Page 68 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

Not over-rich, you can’t have everything,

But such a man as riches rub against,

Readily stick to,—one with a right to them

Born in the blood…

Robert Browning Half-Rome

Unbeknownst to Robin, Strike, too, was having property-related problems. A good offer had been made on Ted and Joan’s house in St Mawes, but Greg thought they should hold out for more.

What business it was of Greg’s, given that he didn’t own the place, was a question Strike hadn’t yet posed, in the interests of maintaining family harmony.

He’d now endured two fraught phone calls on the subject with his sister.

Both times, Strike had advocated accepting what was being offered.

On the second occasion, Lucy had said distractedly,

‘Greg said you’d – oh, I just don’t know what to do.’

Strike didn’t know what Greg had said he’d do, but he could guess.

His brother-in-law had either told Lucy the detective didn’t need the extra money Greg was hoping to squeeze out of the purchasers, or that Strike was too dim to realise there was extra money to be made.

Strike knew Lucy’s inclination to hold out for more money wasn’t truly mercenary.

In some confused way, she wanted to get the fullest possible value for what had meant so much to her, for so long.

It so happened that to Strike, too, that old house in St Mawes wasn’t just a prime bit of real estate, but he thought the offer that had been made was more than fair.

Cheerless though it was to think of other people living in Ted and Joan’s house, was it really worth another few thousand pounds to scare off what sounded like a pleasant, local family, in favour of the second homers who might be able to afford more?

And Strike was vaguely surprised to find in himself this very Cornish point of view, of which his oldest friend, Dave Polworth, would have heartily approved.

Meanwhile, Decima Mullins had requested a face-to-face update on the thirteenth of January, when, she said, she needed to come to London in any case.

Strike, who suspected this trip might concern her failing restaurant, agreed to the meeting and, only too aware how little fresh information he had to give her, decided he was now justified in contacting Rupert’s ex-housemate, and the author of one of Fleetwood’s most pressing troubles, Zacharias Lorimer.

He therefore emailed the young man for a second time, making vague intimations about a police inquiry, and strongly hinting that it was in Lorimer’s best interests to answer.

Shortly before one o’clock on a bitterly cold Friday, precisely one week before the proposed catch-up with Decima, Strike returned to Denmark Street to find Pat at her desk and the office otherwise deserted.

‘You’ve had a message from a man in Kenya, Zacharias Lorimer,’ she told Strike.

‘Yeah? Saying what?’

‘He can FaceTime you today at half past four. That’s half past one our time. His number’s by your keyboard.’

‘Great,’ said Strike, checking his watch and heading towards the kettle. ‘Want a coffee?’

‘Yeah, all right,’ said Pat gruffly. ‘And Dev was just in. He says Todd’s been on the Circle Line again and you’ll know what that means.’

‘Right,’ said Strike, ‘thanks.’

‘And I’ve found more Hussein Mohameds.’

‘How many are we up to now?’

‘A hundred and five.’

As Pat seemed in a reasonable mood, Strike indicated the fish tank.

‘Did you feel sorry for the black one?’ he asked, pointing at the faintly obscene fish with its knobbly head growth.

‘That’s an Oranda,’ she croaked, removing her e-cigarette to do so. ‘Fancy breed.’

‘Ah,’ said Strike.

‘I call it Cormoran. Got hair like yours.’

‘Hair?’

‘You know what I mean,’ said Pat.

Having made them both coffee, Strike headed into the inner office, holding the sandwich he’d bought en route. He’d had barely two mouthfuls when his mobile buzzed and he saw a text from Robin.

Update on Gretchen Schiff. I might be getting over-excited, but I think there’s something there. I haven’t mentioned murder, just said we’re investigating a theft, a man with a false name and a woman who looked like Sofia. I expected her to

Strike’s mobile rang: it was Lucy. Strike refused the call and continued reading Robin’s text.

say Sofia would never have had anything to do with robbery, but she went quiet. She’s just got back to me asking for more details. I’ve said I’m not comfortable giving those by phone, but would rather say it in person. I’ve sent her proof that I genuinely am who I say I am.

His mobile rang for a second time: Midge. This time, he answered.

‘Hi, what’s up?’

‘ Fookin’ Kim! ’

‘What about her?’

‘She’s just had a fookin’ go at me for sloppy note taking! I’m ex- fookin’ police myself, I don’t need her telling me how to keep fookin’ files! I’m telling you now, in case she comes running to you: I just told her to do one.’

‘Great,’ said Strike, far less sincerely than he’d said it five minutes previously, before remembering he was supposed to be ‘cutting Midge some slack’.

