Page 6 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

It should be objection sufficient to exclude any man from the society of Masons, that he is not disinterested and generous, both in his acts, and in his opinions of men, and his constructions of their conduct.

Albert Pike Liturgy of the Ancient and Accepted Scottish Rite of Freemasonry

‘Hi,’ said Strike. ‘How’s the throat? Can you talk? If not, I’ll email you later.’

‘I can talk,’ said Robin. Her voice was slightly hoarse, because the hospital room was so warm, which was helpful to her cover story. ‘I’m really sorry I couldn’t drive you. Where are you?’

‘Parked outside a pub called the Fox,’ said Strike, watching the rain splattering on his windscreen. ‘I’ve just left Decima Mullins.’

‘How was she?’

‘There’s no single-word answer for that,’ said Strike. ‘I want your opinion.’

He described the interview he’d just had, outlining Decima’s theory that her boyfriend had been the body found in the vault of a silver shop in Holborn.

‘Oh God,’ said Robin, when Strike had finished speaking. ‘Poor woman. So we’re supposed to track down Rupert Fleetwood for her?’

‘Nope,’ said Strike.

‘What?’

‘She’s very clear about the fact that she doesn’t want him found alive. Any time I came close to hinting he might just have buggered off because of all the trouble he’d got himself into, she had another meltdown. We’re in proper Gateshead territory. It’s identify that body, or nothing.’

‘Tell me about this murder at the silver shop,’ Robin said. She’d been undercover at the cult without access to news in June, and this was the first she’d heard of it.

‘Salesman calling himself William Wright was hired to work at Ramsay Silver, which he did until he was found dead in the vault two weeks later. Police theory is, he went back with accomplices by night to rob the place, but a fight broke out and he was killed. I remember thinking the story was a bit off when I read it—’

‘How was it off?’ asked Robin.

‘Well, speed tends to be the essential component of a heist, doesn’t it?

If they were slick enough to get into the vault you’d think they’d be smart enough not to have a punch-up mid-job, but a load of valuable silver was nicked the night he was killed, so it’s hard to see what other explanation fits other than a burglary that turned into accidental killing.

Before they identified the corpse the story got a lot of coverage, because the body was badly mutilated – the police seemed to think that was done to prevent identification – and the shop deals in masonic stuff and is right beside the Master Lodge of All England or something—’

‘Conspiracy theories?’

‘By the lorry-load, but once the papers found out it wasn’t a masonic ritual killing, they lost interest.’

‘And the dead man was definitely this thief?’

‘Well,’ said Strike reluctantly, ‘Mullins claims the ID of the body wasn’t definite and she might , possibly, be right, because I’ve just had a look, and in all the news reports where the bloke in charge of the investigation is quoted directly, he says he’s “ninety-nine per cent certain” it’s Jason Knowles but then appeals for more information.

I’ve had a quick Google, and I can’t find anything more definite since, no “DNA has now confirmed”, “we have proven beyond doubt” – and they haven’t caught the killers or found the silver, either.

And the retired police commissioner Decima claims to know, Sir Daniel Gayle, is real.

‘But none of that means Fleetwood was in the vault. She’s tried to construct a story around the fact that he had this bit of old silver to sell, but for her theory to be right, this drug dealer who was threatening to kill Fleetwood if he didn’t pay off his housemate’s debts would have had to track him down to the shop where he was pretending to be Wright, get in there by night with a couple of mates, open up the vault, murder Fleetwood, who’s conveniently there alone at one in the morning, carve up the body, remove this haul of silver, reset the alarm on the vault, leave the shop and lock it up behind him without leaving any trace of his presence, then scarper with a large sack full of masonic candlesticks, or whatever was taken.

And I think you’ll agree that if he managed all that, the man wouldn’t have needed his money back, because he’d be a fucking genie. ’

Robin’s laugh was cut short by a small exclamation of pain, because she’d experienced a sharp twinge in the operation site.

‘You all right?’ said Strike.

‘Yes, just my throat.’

‘Personally, I think Auntie in Switzerland pulled some strings to get him away from his cradle-snatching girlfriend, and he’s exactly where she says he is: New York.’

‘What d’you mean, “cradle-snatching”?’

‘Decima’s thirty-eight. I just Googled her.’

‘We’ve investigated enough men with wives twenty years younger than themselves, haven’t we?’ said Robin, a little coolly.

Too late Strike remembered that he didn’t want to suggest to Robin that there was anything wrong with age gaps between romantic partners.

‘I’m only – she’s not the kind of thirty-eight-year-old I can see your average twenty-six-year-old going for.’

‘Well, if he’s really in New York, it shouldn’t be too hard to prove.’

‘Except that she doesn’t want us to prove it. She’d literally rather believe he’s dead than that he left her. She’s called the baby “Lion”,’ Strike added inconsequentially.

‘As in Aslan?’ said Robin, smiling. She knew perfectly well how ludicrous Strike would find the name ‘Lion’.

‘Yeah.’

‘A lot of posh people call their kids strange things,’ said Robin.

‘As do nutters,’ said Strike. ‘Anyway, I’m calling for your opinion, because I don’t think it’s ethical to take her money.’

‘No… but it sounds as though she’ll just try and hire someone else.’

‘Oh, she will,’ said Strike, ‘and it’s the sort of case where you could bleed the client dry, if you were unscrupulous.’

There was a short silence, during which Robin stared at the ceiling of her hospital room, and Strike watched his exhaled vapour unfurl across the rain-spattered windscreen.

‘I think,’ said Strike at last, ‘I’ll tap a couple of police contacts and find out just how certain they are the body was Knowles. If it’s become a hundred per cent certainty since the news reports, I’ll tell Decima free of charge it wasn’t Fleetwood, and then maybe she’ll face up to reality.’

‘And if it’s still ninety-nine per cent?’ asked Robin, checking the time on her phone, because visiting hour was fast approaching.

‘Well,’ said Strike, whose Google search on Decima had confirmed that she was exactly who she claimed to be, ‘I’d say we could investigate just to put paid to her delusions, because at least we wouldn’t string her along, but in the interests of full disclosure, I should say that she and Fleetwood are both connected to people I hoped never to speak to again. ’

‘Who?’

‘Valentine Longcaster and Sacha Legard.’

‘Sacha Legard, the actor?’ said Robin. ‘Why d—? Oh. ’

The realisation had been a little delayed by the morphine.

‘Yeah,’ said Strike. ‘Sacha’s Rupert Fleetwood’s cousin, and Valentine’s Decima’s brother, who was one of Charlotte’s best friends.’

Immediately, both Strike and Robin thought about the last time Strike’s late fiancée had been mentioned between them, which had been over a month previously, on the day Strike had told Robin that Charlotte had been certain he was in love with his detective partner.

In spite of the morphine, Robin now felt a strange mixture of anticipation and panic.

Strike had opened his mouth to speak again when Robin suddenly said,

‘Strike, I’m really sorry, I’m going to have to go.’

Without waiting for his response, she hung up.