Page 80 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

Ill as yet the eye could see

The eternal masonry,

But beneath it on the dark

To and fro there stirred a spark.

A. E. Housman XXXI: Hell Gate, Last Poems

Strike, who had Saturday afternoon off, was currently standing in the inner office, once again contemplating the noticeboard where material relevant to the silver vault case was pinned, which he’d just rearranged.

He was attempting to drown out the low hum of dread that had dogged him since his call with Bijou in work.

His eyes were currently fixed on the partial footprint found beneath Wright’s body.

Several things about it had struck him, before these had been driven from his mind by the news about Bijou Watkins.

Robin was right: the print had been made by a relatively small foot.

Although it was only partial, it was very distinct, and this seemed strange, because it had been found underneath the body, which surely meant it should have been smudged.

Yet if it had had time to dry before the body had been moved, Strike could see no reason why the killer hadn’t spotted it and wiped it away.

He’d noticed something else about the print, too.

The tread of the trainer that made it was perceptibly worn on the right side.

Strike happened to know a lot about gait assessment, because it had formed part of his rehabilitation post his amputation.

He’d stood on a light box while the evenness of his footing was evaluated, as part of the adjustment for his prosthesis, and in consequence he’d learned something about the different ways soles wore down if the owner possessed anything in the nature of an imbalanced walk.

Unless he was mistaken – and the orthopaedic article he’d just read seemed to confirm his tentative hypothesis – the person who’d worn this trainer might have had a slight limp.

Strike reached for the pad on the table.

Flipping it open, he saw what looked like a note Robin had written to herself: PRESENT BARNABY.

Strike was immediately reminded of Shanker, and the mysterious ‘Barnaby’s’ where bodies went; but then he remembered that ‘Barnaby’ was the name of her new nephew.

Flipping to a fresh page, he wrote the single word ‘LIMP?’ on it, tore it out and pinned it beneath the picture of the footprint.

Strike had replaced the paragraph about Reata Lindvall, the Swedish woman who’d been murdered in Belgium in 1998, with pictures of the murdered Sofia Medina.

The Spanish student pouted down at him, her skin the colour of dark honey against her black lingerie, her hair falling in shining waves either side of her face.

The provocative vacuity of her expression drained her of all personality.

Beside Medina’s picture were the three photographs Kim had procured of William Wright’s corpse.

Strike examined the detailing on the sash for a few seconds, then sat down at his desk, switched on his computer monitor and went to search Amazon for A.

H. Murdoch’s ebooks, purchasing what appeared to be the man’s best known work, Secrets of the Craft .

Strike assumed that the number 32, which was picked out in red beads on the sash on the corpse, referred to one of the masonic degrees, and quickly discovered that he was right.

Achieving degree thirty-two gave a Freemason the rank of Sublime Prince of the Royal Secret, was symbolised by wavy swords and a Teutonic cross bearing an eagle that also appeared on the sash, and was superseded in status only by the highest degree of all, Sovereign Grand Inspector-General.

Long since out of copyright, Murdoch’s book hadn’t been properly formatted, but scanned into digital form, so that the occasional word was illegible. Strike skim read the entry under Degree Thirty-Two.

The Sublime Prince of the Royal Secret becomes with the degree’s endowment none other than a Christian Knight, the spiritual and legitimate successor of the Knights Templar…

Strike scrolled on, until he spotted the word ‘silver’.

When she elevates and illuminates, a pure and chaste woman is as silver, or the moon. The [… ] Freemason is sure never to mistake base lead for the nobler metal, else he may find himself forever entombed in the dungeons of lust and licentiousness.

The last line brought back uncomfortable thoughts of Bijou Watkins, but before Strike could sink further into gloom, his mobile rang again.

‘Strike.’

‘Ah’ve got tae get out of here,’ said a weak Glaswegian voice.

‘Barclay?’ said Strike, frowning. ‘You all right?’

‘Ah’m fucked. Ye’ll have tae get someone else fer Plug.’

‘Have you been bloody spotted again?’

‘Naw, Ah’ve ate a fuckin’ prawn…’

‘You’ve what? ’

‘Ate… a fuckin’ prawn… the fuckin’ sandwich mustae bin mislabelled… fuck… ’

Strike heard retching.

‘What are you, allergic?’

‘Aye, Ah’m fuckin’ allergic,’ came Barclay’s weak response. ‘I need tae get tae a fuckin’ bog…’

‘All right, I’ll take over Plug,’ said Strike. ‘Where is he?’

Barclay retched again then gasped,

‘Camberwell. At his mum’s.’

‘Right, you get away,’ said Strike, getting to his feet. ‘Sure you don’t need—?’

‘Naw, the wife’s comin’… I cannae drive like—’

The call terminated as Barclay began to vomit again.