Page 94 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

She thought, moreover, real lies were—lies told

For harm’s sake; whereas this had good at heart…

Robert Browning Pompilia

‘You need to stop,’ the man repeated, from behind the mask. ‘All right? You need to leave it. Then you won’t get hurt. Stop .’

Before Robin could say or do anything else, he threw the dagger at her feet, turned, and sprinted away.

Ilsa was still shouting on the other end of the phone. Too stunned to compute what had just happened, Robin stared at the dagger lying on the pavement, then crouched down to look at it.

‘ARE YOU THERE? ROBIN! ’

‘Yes,’ said Robin, raising the phone to her ear again. Her heart seemed to be thudding in her throat. ‘I’m here. I’m fine. It’s OK. He ran away.’

‘ JESUS CHRIST, ROBIN! ’

‘It’s all right, I’m OK. He didn’t do any—’

‘You all right?’ said a man in slippers, who’d just emerged from the nearest house. ‘I heard a scream.’

‘Yes,’ said Robin, while Ilsa gabbled from the phone she’d lowered to answer him. ‘Yes, thank you, I’m fine. A man was following me, but he’s gone.’

‘You sure you’re all right?’

He was elderly, and as he drew nearer to the street light she saw his look of concern.

‘Yes, really, I’m fine, but thank you – thank you so much for checking.’

The man retreated inside his house. Robin raised the phone to her ear yet again.

‘It’s all fine, Ilsa, he just threw the knife at me.’

‘He what ?’

‘I know,’ said Robin, gaining a perverse strength from Ilsa’s panic. ‘Some attacker.’

‘ He threw the knife at you? ’

‘Yes,’ said Robin, staring at the dagger lying on the ground.

Its nine-inch blade looked blunt. It had a black handle and a brass crosspiece, on which a familiar symbol was engraved.

Robin pulled her gloves back out of her pocket, put them on with her phone held between ear and shoulder, and picked it up. Ilsa was still talking.

‘Sorry, what?’ said Robin, straightening up, weighing the dagger in her hand. It was fifteen inches long, weighty and very clearly ceremonial rather than a genuine weapon. Even so, it would make a decent bludgeon.

‘I said, call the police !’

‘I doubt they’ll get him,’ said Robin, now examining the compass and square symbol on the hilt. ‘It’s dark and he was wearing a mask. No cameras… anyway, I’m not hurt. He just wanted to frighten me.’

‘ That’s hardly the bloody—! ’

‘Where did he follow me from?’ said Robin, talking more to herself than to Ilsa, now.

‘Robin, you’re scaring the crap out of me—’

‘I’m all right, I’m fine… now I just need to find a way of hiding this dagger so I don’t get arrested on the Tube.’

Robin’s phone began bleeping.

‘Ilsa, I’m really sorry, that’s Mum, I’ll have to take it.’

‘But—’

‘I’ll call you back.’

A man walking his dog appeared out of the darkness ahead. Robin thrust the masonic dagger inside her coat, tightened her belt so it wouldn’t fall out and accepted her mother’s call.

‘Hi, Mum.’

‘Oh, Robin, what a nightmare,’ said Linda, who was clearly crying.

‘What is?’ said Robin, in alarm.

‘Martin just threatened to hit the doctor—’

‘ What? ’

‘It turns out Carmen’s got an android pelvis—’

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s harder for the baby to get through, they think that’s why he was injured coming out, if he’d been full term they’d probably have done a C-section – Martin’s blaming them for not realising and acting sooner, she was in labour for nineteen hours and now he’s been escorted out of the hospital…’

Robin walked on, her mother sobbing in her ear, and could think of nothing to say except,

‘Where’s Dad?’

‘He’s gone after Martin, he’s trying to calm him down…’

‘Mum, I’m so sorry,’ said Robin. ‘I wish I could do something…’

‘Oh, Lord, hang on, Stephen’s just arrived…’ Linda’s voice became muffled. ‘It’s Robin, Stephen, I’m just telling her… I’m back,’ said Linda into the phone again.

‘But what’s wrong with the baby? You said his arm’s not moving.’

‘They say it’s torn nerves, something palsy – they need to investigate. They say it might resolve, if that’s what it is, but they seem worried…’

‘Mum, I—’ But Robin couldn’t think of anything to say that would help. ‘Please… just send Carmen my love, and say I’m really looking forward to meeting – has he got a name yet?’

‘They’re saying they’re going to call him Dirk,’ said Linda. ‘I don’t care… I just want him to be all right… you’re OK, are you?’ Linda added, clearly feeling she should check.

