Page 105 of The Hallmarked Man

‘And you said “who was he?” earlier,’ said Strike, turning another page, ‘with regard to Larry McGee.’

‘So?’

‘“Who was he?” as opposed to “who is he?”’

Todd stared at him.

‘Larry McGee’s dead,’ said Strike. ‘Did you already know that?’

‘No. ’Ow would I know? ’Oo was ’e, ’oo is ’e – same diff’rence.’

‘Always lived in this part of London?’ Strike asked, as he slipped his notebook back into his pocket.

‘’Ereabouts,’ said Todd, who now seemed definitely aggressive.

‘And always cleaning?’

‘Done diff’rent fings,’ said Todd. ‘’Andyman… diff’rent stuff.’

Strike judged Todd to be in his mid-sixties, and therefore soon to qualify, or just qualified, for his state pension. He wore no wedding ring. The man’s desire for piecemeal work that might well be hidden from the taxman, and the uncomfortable living conditions he’d just described, suggested he had neither savings nor family, but it might point to other things, too.

Had Strike only been back in the SIB, and Todd a soldier, he would have had immediate access to the man’s date of birth, prior addresses and any previous misdemeanours. His feeling that there was something not quite right about the cleaner had increased as the interview proceeded, even though he hadn’t caught Todd in any lies; on the contrary, the checkable information he’d provided had been entirely accurate. Yet that slip of the tongue about Larry McGee, and his clear discomfort at the mention of the Abused and Accused website, were interesting.

‘Well, thanks for meeting me,’ said Strike, getting to his feet.

‘Pleasure,’ said Jim Todd, but his tone contradicted the word.

Strike walked back up Leather Lane, thinking about the man he’d just left: getting on in years and grubbing for money where he could. The willingness of a variety of business owners to give Todd work at retirement age interested Strike, as did the fact that said businesses were all in central London, rather than out at some shabby periphery.

Respectable landlords were often unwilling to rent to certain kinds of men, Strike knew, and those same men might also have limited options even when it came to social housing. Into this category fell those recently released from prison, especially if they’d committed particular kinds of crimes. Such men needed friends if they were to survive with any degree of comfort in the outside world, and it seemed to Cormoran Strike that, unenviable though Todd’s life might appear, he was being given an unusual degree of quiet assistance that neither his personality nor his talents seemed to justify.

29

… the souls of the vicious dead passed into the bodies of those animals to whose nature their vices had most affinity… To this doctrine probably referred those figures of animals and monsters which were exhibited to the Initiate…

Albert Pike

Morals and Dogma of the Ancient and Accepted Scottish Rite of Freemasonry

Harrods stood in massive red brick splendour in the heart of Knightsbridge, outlined in the dull mid-afternoon with golden lightbulbs, its green and gold awnings stretching over windows full of clothing, handbags and jewellery Robin could never have afforded. She’d only ever entered the department store twice before: once with her ex-husband, shortly after they’d arrived in London and purely for sight-seeing purposes, the second time with her mother, for identical reasons.

Today, Harrods’ windows were displaying the usual range of designer goods in snowy settings and, on stepping inside, Robin found herself immersed in a sumptuous Christmas fantasy where, if you walked the halls long enough, with their lavish, twinkling decorations, you might be tempted to believe that you, too, could stage a holiday of high glamour and luxury for your loved ones, at least until you started checking price tags.

The place was so large it was disorientating, and Robin couldn’t blame the various shop assistants she importuned for assistance for being impatient; they were overwhelmed by the Christmas crowds, and some were understandably suspicious of her desire to locate a brother whose department she couldn’t remember. Floor by floorRobin ascended the Egyptian staircase, which had golden ankhs, pharaohs and constellations on its walls and ceiling, and scanned enormous rooms full of merchandise, looking for the young man whose photographs she’d studied on Facebook.

At long last, after two and a half hours of solid searching, Robin found Albie Simpson-White in the sports department on the fourth floor, where he was standing close to a life-size fibreglass horse, assisting a mother and her teenaged daughter to find the correct size of riding breeches.

He looked incredibly young to Robin, who knew from his Facebook page that he was twenty-four: tall, blond and baby-faced, with a complexion many women would have envied. She lurked among the Aertex shirts until Albie had finished with his customers, then, before anyone else could corner him, she approached the counter.

‘Albie?’

He looked slightly surprised to be addressed by name, even though it was displayed on a badge on his suit lapel.

‘I’m Robin Ellacott and I’m a private detective.’ She slid her card across the counter. ‘I’d really like to talk to you about Rupert Fleetwood. Not here, obviously, but if you get a break, or after work. We could have a coffee, or a drink?’

He looked down at her card, blinked at it for a few seconds, then said,

‘Has – who – has Decima hired you?’