Page 72 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

And like the cloudy shadows

Across the country blown

We two fare on for ever,

But not we two alone.

A. E. Housman XLII: The Merry Guide, A Shropshire Lad

‘Well, I sure as hell haven’t got anything to beat what you got yesterday , ’ said Strike, when Robin arrived at the office at eleven o’clock the following morning.

They were to be lunching with Decima Mullins at Quo Vadis in Dean Street and Strike had suggested a quick in-person catch-up before meeting the client, not because there was much to say that hadn’t already been communicated by text, email and phone, but because he was continuing to seize every opportunity for private chats with his partner.

It was another chilly day, the sky smoke grey, and Robin was wearing a forest green knitted dress and black boots appropriate to both the chilly weather and their client’s choice of restaurant.

Strike, who was wearing the only suit that currently fitted him after over a year of intermittent dieting, refrained from telling Robin she looked good.

All of that could wait for the Lake District hotel: until then, he thought it best to maintain a strict professionalism.

‘So, what d’you reckon are the odds that Oz and Medina cleared out Wright’s flat?’

‘Getting much, much higher,’ said Robin, trying to sound upbeat.

The triumph she’d felt in the immediate aftermath of her interview with Gretchen and Max had become tinged with anxiety overnight.

Once again, she and Strike were in possession of information the police should be given.

Strike had said he’d tell Wardle, leaving Robin praying once again that her boyfriend wouldn’t hear where the intelligence had come from, but she had the feeling it was only a matter of time, now, before Murphy realised what they were really up to.

‘But we still haven’t got the full picture, have we?’ Robin said. ‘If it was Oz who cleared out Wright’s flat, why involve Medina at all? Why not empty it himself? Why did it have to be done in two batches; why go back there at all, after Wright was dead?’

‘I had a thought about that,’ said Strike, ‘and if I’m right, it’s because Oz fucked up.’

‘How?’

‘I think Medina was supposed to take anything in the room that might’ve led to an ID of Wright, but there was something in there she couldn’t lift.

So Oz goes back for it, then drops it on the stairs, unable to hold it.

Wright bought weights after moving in, remember?

And unless he’d visited Wright in the lead-up to Wright’s murder, Oz wouldn’t have known they were there. ’

‘But why would it matter if the weights were left?’ said Robin. ‘The police already had Wright’s DNA, they couldn’t stop them matching it.’

‘That’s exactly where my speculation stops.

I don’t know why it would be urgent to take the weights, but I can’t think of much else a fairly small woman wouldn’t’ve been able to carry, and which Oz himself struggled to lift.

I don’t think Oz was supposed to have gone anywhere near Wright’s room, but he had to – and unfortunately for him, Mandy was awake at five a.m.’

‘I still can’t see why he needed Sofia Medina,’ said Robin. ‘She was a liability; she blabbed to her flatmate. And as for being bait, she can’t have been the girlfriend Wright thought was coming to live with him.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because the timescale doesn’t fit,’ said Robin.

‘Gretchen says Sofia only knew Oz for about a month. Sofia might’ve been naive, but I can’t see letting herself get pimped out to a second man, when what she wanted was Oz himself – or his rubies and his jet set lifestyle.

Plus, Wright would’ve had to be even worse than naive, agreeing to a girl moving in with him almost as soon as she met him, when he knew people were after him. ’

‘He wouldn’t be the first man to prefer not to look a very attractive gift horse in the mouth,’ said Strike, with a painful recollection of Bijou Watkins naked, ‘but yeah, you’re right, the time frame doesn’t seem to fit.

Well, if the police start investigating Oz and Medina, we might be able to pick up some crumbs. ’

‘I’m still trying to get information on that missing girl who messaged Oz online,’ said Robin. ‘Sapphire Neagle. I’ve found her Instagram account and I’ve identified a friend who might be helpful. If I can only find out where she goes to school, I could try and speak to the friend.’

