Page 228 of The Hallmarked Man

‘Yes, I found her too,’ said Robin coolly. ‘She’s got an Instagram page, but it’s set to private. I’ve sent her a follower request.’

‘Great, because the parents were very suspicious when I told them who I was. I’ve left contact details and asked Tish to call me but I’m not hopeful.’

‘OK, well, there’s something else I wanted to say to you,’ said Robin. ‘I want to put surveillance on Albie Simpson-White. I don’t care how we bill for it, but I’m happy to give up free time to do it, or cover for the others while they do. I don’t feel right about spending Decima’s money to investigate all these other possible Wrights, if we’re not actively trying to get resolution for her, too.’

‘All right,’ said Strike, who sounded resigned, ‘we’ll start watching Simpson-White.’

‘Thank you,’ said Robin stiffly.

‘I had no luck with Powell’s friend Wynn Jones,’ said Strike. ‘He wasn’t at the farm. Allegedly he’s had some kind of accident with a tractor. They didn’t seem keen on telling me how to contact him, but I left a card. Don’t suppose Tyler Powell’s called you back?’

‘No,’ said Robin. She was now regretting leaving her real name on Tyler’s supposed phone. If he was alive but hiding away from persecutors in his home town, he’d almost certainly rather not speak to a private detective, especially if he suspected she’d been hired by the Whiteheads.

‘And we’ve had another one of those anonymous calls,’ said Strike.

‘The man or the Scottish woman?’

‘Man,’ said Strike. ‘Apparently he said, “Stop, or you’ll be refined like silver in the furnace of affliction.” Pat took it down in shorthand, so it’s accurate. I’ve looked it up, and it’s a rough approximation of a quote from the Bible, about Elijah.’

‘Right,’ said Robin.

Strike now clicked on the link to a second-hand Land Rover she’d sent him with her email.

‘The Defender 90 looks good,’ he said. ‘Want to go and see it?’

‘Yes, OK,’ said Robin. ‘I could go on Sunday afternoon. Is that everything?’

‘Yeah, I think so.’

Robin hung up without saying goodbye. Strike set down his mobile, feeling slightly more depressed than he had before phoning her.

He’d barely settled back to work when his phone rang. Wardle was calling to say that their planned curry in town that night would have to be postponed, because Wardle’s ex-wife had unexpectedly required him to look after their eighteen-month-old son. The policeman intimated that the few bits of information he had for Strike could just as easily be told by phone, but Strike chose not to take the hint, announcing that he’d bring a takeaway curry round at seven that night, to discuss Wardle’s findings in person.

Friends though they were, this would be the first time Strike had ever visited Wardle at home. Their mutual liking, which had been fostered in spite of initial mutual suspicion, had grown through the years, but they’d rarely had a conversation that could be called truly personal; indeed, Strike couldn’t offhand think of any men with whom he had deeply personal conversations. However, he was well-enough acquainted with Wardle to know that things must be bad indeed for him to admit to being off work with depression, and knew, too, that the man’s recent misfortunes – the death of his brother, the departure of his wife, the move into a bachelor flat, shared custody of his small son, all on top of a highly demanding job – had given him ample cause. The memories of two suicides he’d investigated in the military hovered in the back of Strike’s mind. Both the men had seemed to be coping until suddenly they were dead, and so he made the trip into Brixton that evening, sore as his leg was, and in spite of his own troubles.

As he left the curry house at six with his takeaway in his hand his mobile rang and, with strong misgivings, he saw Bijou’s number.

‘Oh, thank God,’ she said when he answered, a tinge of hysteria in her voice. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but you’vegotto take a DNA test. You’vegot to.’

‘Have I, now?’

‘Andrew’sdaringme to take him to court, but he says, if I do’ – Bijou started sobbing again – ‘he’ll go straight to some journalist called Colin Pepper and say he’s sure she’s yours!’

‘So he’ll break his own super-injunction?’ said Strike, who was having the not unfamiliar sensation that a hot wire was tightening around his head.

‘He’s beingawful, he’sconvincedOttolie’s yours – if I can just show himproof – PLEASE!’ she wailed. ‘This is for you as much as for me!’

Strike, who had the horrible feeling she was right, watched an oncoming double decker speeding towards him and, for a fraction of a second, imagined stepping out in front of it, and erasing himself and every problem along with him, of being lost in black nothingness, in a state of blissful non-being, but the bus passed, and Strike limped on, and he couldn’t even muster anger as he said,

‘All right. D’you want me to get a kit?’

‘No, I’ll buy them, but we’ll have to meet so I can get the sample from you, and I’ll take mine and Ottolie’s at the same time.’

‘You’re being watched,’ Strike reminded her.

‘I haven’t seen anyone—’

‘Because they’re good at what they do, not because they’re not bloody there,’ said Strike. ‘This needs thinking about. I’ll call you back when I’ve got a plan.’