Page 312 of The Hallmarked Man

‘That’ll do,’ said Longcaster, as Robin opened her mouth to reply. He pressed the brass bell beside him again. ‘I think we’ve heard enough from you, Miss—’

‘Ellacott,’ said Robin.

The waiter who’d previously brought their drinks now reappeared.

‘Miss Ellacott’s leaving, Oliver.’

Longcaster got to his feet, waking the Pyrenean Mountain Dog, which stretched and wagged its tail.

‘Goodbye,’ said Longcaster, holding out a hand to shake Robin’s. ‘Interesting visit.’

‘Goodbye,’ said Robin. ‘Thank you for the drink.’

She caught Cosima’s eye once more as she left the room. The girl looked mutinous, but also, Robin thought, scared.

97

But still, as we proceed,

The mass swells more and more

Of volumes yet to read,

Of secrets yet to explore.

Matthew Arnold

Empedocles on Etna

On the rainy evening of the first of March, Strike, tired after an afternoon’s tedious surveillance of Mrs Two-Times, which he’d just handed over to Wardle, made a detour to House of Computers on Tottenham Court Road to buy a new laptop. He then dropped in at the Flying Horse, where he called the agency’s usual tech man, and received instructions on installing an anonymising browser on to the new device. It seemed foolish not to enjoy a couple of pints and a burger since he was there, so it was half past eight before he finally headed home.

On entering Denmark Street he was surprised to see a light on in the office window, because Robin had the evening off, and Pat was the only other member of the agency who had keys. He climbed the metal staircase to the second floor and entered through the engraved glass door.

Robin was sitting in her usual seat at the partners’ desk, a half-eaten pizza at her elbow and a wide variety of research materials spread before her, including the plans of Wild Court and Freemasons’ Hall Strike had procured from Holborn Library. She had personal reasons for wanting to stay at the office instead of going home, and one of them was that her anxiety about being followed or threatened remained acute. Absorbed in everything she was reading andexamining, she’d lost track of the time and jumped when she heard Strike’s key in the lock. Seeing it was him, though, her heart lifted far more (as she instantly and guiltily realised) than it ought to have done.

‘Sorry,’ she said automatically, before realising this was nonsensical.

‘No need to apologise, it’s your office too,’ said Strike. ‘What’re you doing here so late? Thought you had the night off.’

‘Ryan had to work, so I thought I might as well keep at it,’ said Robin.

This wasn’t entirely true. Murphy was indeed busy, but the second reason Robin hadn’t wanted to go home too early was that she feared her boyfriend might drop in at her flat ‘as a surprise’. He was currently alternating between neediness and tetchiness. The latter was undoubtedly down to the pain of withdrawal after an abrupt cessation of drinking, but he kept trying to pin Robin down with plans, to pepper the calendar with future commitments, seeking guarantees that they’d still be together in six, eight, twelve weeks’ time. The previous evening he’d suggested spending his rapidly approaching thirty-fourth birthday in San Sebastián, where his sister lived. Robin had said she’d think about it. She was currently resistant to any arrangement that couldn’t be easily cancelled.

Depressed by the implication that, for Robin, there was no point going home if Murphy wasn’t there, Strike set down the new laptop on the desk.

‘Your old one playing up?’ she asked, noticing that Strike was wearing the blue shirt she liked.

‘No,’ said Strike, heading towards the kitchen area. ‘I don’t want to leave any trace of what I’m about to look up on the office PC. Dark web. Can’t be too careful, with MI5 keeping an eye on us.’

He took the whisky Robin had given him for his birthday out of a cupboard.

‘Want a drink?’ he called through to her.

‘Can’t, I’m driving,’ said Robin, trying to sound matter of fact. Both of them here, alone, after dark: she was remembering the night they’d spent together on Sark, and also that night when they’d eaten a takeaway curry here together, before she and Murphy had even met, when Strike had told her she was his best friend. She oughtn’t to be thinking about those things. She shouldn’t be noticing Strike’s shirt.

‘Dev just texted me,’ she called out. ‘He wants a week off over Easter if we can manage without him.’

Strike returned to the office with his whisky and glass and sat down opposite her.