Page 93 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

The thoughts of others

Were light and fleeting,

Of lovers’ meeting

Or luck or fame.

Mine were of trouble,

And mine were steady;

So I was ready

When trouble came.

A. E. Housman VI, More Poems

Robin didn’t have the slightest appetite for her spaghetti now.

Just as she was thinking of calling the waitress over to say she’d like the bill, her mobile rang for a third time.

Seeing her mother was calling again, she took a deep breath, put a finger in her free ear to block out the noise of the restaurant, and answered.

‘Hi Mum, sorry I didn’t answer earlier, I was on a job. Is everything OK?’

‘Carmen’s had the baby,’ said Linda.

‘Wait – what? I thought she wasn’t due ’til—’

‘He’s a month early,’ said Linda, ‘and it was a bad birth, and they think there’s something wrong.’

A chill ran through Robin.

‘With the baby?’

‘Yes,’ said Linda. ‘We’re waiting to hear, we’re at the hospital.’

‘What—?’

‘He’s not moving an arm properly or something, I don’t know, nobody’s giving us full information. They think it’s a birth injury, torn nerves, or – nobody seems to know.’

‘Oh no,’ said Robin, who felt completely helpless. ‘I – what can I do?’

‘Nothing, nothing, I just needed to let you kn – Robin, that’s the doctor – I’ll call you back.’

She hung up.

‘Everything all right with your spaghetti?’ said the young waitress, reappearing at the table.

‘Fine,’ said Robin, looking up. ‘Could I have the bill, please?’

‘Are you sure there’s nothing—?’

‘No, please – please just get me the bill.’

Five minutes later, Robin emerged into the icy night, and set off in the direction of the nearest station. Finally, unable to bear her anxiety alone, she tugged off her gloves and called Ilsa.

‘Hi, how’re you?’ said the latter, answering on the third ring.

‘I’m really sorry to do this to you again, Ilsa, I just need to talk to someone. Well, to you.’

‘Why? What’s wrong?’

‘I – my brother’s girlfriend’s just had her baby a month early, and there’s something wrong with him, I just heard—’

‘Oh no, Robin, I’m so sorry—’

‘It’s not that, I can’t do anything about that tonight,’ said Robin distractedly. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t care about this right now, but Ilsa, I just need to know, was Strike violent to Charlotte Campbell?’

‘ What? ’

‘I just met a man called Valentine Longcaster, and—’

‘ Him, ’ said Ilsa, her tone scathing. ‘Oh, I know him. We met him a couple of times. There was a bloody terrible party on a barge, and some dinner in Belgravia. How on earth did you meet him ?’

‘It’s complicated,’ said Robin. ‘Anyway, he told me Strike knocked Charlotte around, and Ilsa, if he did—’

‘Did he hell,’ said Ilsa.

‘Are you sure?’ said Robin, and even as she said it, she knew nobody could give her the total assurance she craved. Who knew what happened when a man and a woman were alone together, unwatched, unheard? ‘I can’t work with him if – I can’t take this, on top of everything else—’

‘Robin, she injured him. She threw things, clawed his face—’

‘How d’you know it wasn’t self-defence?’

‘Well, for a start: the night on the houseboat, she got hammered and grabbed a knife and was waving it around. We all left, but Nick had left his favourite bloody sunglasses there, so he went back. He saw it through the window, she was threatening to stab Corm, or herself, and he disarmed her, and she slipped – we never told Corm Nick had seen it, but ages later Corm told Nick she was accusing him of throwing her across the boat or some such rubbish. If he was so violent, why was he the one constantly walking out with split lips, and why was she always begging him to come back?’

Robin wanted to believe Ilsa, but given recent events, she wasn’t sure she could be certain of anything relating to Cormoran Strike.

‘Look, nine times out of ten women are telling the truth about being beaten,’ said Ilsa, ‘and I should know, I’ve prosecuted enough domestic abuse cases, but Corm’s not an abuser.

Robin, he’s not. Listen, I had a really terrible case, five years ago: a woman who was trying to get sole custody of her young daughter… ’

Robin heard footsteps behind her. She glanced over her shoulder, but the man was fifty yards away.

She didn’t like being followed, not after Harrods, and the incident that had left her with an eight-inch scar up her right forearm – not that this man was following her, of course, he was simply walking in the same direction, in the dark.

Anyway, this was a residential street: lit windows everywhere, plenty of people to hear her scream…

‘… own history of violence, so the only way she was going to get custody was to paint him as even worse. She said he’d attacked them with broken bottles and used ligatures…’

Was it Robin’s imagination, or was the man behind her speeding up? She looked back again. Yes, he was definitely closer, and one hand seemed to be inside his jacket.

‘… just fell apart on the stand. It couldn’t have happened the way she claimed. Meanwhile, her partner had been seen covered in abrasions and bruises…’

The man behind Robin passed beneath a street light. He was wearing a latex gorilla mask.

‘Ilsa,’ Robin shouted, ‘I’m on Shernhall Street, heading towards Wood Street station and I’m being followed, and I’m about to film him and describe him to you.’

‘ Wh—? ’

‘If anything happens, call the police!’

He was striding straight for her; Robin raised her phone, as though she was filming him, and said loudly,

‘He’s wearing a gorilla mask, about five nine, dark hair, green jacket, black gloves—’

The man slowed. She could see his eyes glinting behind the small holes in the mask.

‘You need to stop,’ he said in a low voice, advancing on her as she walked backwards. ‘Stop. Just stop.’

From beneath his jacket, he drew a dagger.

‘ILSA,’ said Robin, now screaming, ‘HE’S GOT A KNIFE—’