. Could we meet to talk?’

‘Honestly, I think this is all a bit of a storm in a teacup,’ said Legard.

Interviewers, as Strike knew, generally concurred that Sacha Legard was not only an outstanding talent, but a man of uncommon sweetness and generosity of spirit.

Strike, who knew better, had avoided reading their fawning comments for years; he ate quite enough fried food, and didn’t need the increase in blood pressure.

Strike now let his silence speak for him.

Did Legard want to puncture his charming public image by figuring as a man unwilling to help a distressed woman?

Did he really want to seem indifferent to the whereabouts of his young cousin?

‘Well, if it’ll help put Dessie’s mind at ease,’ said Legard finally, ‘of course.’

‘Great,’ said Strike. ‘Tomorrow suit you? I’m free all day.’

‘Sure. Come to the National Theatre at three. It’s our last night of—’

‘Fine, I’ll see you then,’ said Strike, and he achieved some small sublimation of his continuing urge to punch someone by hanging up before Sacha Legard could tell him which undoubtedly well-reviewed play he was currently starring in.