Page 262 of The Hallmarked Man

It looked as though his foot had hit some small obstacle, but due to the many glass cases packed onto the shop floor and the poor quality of the film, it was impossible to see what might have made him trip. After watching the incident five times in a row she was no wiser, and turned the recording off. As she did so, another Wynn Jones text arrived.

Wouldn’t mind being frisked by you

Just in case Robin had missed the subtle joke, he’d added two water-drop emojis, which, as Robin knew full well, could denote sweat or ejaculate. Less amused than ever, she nevertheless replied with another laughing emoji.

82

Clay lies still, but blood’s a rover;

Breath’s a ware that will not keep.

Up, lad: when the journey’s over

There’ll be time enough to sleep.

A. E. Housman

IV: Reveille, A Shropshire Lad

In spite of her tiredness, and notwithstanding lingering feelings of guilt and anxiety that were rapidly becoming habitual, Robin arrived at Gatwick at six o’clock the following morning in a state of relative cheerfulness and excitement because she was getting her wish of leaving London, however briefly.

She entered the airport pulling her small wheeled suitcase behind her and scanning the check-in desks for her partner, but saw no sign of him. Strike’s last text to her had been at ten o’clock the previous evening, when he’d been on the still-at-liberty Plug. Robin had just joined a queue when she spotted Strike walking towards her, a kit bag over his shoulder, unshaven, baggy-eyed with tiredness, and limping slightly.

‘Up all fucking night,’ were his first words as he joined her.

‘Why?’

‘Plug still hasn’t been fucking arrested. This is getting grim.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘He had a couple of smaller dogs in his car. Drove to fifteen Carnival Street again – that black monstrosity clearly didn’t die in the Valentine’s Day massacre – and took the dogs inside, by the scruffs of their necks. Fucking horrible noises ensued – sounded like the black monster was ripping them apart.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Robin.

‘I’ve called the RSCPA and told them they need to get to Carnival Street, asap. Sooner that thing’s put down, the better. Anyway, Plug then drove to fucking Barking.’

‘Appropriate.’

‘What? Oh, yeah… well, I think that black hellhound’s got a sister, because round five in the morning, Plug came out of a shithole of a house carrying a puppy that looked just like it.

‘Anyway, I had his uncle on the blower, first thing. He’s bloody furious Plug hasn’t been arrested yet. Came close to blaming me.’

‘How’s that your fault?’

‘Clients, innit,’ said Strike. ‘We’re supposed to be able to work magic. I told him the police’ll be trying to identify and bag as many of the ring as possible simultaneously, so they don’t tip off the rest, but apparently it’s my job to make them work faster.’

Bags checked in, they proceeded to the departure lounge, where Strike consumed a couple of espressos in an attempt to wake himself up. This wasn’t the way he’d planned setting off to Sark. Given the declaration he was hoping to make there, he’d wanted at least to have a shower first, and he was currently too exhausted to come up with much in the way of sparkling repartee. Robin, who could see he was struggling to keep his eyes open, decided to wait until they were on the flight before engaging in the conversation about Belgium and Reata Lindvall she was burning to have. At the same time, and even with Strike so sleepy, she enjoyed an ease she hadn’t felt much lately, and she knew part of the reason was that nobody was about to spring a conversation about lost babies or frozen eggs on her.

At last they filed onto the plane, Robin letting Strike take the window seat, because he was large enough to inconvenience both neighbours if he sat in the middle. The young man on Robin’s left was speaking volubly in French to his friend across the aisle, so she felt safe to say to Strike,

‘I did a lot of reading on Reata Lindvall last night. I know you don’t think—’

‘Forget what I said before,’ said Strike, slightly more alert for his ingestion of caffeine and thinking he should capitalise on what might be a temporary spurt of energy. He was prepared to disavow almost anything he’d ever said if it would further his prospects with Robin, and while he had new information of his own to share, he was more than happy to listen to her first.

‘OK,’ said Robin, ‘well, I know Jim Todd can’t have killed Reata and her daughter, because he was already in jail for the trafficking, but he does seem well connected, criminally speaking. As well connected as Jason Knowles, in his way.’

‘Yeah,’ said Strike. ‘Shame he’s too old to have been one of Branfoot’s promising young thugs. That would’ve fitted in nicely. He could’ve recommended Oz to Branfoot as the hitman.’