‘Any new information would help, if you can get it,’ said Strike, now directing his attention to the clump of notes about Wright, and Ramsay Silver, grouped together at the bottom of the board, ‘because I’m damned if I can see how all this fits together and some of it has to be irrelevant.

We’ve got to find a way of narrowing down all the Hussein Mohameds, as well, because we haven’t got the manpower to bang on over a hundred doors on the off-chance.

Meanwhile, Midge says Jim Todd’s made two more calls from telephone boxes and has been riding round the Circle Line without going anywhere again. ’

‘I’m still interested in that text Pamela Bullen got, the day of the robbery, which was followed by her dashing out of the shop without locking up.’

‘Yeah,’ said Strike, scratching his chin, ‘but the police are bound to have checked that out and been satisfied with whatever she told them.’

‘Still—’

‘I agree, I’d like that cleared up, too, but she’s already lied to you and I can’t see her coming clean now. I’ve been having a look into John Auclair, that silver collector who was there when the body was discovered, but we’re not going to be able to speak to him any time soon, because—’

‘—he’s in Monaco,’ said Robin. ‘I know, I saw it online. Nice yacht.’

Strike took a sip of his tea as he turned away from the board to face Robin.

‘Want to run through the latest info on our four current candidates for William Wright?’

‘OK,’ said Robin.

‘Taking the last first,’ said Strike, gesturing to the picture of Dick de Lion, with his sculpted abs and his orange skin, ‘I’ve had no luck on his real name, but I’ve been digging on Lord Oliver Branfoot.

According to Fergus Robertson, rumours have been flying around journalistic circles about Branfoot for years. ’

‘What kind of rumours?’

‘The word in tabloid circles is, Branfoot swings both ways. Robertson told me Branfoot stepped down as an MP because there was an incident involving a young male intern. Apparently the intern was given a hefty pay-off, because he’s refused to talk to the press and has kept shtum ever since.

Branfoot resigned on the pretext that his wife was ill, and since then he’s concentrated on his think tank and charitable work.

He’s got a particular interest in troubled young men, projects for juvenile offenders and so on, and Robertson doesn’t think that’s entirely altruistic.

‘I didn’t tell Robertson why we’re interested in Branfoot, but he’s not stupid, he’s noticed Branfoot taking an unusual interest in the private detective business lately.

I asked him to keep an ear out, and promised him the inside scoop if we get anything.

If – big if, but for the sake of argument – Branfoot had anything to do with the body and if – even bigger if – that cipher note’s to be believed, and the body was Dick de Lion, we might have a motive.

De Lion was blackmailing Branfoot, or was refusing to be bought off like the intern, so Branfoot decided to get rid of him.

But to say we’ve got no concrete evidence that’s what happened is the understatement of the year. ’

‘But that theory would explain what Shanker told you,’ said Robin.

‘It would,’ agreed Strike, ‘which is why I asked Robertson whether Branfoot’s a Freemason.

He doesn’t know, but he sounded excited by the question, so I’m hoping he’ll do a bit of nosing around for us.

On the other hand,’ said Strike, turning to look up at the board again, ‘we’ve got our road trip coming up.

If we hear something that suggests it was Semple or Powell in the vault, Branfoot becomes irrelevant. ’

Robin, who’d experienced another of her inconvenient inner tremors at the thought of that Lake District hotel, made an effort to sound matter of fact as she said, ‘Jade Semple first, then?’

There was a knock on the dividing door, which opened immediately.

Oh, not again, thought Robin, as Kim Cochran appeared, holding a fold-up chair.

‘Oh, sorry,’ she said, ‘I didn’t think you were in this morning, Robin.’ She turned, beaming, to Strike. ‘I think you’ll like this.’

‘What?’ asked Strike, his tone as unwelcoming as Robin could have wished.

‘I’ve got intel on the three men who went into the shop to murder Wright, and’ – Kim held up a large manila envelope – ‘I’ve got you pictures of the body.’