Page 274 of The Hallmarked Man

‘Have you still got my card?’ Strike asked Richard.

‘Yeah, at the house.’

‘I want your phone numbers, as well. Branfoot needs exposingquickly.Leave it much longer and it might be one of us who gets bloody murdered.’

Richard gave both mobile numbers and Strike typed them into his phone, while Danny continued to sob. This done, Richard stood up.

‘I’ll see you out.’

Leaving Danny face down on the table, they walked back to the street around the side of the house, Strike in serious pain and leaning heavily on his stick. When they reached the road, Richard said,

‘You don’t wanna judge… see, our dad was a shit to Danny,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘He was… you know. Whatsit. Homophobic. They never got on. That’s why Dan left. That’s why he went off the rails, the silly sod. He run off and done what Dad thought men like him do, see? Rebellion,’ said Richard. ‘That’s what it was.’

‘I understand,’ said Robin.

Strike, whose injury was smarting all the more for contact with the chilly air, said nothing. The side of his face felt as though it had been inflated with a football pump.

‘Silly sod,’ repeated Richard. ‘I didn’t realise… he was always one for tall tales, you know? I thought he was making half of it up. Thought he imagined that the guy was chasing him. This is all… it’s a shock, you know?’

‘Of course,’ said Robin. ‘We really don’t want Danny to come to harm.’

Richard glanced at Strike, who made a non-committal noise, but only to keep Robin happy.

‘All right, well, like I say – give us a few days,’ said Richard. He heaved a deep sigh. ‘Mum thinks Danny’s been working at a Savile Row tailors. He’s been telling her about all the celebrities he’s been measuring up for fucking tuxes.’

86

All that gay courageous cheer,

All that human pathos dear;

Soul-fed eyes with suffering worn,

Pain heroically borne,

Faithful love in depth divine—

Poor Matthias, were they thine?

Matthew Arnold

Poor Matthias

‘Shall we find somewhere to sit down?’ were Robin’s first words, once Richard de Leon had returned inside Clos de Camille. Though the gash made by the spade had stopped bleeding, the left side of Strike’s swollen face was turning purple as the bruises rose to the surface.

‘I’m fine,’ he said, well aware he must look anything but.

‘Well, I could use a coffee or something, after all that,’ said Robin.

To her relief, because she’d feared they might have to return to the Avenue to find somewhere, an establishment on Rue de la Seigneurie was open for custom, though this necessitated an upstairs climb to the Captain’s Bar, where portholes were painted on the sloping eaves. No longer in a fit state to appreciate nautical décor, Strike slumped into a seat by the window and on being informed by Robin that the place didn’t serve coffee, asked for the beer he really wanted.

‘Alcoholic,’ he added, because in the absence of painkillers he was happy to improvise, and Robin was immediately reminded of Christmas Eve, and Murphy’s sudden rage because she’d questioned him on the alcohol content of his pint.

‘So… that’s it,’ said Robin, when she rejoined Strike at the tablewith his beer and her own tonic water. ‘De Leon’s out. He was your favourite for Wright, as well.’

‘He was, yeah,’ admitted Strike. ‘I could see a reason for him being polished off in the vault, but I can’t see why the hell Powell or Semple—’

‘Or Rupert—’