Page 82 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

He had the elemental heartlessness of the savage, which recognises no sufferings but its own…

John Oxenham A Maid of the Silver Sea

Strike had arrived outside Plug’s mother’s house in Vestry Road to take over from the stricken Barclay. The sun had set and the puddle of pinkish vomit in the gutter he’d noticed when he arrived had faded into darkness.

Just as he was settling in for what was likely to be an evening spent in his BMW, the front door of the house opened, and Strike’s target emerged alone, bundled up against the cold in a thick black jacket.

To Strike’s displeasure, Plug didn’t get into his car, but set off on foot, giving the detective no choice but to follow suit.

Wishing he’d had the foresight to bring gloves, Strike followed Plug along Peckham High Street. He soon revised his initial guess that Plug was going to get a takeaway, because the man kept walking, eventually disappearing beneath the archway of Queen’s Road Peckham station.

On the platform, Plug approached a second man, who was stockily built, with an air of barely repressed aggression and an almost shaven head.

Strike’s suspicions about Plug’s regular trips to the compound outside Ipswich, the businesslike associations with other rough-looking men and the strange episode of the creature in the shed were as far as ever from being proven.

This was the first time he’d been in a situation where he might be able to listen in on the man’s conversation, so he muted his mobile, and ambled closer to the twosome, whose conversation was currently desultory, and conducted in low voices.

‘Wossee offerin’?’

‘Grand,’ said Plug.

‘Worf more.’

‘’S’what I told him. She’s got a lot more in ’er.’

The two men fell silent, both looking truculent. It was hard to tell whether they disliked each other or were bosom friends; they belonged to that category of Englishman whose love and hatred bore almost identical faces.

The train arrived and Strike followed the men into the carriage. It was crowded, so it didn’t seem unnatural for him to choose a seat near them, pretending to be texting, but actually making notes on as much of the conversation as he could hear.

‘’Eard you ’ad trouble up Ipswich.’

‘Not trouble. People, ’s’all. But they ain’ bin back.’

The train moved off. Strike strained his ears.

‘Gaz’s bitch might do it.’

‘Fuck that,’ said Plug.

‘She’s lookin’ good.’

‘If you wanna waste your money,’ sneered Plug.

The train rattled on towards London Bridge.