‘Me?’ said Robin, pausing to tighten her belt, as the dagger was slipping. ‘I’m great. Don’t worry about me.’

Now hyper-alert, Robin hurried home, glancing repeatedly over her shoulder.

Once in her flat, she placed the dagger engraved with the compass and set square inside a new freezer bag, then hid it in her underwear drawer, alongside the small rubber gorilla that had been forced into her hand at Harrods.

Had they been the same man? Had she – the thought was irresistible – just come face to face with Oz?

Before she drew the sitting room curtains she peered down into the street to be sure no lurker was watching.

She told herself there’d been a comic aspect to her menacer’s methodology; throwing the dagger at her had been ludicrously anticlimactic, the kind of thing a child would do.

But the gorilla mask had upset her, far more than the knife; that had been vile, personal, intended to invoke atavistic terror.

She returned to her front door three times in the twenty minutes after arriving home, rechecking that she’d bolted it, and that she’d set her alarm.

The more Robin thought about it, the more certain she was that the man must have followed her from her flat that morning, taken the bus with her, then lurked on that industrial estate, and now she thought about it, the man with the bandana who’d been hanging around had the same dark green jacket as the one wearing the gorilla mask.

He’d pretended to be just another worker moving around the industrial units, waiting for a chance to frighten her with his mask and dagger and deliver his message.

She felt humiliated: she, who’d undertaken training in surveillance and counter-surveillance, was supposed to know better than this.

She knew all the tricks because she used them herself: taking her jacket on and off, subtly changing her appearance, concealing her face, constantly switching position.

He hadn’t even been very good: she’d noticed him earlier, staring at her.

She knew exactly why she’d been so careless, of course. Relieved at being alone, and not having to fake cheeriness for Murphy, she’d sunk back into brooding about Strike and Bijou Watkins, then been distracted by the presence at the shoot of Ciara Porter.

Nervy, angry at herself, and in spite of the fact she’d eaten barely anything all day, Robin took only two bites of the sandwich she made herself, then threw the rest in the bin.

She debated calling her boyfriend, but decided against it, still angry about the way he’d spoken to her earlier.

In any case, she couldn’t tell him about the man with the dagger; he’d overreact, and the last thing she needed right now was the burden of his concern, or renewed insistence that she shouldn’t be investigating the body in the vault.

No, the only person she could tell – the only person she had to tell – was Strike. She picked up her phone again and contemplated calling him, then decided she’d tell him the following day when they were in Ironbridge.

The man upstairs was probably out, because no music was pounding through the ceiling.

This was good: Robin would be able to hear movement on her landing, have advance warning of anyone trying to get inside her flat.

She went to run herself a bath. Twice, she hurriedly turned off the taps, convinced she’d heard a sound outside the front door.

Nobody’s going to break in. Calm down, for God’s sake.

She got into the bath, trying to enjoy the feeling of hot water, to relax. She needed to be able to sleep: she’d be up at five the following morning to pick up the hire car in which she’d be driving to Ironbridge, to interview Tyler Powell’s grandmother.

The gorilla mask swam into her mind’s eye, the pupils glinting in the street light. He was the third man who’d come at her, out of the dark: she remembered the hands throttling her in the stairwell, the scream of her rape alarm, the knife slicing her flesh…

Charlotte Campbell brandishing a knife on a barge; it’s on him Charlotte’s dead; a premature baby with an injured arm; fifty-five per cent chance of a live birth; the box at Chapman Farm; you don’t know what it’s like, to worry yourself sick about your daughter; a bracelet, a dagger and a rubber gorilla, hidden from the man she was house-hunting with; when you start undermining a fucking police investigation…

We’re just trying to find Rupert Fleetwood…

I’m really disappointed we didn’t get the house… Me? I’m great . Don’t worry about me…

She couldn’t tell the people who were supposed to love her the truth, because they didn’t want the truth, they wanted her to be the person whose lies weren’t lies.

The bath wasn’t helping. Charlotte Campbell had bled out in a tub like this…

Robin got out and pulled out the plug as though she could drain her dark thoughts with the water, dried herself and put on pyjamas.

For the very first time since moving into this flat, she wished she didn’t live alone, and at once she remembered the night Strike had come to stay, when he’d snored on the sofa bed and she’d found the sound reassuring, because their office had just been destroyed by an explosive device…

Why was she thinking about Strike, not Murphy? She turned on the TV, then turned it off almost at once. She wanted to be able to hear footsteps.

You are a fucking pit pony. Getting dragged along in the dark, like some dumb animal.

You need to leave it. Then you won’t get hurt. Stop.