Page 133 of The Hallmarked Man

‘Charlotte, you mean,’ said Strike.

The name had been spoken at last, and of the two men facing each other across the wooden table, Strike was by far the more at ease, and not only because he was the one who’d shattered the taboo. The detective was considerably larger than the actor, unafraid of adding another fracture to his already bent nose, and in any case quite keen on the idea of hitting someone, whereas he was certain that Sacha, though angry, was currently wishing a panic button had been installed somewhere in the cast’s bar.

‘The sight of me would drag up unbearable memories of her beloved dead daughter, you think?’ said Strike. ‘That was the wording in her press statement, wasn’t it? “Our beloved Charlotte”?’

‘I’m afraid I need to get going,’ said Sacha, who looked rather paler than he had when Strike had entered the bar.

Strike could tell the actor had hoped Strike would get up to leave on these words, and therefore took great pleasure in remaining exactly where he was.

It is the great misfortune of the coward that he sees danger everywhere, and of the snob that he perpetually underestimates those he considers his inferiors. Thus Cormoran Strike knew that Sacha Legard, who was both snob and coward, was placing no rational reliance upon the self-control of the common ex-soldier sitting opposite him.

‘Corm, I don’t want a row.’

But you’re getting one, you fucking shitweasel.

‘Going to make a hell of a splash in the papers, two of your relatives topping themselves within months of each other. Where should I send pictures of Rupert’s body, when I find it? Via your agent?’

‘Are you threatening me?’ said Sacha, in a half-whisper.

‘Asking a simple question.’

‘I’ve got no reason to suppose Rupert’s – that he’s hurt himself.’

‘Nobody’s seen him for six months. Social media’s inactive. No phone calls. Drug lord after him. Family insisting he’s in America but obstructing anyone who wants to contact him.’

‘Why not go all in and suggest one of us murdered him?’ said Sacha, with a poor attempt at a scornful laugh.

‘Struggling to see a motive, unless you really wanted that nef back at Heberley House and didn’t want to pay him for it,’ said Strike.

‘I’ve been told Rupert’s in New York,’ said Sacha. ‘I can only tell you what I’ve been told.’

‘I’d run that line past your PR people before using it at the inquest,’ said Strike.

‘Are you – is that what this is?’ said Sacha, who appeared to have scraped up a mote of weak courage from somewhere. Perhaps he was counting on the barman to come to his aid, should Strike dive across the table and seize him by the throat. ‘You want revenge, or something? Charlotte was ill for years—’

‘Oh, you noticed, did you?’

‘So itisrevenge?’ said Sacha, now white about the mouth and eyes. ‘Charlotte had the best psychiatrists, the best care the family could give her. You don’t know—’

‘Idon’t fucking know?Idon’t?’

‘You couldn’t even turn up to her funeral!’

‘I had a different fucking fashion show to go to that day.’

Strike got to his feet and saw, with pleasure, Sacha shrink slightly in his seat.

‘I’ve been hired to do a job,’ said Strike. ‘If it so happens that I have to testify in court that you’re a self-centred cunt who isn’t arsed when his desperate relatives go missing, trust me, I’ll be owning the fucking stage myself. Have a nice Christmas.’

37

But wherefore be harsh on a single case?

After how many modes, this Christmas-Eve,

Does the selfsame weary thing take place?

The same endeavour to make you believe,