Page 83 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

I took my question to the shrine that has not ceased from speaking,

The heart within, that tells the truth and tells it twice as plain;

And from the cave of oracles I heard the priestess shrieking

That she and I should surely die and never live again.

A. E. Housman XXV: The Oracles, Last Poems

Robin had chased along passages and searched crowded escalators, but found no sign of Jim Todd.

It probably wasn’t the first time he’d been spotted upskirting, and maybe he had strategies for such contingencies, had hiding places in his favourite Circle Line stations, and knew the quickest ways to escape above ground.

Shortly after she’d given up looking for him, Robin saw the young man who’d also spotted what Todd was up to, and the teenaged girls, now tearful and agitated, talking to an Underground official, but Robin knew nothing would be done.

The crime was too commonplace and Todd was gone.

What was the woman in the navy blue uniform supposed to do about it?

With a stitch in her side from all the running she’d just done, Robin leaned up against the tiled wall of the station platform, watching Saturday-night drinkers and diners pass, and imagined the snide comments Kim was going to make when she heard that Robin had lost Todd at Barbican, just as she’d lost Plug in Victoria station.

Then – because it had been preying on her mind for hours now, and even the revelation of what Todd was up to, riding the Circle Line for days at a time, couldn’t drive it out of her head – she thought about Strike and Bijou.

She had an excuse to call him, now. Strike had the evening off, so he was probably at home.

She’d tell him about Todd’s upskirting, then slip in a casual question about why Bijou was calling the office.

She’d tell him Shah had been worried about it, frame the whole thing as a personnel matter.

Thus resolved, Robin returned to the escalator and, in spite of her stitch, walked up it, keen to call Strike sooner rather than later.

Out on dark Aldersgate Street, she rang Strike, but the call went straight to voicemail. She left no message, but tried again, with the same result.

Something that was worse than anxiety pierced her.

It was Saturday night. Where was he, with his phone turned off?

Robin watched the passing traffic for a few more seconds, then turned and headed back into the station, and as she descended the escalator, she remembered the night Strike had come over to the flat to hear what Murphy had to tell them about Jason Knowles, and how he’d said ‘I’m meeting Bijou’.

Perhaps that hadn’t been a joke. Perhaps he had been off to meet Bijou.

Murphy had wanted to see her tonight, but she’d had to work, so they’d agreed to spend Sunday together.

The thought of the following day spent with her boyfriend ought to be cheering her, should mitigate this awful mixture of fear and anger, but it didn’t.

Robin wanted to look Strike in the face as she told him about Todd, and asked him about Bijou Watkins.

She knew as soon as she entered Denmark Street that Strike wasn’t there, because the lights were all off, both in the attic flat and in the office. Nevertheless, Robin called him again while looking up at the windows. The call went to voicemail once more.

He’s out with her.

You don’t know that.

Then why isn’t he picking up his phone?

Robin let herself in through the street door and climbed the three flights of metal stairs to Strike’s attic flat, knowing it would be fruitless, but determined to make sure.

She knocked on the door, but there was no answer, so she descended to the office level, unlocked the glass door and turned off the alarm.

In the inner office, she switched on the light, vaguely registering changes to the noticeboard since she’d last laid eyes on it.

She checked the time on her phone: it was far earlier than she’d expected; her long day, and the darkness of the sky outside the window, had made her imagine it was nine o’clock at least. Heart thudding in her throat, she sat down in her usual seat and remained motionless for a minute or two, thinking.

Then, taking a deep breath, she phoned Ilsa Herbert.

‘Hi, Robin,’ said Ilsa, answering after a few rings. ‘How’re you?’

Robin was certain she heard a trace of caution.

‘Been better,’ said Robin truthfully. ‘How’re you? How’s Benjy?’ she asked of her godson.

‘Walking,’ said Ilsa, ‘which means he’s tugging on leads of table lamps and headbutting the coffee table twice a day, so that’s nice and restful. What’s going on?’

‘Not much,’ said Robin, with faux lightness. ‘Kind of a fraught time, one way or another. Busy at work and the Land Rover’s packed up.’ She swallowed. ‘You know about Bijou Watkins?’

There was a very slight pause. Robin could picture Ilsa’s wary expression.

‘What about her?’

‘About her and Strike,’ said Robin.

‘Has… he’s told you?’ said Ilsa, and Robin’s pulse quickened even further.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Oh, thank God,’ said Ilsa, sounding immensely relieved. ‘He asked me not to tell you, said he was going to do it, but I literally said to Nick half an hour ago, “I bet he doesn’t.” Has he spoken to her yet?’

