Page 183 of The Hallmarked Man

On 20th June 1998 Reata and Jolanda disappeared. Concerned friends have contacted the police. Maes, who was absent for business, was arrested when he returned, on suspicion of their abduction or killing. He was released later without charges.

In spite of appeals public, no sign is found of Lindvall or her daughter. Maes was still covered in suspicion and in 1999 he relocated to Antwerp.

In early 2000, police received a tip and searched the woods close to the Lac d’Ougrée. Fragments of human bone and old clothings were recovered. Analysis DNA proved human remains belonged to Reata and Jolanda.

Maes was arrested again. Belgian feminist groups campaigned outside the courtroom for the duration of the criminal trial. In March 2001, Maes was found guilty of the murders of Reata and Jolanda Lindvall, and given two life sentences.

Strike slugged more whisky and considered texting Robin with some anodyne comment or question about Lindvall to show he wasn’t dismissing her out of hand, but he still couldn’t see how the dead Swedish woman could be relevant to their inquiry, and felt masochistically certain that Robin, at this very moment, was shagging Murphy and thoroughly enjoying it.

The Scotsmen next door were still bantering or arguing, and Strike suddenly wanted to be somewhere, anywhere, other than this rattling sardine tin. Still clutching his bottle of whisky, he rose off his bunk, wrenched open the cabin door, and set off down the train.

The cramped bar compartment was harshly lit, none too clean, and hardly less depressing than his cabin. A small knot of men were standing at the far end, all, by the sounds of them, Scottish. Strike sat down at the only table and poured another large measure of Scotch into his plastic beaker, then stared blankly through the window at passing pylons and lit windows.

His mobile buzzed. He hoped it might be Robin, but naturally it was from Kim.

Guessing you’re not asleep yet if you’re on the sleeper. Isn’t this the woman we met at the Dorchester?!

Strike pressed the link to the press story she’d attached, and there, sure enough, was the Honourable Nina Lascelles in a wedding dress, beside the same blond man she’d pointed out on the dancefloor whose name, it transpired, was Percy, and whose wedding was newsworthy because he was a promising young Labour MP. Strike stared at the picture for nearly a minute, wondering why one of the bridesmaids looked vaguely familiar. Then he realised the dark and surly-looking woman was a prior investigative target. Midge had caught the married woman visiting her lover, which explained Nina’s furious ‘you really fucked up a friend of mine’s life’ at the Dorchester.

He scrolled down. Beneath the Nina story was another article by Dominic Culpepper, and with an unpleasant lurch in his guts, Strike saw Charlotte’s name.

The piece detailed the ‘unconventional marriage’ of Charlotte’s mother, Tara, and her fourth husband, one Lord Jenson. The couple lived apart, Jenson retaining the large house in Mayfair in which he’d lived with his late wife, Tara (‘of the wealthy Clairmont family, who founded the Clairmont hotel chain’) continuing to preside over her son’s inherited mansion, Heberley House, which ‘suits Sacha’, according to Tara, ‘because he’s away filming such a lot, and who’s going to look after Heberley better than me?’

Naturally, there was also mention of Tara’s daughter’s ‘tragic’ suicide.

‘She was troubled from childhood onwards,’ says Lady Jenson sadly. ‘We did everything we could, of course, but once your child is an adult… unfortunately, she entered a very long, very dysfunctional relationship that we believe significantly contributed to her mental health problems.’

Before her marriage, Charlotte had an almost 20-year on-off relationship with Cormoran Strike, the controversial private detective recently alleged to haveharassed a sex worker.

However, Lady Jenson remains resilient.

‘One learns to cope,’ she says. ‘Naturally, the loss of a child—’

‘The hell are you doing here?’ said a rumbling voice.

Strike looked up. A short, thickset and almost entirely bald man, who was vigorously chewing gum, had detached himself from the group at the bar and was looking down at the detective: Fergus Robertson, the journalist who’d recently taken Strike’s statement on the Candy story.

‘Work,’ said Strike. ‘You?’

‘Same,’ said Robertson, dropping without invitation into the seat opposite Strike. ‘Gonna get Nicola Sturgeon’s reaction to Theresa May’s speech on Brexit tomorrow. Paper’s blagged me an interview.’

‘Right,’ said Strike, stuffing his phone back into his pocket.

‘Didn’t want to enrich British Rail, I see,’ said Robertson, eyes on Strike’s Scotch.

‘Help yourself,’ said Strike, pushing the bottle towards the journalist, who poured a generous measure into his own plastic cup.

Strike felt so depressed he could barely muster interest in Robertson’s conversation, yet it was a slight distraction to be sitting opposite the journalist. When Robertson handed back the bottle, he poured himself another triple Scotch.

‘Funny, bumping into you here,’ said Robertson. ‘I was going to give you a call when I got back from Edinburgh.’

‘Yeah?’ said Strike, without much interest. ‘Why’s that?’

‘Ever heard of the Winston Churchill Masonic Lodge?’

‘Why d’you ask?’ said Strike, who knew perfectly well that this was DCI Malcolm Truman’s lodge.

‘You asked me whether Oliver Branfoot’s a Freemason.’