Page 176 of The Hallmarked Man

‘No,’ said Robin. ‘That’s true.’

‘We don’t need Strike messing around with Bijou bloody Watkins again,’ said Shah. ‘You missed all that, but for fuck’s sake—’

‘What did I miss?’ said Robin.

‘Private Eye,rumours he’d helped her bug her married lover’s office. And she’s pregnant now, it was in theMail, they did a sympathy profile of his ex-wife – the papers hate Honbold, he’s the chair of that Campaign for Ethical Journalism thing.We don’t need more publicity about Strike’s sex life, not after that fucking call girl story, and the thing about him shagging women who get evidence for him.’

The anxious knot in Robin’s belly tightened. Loyalty to Strike was conflicting with the desire to assuage Shah’s worries. They didn’t want to lose Shah: he was too good a detective.

‘Watkins could’ve been calling for some professional help,’ Robin temporised. ‘Not for any personal reason.’

‘Then he’d better have bloody well turned her down. We’ve got enough clients, we don’t need women he’s shagging.’

‘He doesn’t sleep with clients,’ said Robin.

‘He’d better not start,’ said Shah. ‘Sorry,’ he added curtly, ‘I know this isn’t your fault, but my wife believed that call girl story. She keeps asking me why I’m working for such a scumbag.’

‘That story wasn’t true,’ said Robin.

‘That’s what I told my wife,’ said Shah, ‘so it’d be good if Strike could keep his nose clean, going forwa – there’s Todd.’

Robin glanced across the road. The almost spherical cleaner, with his shining white pate and tufts of hair over his ears, had just emerged from Black Sheep Coffee, and was shuffling off down the street.

‘See you later,’ Robin told Shah, and she set off, trailing Todd on the opposite side of the road.

Confused and worried by what she’d just heard, Robin wanted to call Strike immediately and ask what was going on, but Todd was heading towards Holborn Tube, which was only a minute’s walk away,and sure enough, he crossed the four lanes of traffic ahead of her and disappeared into the station.

As she descended the escalator, keeping several people between herself and Todd, Robin mentally reviewed the evidence that Strike and Bijou’s liaison had ended months previously. He’d told her explicitly that he’d never considered Bijou a girlfriend. He hadn’t concealed Bijou’s pregnancy from Robin; on the contrary, not long after Robin had come out of Chapman Farm, Strike had told her the child was Honbold’s, with a perfect indifference that supported the impression that he couldn’t care less about mother or baby.

So perhaps Bijou really did want to hire a detective?… except that that didn’t ring true… Andrew Honbold wouldn’t want her hiring Strike, not after her name and the detective’s had been bracketed together inPrivate Eye…no, thought Robin, the unpleasant wriggling sensation in her stomach intensifying, there was something up, something Strike hadn’t told her.

Todd took the first available train east and sat down, short, fat legs splayed, apparently playing a game on his phone, while Robin stood and swayed, holding on to a ceiling hand strap, ready to move when Todd did, her thoughts a long way away from the egg-shaped man whose reflection she was watching in the dark window.

53

Ill as yet the eye could see

The eternal masonry,

But beneath it on the dark

To and fro there stirred a spark.

A. E. Housman

XXXI: Hell Gate, Last Poems

Strike, who had Saturday afternoon off, was currently standing in the inner office, once again contemplating the noticeboard where material relevant to the silver vault case was pinned, which he’d just rearranged.

He was attempting to drown out the low hum of dread that had dogged him since his call with Bijou in work. His eyes were currently fixed on the partial footprint found beneath Wright’s body. Several things about it had struck him, before these had been driven from his mind by the news about Bijou Watkins.

Robin was right: the print had been made by a relatively small foot. Although it was only partial, it was very distinct, and this seemed strange, because it had been found underneath the body, which surely meant it should have been smudged. Yet if it had had time to dry before the body had been moved, Strike could see no reason why the killer hadn’t spotted it and wiped it away.

He’d noticed something else about the print, too. The tread of the trainer that made it was perceptibly worn on the right side. Strike happened to know a lot about gait assessment, because it had formed part of his rehabilitation post his amputation. He’d stood on a light box while the evenness of his footing was evaluated, as part of the adjustment for his prosthesis, and in consequence he’d learnedsomething about the different ways soles wore down if the owner possessed anything in the nature of an imbalanced walk. Unless he was mistaken – and the orthopaedic article he’d just read seemed to confirm his tentative hypothesis – the person who’d worn this trainer might have had a slight limp.

Strike reached for the pad on the table. Flipping it open, he saw what looked like a note Robin had written to herself:PRESENT BARNABY.Strike was immediately reminded of Shanker, and the mysterious ‘Barnaby’s’ where bodies went; but then he remembered that ‘Barnaby’ was the name of her new nephew. Flipping to a fresh page, he wrote the single word ‘LIMP?’ on it, tore it out and pinned it beneath the picture of the footprint.

Strike had replaced the paragraph about Reata Lindvall, the Swedish woman who’d been murdered in Belgium in 1998, with pictures of the murdered Sofia Medina. The Spanish student pouted down at him, her skin the colour of dark honey against her black lingerie, her hair falling in shining waves either side of her face. The provocative vacuity of her expression drained her of all personality.