‘I think he’s doing it now,’ said Robin, whose ears were ringing.

‘Meeting her face to face?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Oh God,’ said Ilsa, and she turned her mouth from the phone to tell her husband, ‘Robin says he’s meeting Bijou tonight.’ Ilsa came back to the receiver. ‘I tried to warn him, you know I did! If it is his… he says it can’t be, but I told you about her little condom trick, didn’t I?’

‘The thing where she took them out of the bin?’ said Robin, the shrill whine in her ears becoming louder. ‘Yes, you told me.’

‘Between you and me, the gossip around chambers is that it is Corm’s, that she realised she was pregnant after he’d ditched her, so tried to pass it off as Honbold’s, but that’s probably what people want to have happened.

Neither of them are popular – Bijou and Honbold, I mean.

Did Corm tell you about the super-injunction? ’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Robin.

‘I’m amazed Honbold got it through. If your public persona’s all about personal ethics and family values, and you’ve cheated on your wife and want to wriggle out of your obligations to a daughter you’ve fathered out of wedlock, that’s pretty solid public interest. But Honbold’s got friends in high places, and he didn’t get to be as rich as he has without knowing how to argue a case.

He must’ve persuaded them there’s no story, but that won’t hold for long, the papers will be straining at the leash.

I suppose it’s going to come down to a DNA test and then the papers will be able to let rip, one way or another… God , I hope she’s not Corm’s.’

‘So it’s a daughter, is it?’ said Robin’s voice, from some far-off place that didn’t seem to be connected to either her numb mouth or her paralysed brain.

‘Yes. I’d say she can’t be his, because Bijou was trying to trap Honbold for ages , but – I hate saying this – she really did fancy Corm. It wasn’t a random thing. I think she quite liked the idea of being Mrs Cormoran Strike, but then he ditched her, obviously, so it was back to Honbold.’

‘Right,’ said Robin’s disembodied voice.

‘I’d feel sorry for her, it’s no joke, being thrown over right after you’ve given birth, but she’s so obnoxious I can’t help feeling she’s got what was coming to her. But I feel for Corm… I know he’s a dickhead, but he used protection, and condoms are, what—?’

‘Ninety-eight per cent effective,’ said Robin like an automaton, ‘if used correctly.’

‘Unless someone fishes them out of a bin. God , it’s such a bloody mess.’

‘Well, nobody made him do it,’ said Robin, whose throat was rapidly constricting. ‘Nobody forces him to sleep with women and dump them, just because they’re willing, and he wants a bit of no-strings fun.’

‘I know, but for it to blow up in his face like this…’

‘Ilsa,’ said Robin, who didn’t think she was going to be able to sustain the pretence that she was untroubled much longer, ‘I’m going to have to go, sorry.’

‘Oh,’ said Ilsa, sounding disconcerted. ‘Why – did you just call for a chat, or—?’

Shit.

‘Oh God, sorry,’ said Robin, feigning absent-mindedness, though her traitorous throat was closing even as she spoke, and her eyes were stinging, ‘I just wondered if you were free for a drink some time this week.’

‘Not this week,’ said Ilsa, ‘I’m in court, we’re snowed under. Could I text you about the following week?’

‘Great,’ said Robin, but it came out as a kind of squeak.

‘Robin?’ said Ilsa.

She couldn’t immediately answer.

‘Robin?’ said Ilsa again, now sounding worried. ‘You did know everything I’ve just told you, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Robin forced herself to say, but there was no dissembling the fact that she was crying, now. ‘I just… it’s just a mess, like you said. Please don’t tell Strike I called you to talk about it, he’ll be annoyed… especially if he knows I got upset.’

‘No, of course I won’t tell him,’ said Ilsa sympathetically. ‘I’m really sorry, Robin, I know this is a nightmare for the agency, especially after those stories in the press.’

‘Yes,’ said Robin, ‘that’s the problem… but hopefully… well, we’ll wait and see what the DNA test says.’

‘I’ll call you about a drink, week after next,’ said Ilsa.

‘Great,’ said Robin. ‘Bye, then.’

She hung up, then slumped down onto the desk, face in her arms, and a dam broke inside her, and the unshed tears of months poured forth at last, as the confused tangle of feelings inside her, some acknowledged, but most long repressed, burst free of all constraint.