‘Look, I’m sorry, but it’s her fookin’ manner,’ said Midge furiously. ‘She’s not the fookin’ boss of—’

‘I’ll have a word with her,’ said Strike. ‘I can’t talk now, I’ve got to make a call.’

He rang off and returned to Robin’s text.

My impression is she’s worried and wants to know what I know. I’m waiting to hear whether she’s prepared to meet.

Strike put down his sandwich, about to respond, when his mobile rang for a third time: Kim. He picked up.

‘Hi,’ said Kim. ‘I’m sorry about this, but Midge and I have just had a bit of a run-in.’

‘I’ve heard,’ said Strike.

‘Look, I’m just a stickler for keeping files up to date. The thing is, we’re not getting anywhere with Plug, and digging into his mates looks like our best lead. Midge is a bit slapdash—’

‘I’ve never found her slapdash,’ said Strike, which was true, though he’d sometimes had reason to think her insubordinate, ‘and there are ways of communicating with colleagues that don’t give the impression you think you’re their superior.’

He glanced at the time on his computer screen. He had three minutes until his call with Zacharias Lorimer.

‘If she didn’t like my tone, I’m sorry,’ said Kim. ‘I suppose I just get hyper-focused on the job and want everyone firing on all cylinders.’

‘It’s down to Robin and me to decide whether all the subcontractors’ cylinders are firing.’

‘OK, point taken,’ said Kim, ‘I’ll apologise. To be completely honest with you, I was getting pissed off with her, because she’d been going on and on about that shitty story in the paper, you know, that thing with you and Candy—’

‘An apology should sort things,’ said Strike firmly, though he didn’t like what he’d just heard.

‘I’ll ring Midge now. Actually, if you’ve got a mo, I wanted to explain about that text I sent, Christmas Eve. I’ve been so embarrassed. You’re right above this guy Stu in my contacts, he’s been pestering me for a date since he found out I’ve split up with Ray—’

‘Doesn’t matter. I’ve got to go.’

He hung up, thoroughly disgruntled, wondering whether Midge had indeed been harping on that bloody news story.

She had form on loudly expressed comments about his personal life; he well remembered her raging about ‘her with the fake tits’, after his extremely ill-advised liaison with Bijou Watkins had featured in Private Eye .

Then, realising it was half past one exactly, he hastily brought up FaceTime and tapped in the number on the Post-it note Pat had placed beside his computer.

Zacharias Lorimer answered within a few rings, and Strike found himself facing a young man with thick, wavy blond hair, whose skin had the pink-brown, ham-like hue typical of Anglo-Saxons exposed to bright sunlight.

He was sitting in what appeared to be an upmarket lodge of some kind, with wooden walls.

Dazzling sunlight was falling through a window to his right.

The corner of a large painting of a lioness and a well-stocked drinks tray were visible in the background, suggesting that Zacharias wasn’t slumming it in Kenya, though his khaki shirt gestured vaguely at some park ranger role.

‘Hi,’ he said, before Strike could speak. ‘You’re Cormoran, yah?’

‘That’s me,’ said Strike. ‘Thanks for getting back—’

‘OK,’ said Zacharias forcefully, ‘look, I don’t know where Rupert is, OK? I’ve told Decima I don’t know where he is, so that’s all I’ve got to say, OK?’

‘Yeah, that’s very clear,’ said Strike, who recognised a blow-hard when he met one, and changed his tactics accordingly. ‘Have you told the police that?’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘You left for Kenya before they got in touch, did you?’ said Strike.

‘What?’ said Zacharias, staring out of the screen with his slightly bloodshot eyes.

‘I assumed – but OK, if they haven’t tracked you down yet—’

‘What are you talking about? Why would the bloody police want to talk to me?’

‘Aside from the drug debt, you mean?’

Strike could tell Lorimer had been hoping Strike didn’t know anything about his dealings with Dredge, because his sunburned skin now turned blotchily red.

He also deduced that Lorimer wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, because after a long pause he said in a tone of poorly feigned confusion and defiance,

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Dredge. The dealer you stiffed for a kilo of Colombia’s finest.’

‘I don’t—’

‘I’m not arsed one way or another about the coke,’ said Strike, ‘but if you’d rather talk to the police than me, I’ll let you go.’

He reached out a hand, as though to close FaceTime, and Zacharias said,

‘Hang on!’

Strike withdrew his hand.

‘Nobody’s been in touch with me, except you, OK?’ said Zacharias, now looking panicky.

‘Look,’ said the detective, with a carefully calculated air of circumspection, ‘I only want information on Rupert. If the police think I’m messing with their investigation, or warning suspects—’

‘What d’you mean, “suspects”? Why – suspected of what?’

‘When did you leave for Kenya?’

‘Why?’