Page 321 of The Hallmarked Man

The repeated wearing of the jacket in which she’d already seen him up close didn’t argue a very bright man. Nevertheless, Robinknew very well that stupid males could be just as dangerous as intelligent ones. She went to check her bag for her rape alarm and pepper spray, telling herself he wouldn’t dare do anything on such a busy street, by daylight, and reminding herself that it was a very short walk from the building’s front door to the Land Rover. She considered calling Strike, but decided against, given how grumpy he’d just been on the phone. In any case, there was nobody free at the agency to come and give her assistance. Now she wished, for the second time in as many months, that she didn’t live alone, before reminding herself that if she’d been living with Murphy, she’d be in an even bigger quandary. He still knew nothing about the man in the green jacket, nor about the small rubber gorilla or the masonic dagger hidden in her sock drawer.

Did Green Jacket have a car? Would he follow her to Murphy’s? Had he done anything to the Land Rover while she’d been asleep, or having her bath? She’d need to check it before she got in, but her pepper spray would be in her hand as she did so. Thus resolved, Robin put on her coat, re-checked the contents of her bag, and left her flat.

The day was cool, clouds sliding across the sun. Robin looked all around and behind her as she walked briskly to her car, but there was no sign of the man in the green jacket. Pepper spray in hand, she bent low to check the underside of the Land Rover, but saw nothing, nor were there scratches on any of the paintwork. She got inside quickly and locked the doors. Now feeling safer, she left her bag open on the passenger seat, pepper spray within easy reach, and set off, checking her rear-view mirror constantly.

The trouble with Blackhorse Road was that it was always very busy. Robin knew that Green Jacket would have had time, if he had his wits about him, to get into a car and follow her, especially if he knew where Murphy’s flat was. She had no idea what car Green Jacket might own, whereas she didn’t doubt he knew exactly which Land Rover to follow.

Robin arrived at Murphy’s flat shortly before midday, still unsure as to whether she’d been tailed. Murphy’s flat door was opened by his beaming mother, a well-dressed, attractive beige-blonde in her early sixties from whom Murphy had clearly got his good looks; she had the same bone structure and full upper lip.

‘Howlovelyto meet you at last!’ she said, and Robin responded as effusively as she could manage, with her mind half on Green Jacket.

If Murphy’s good looks were owed to the maternal line, he’d got his height and hair from his father, a burly Irishman with a deep voice, who also expressed delight at meeting Robin, and said Murphy had been keeping her hidden far too long. Murphy seemed slightly on edge, which Robin attributed to the unexpectedness of his parents’ arrival, and the necessity of cooking for them. He was stuck in the kitchen, so Robin and the two older Murphys sat down together and chatted easily enough, about their relocation to Galway after long years in London, about Murphy’s older sister’s third pregnancy and about Robin’s recent acquisition of two more nephews. Robin noticed that neither of them asked about her job at all, which was odd, because it was how she and Murphy had met. She wondered whether he’d told his parents not to bring up the agency.

Lunch was pleasant enough, although the food could have been tastier; Murphy’s steaks were rubbery and the potatoes slightly underdone. There was wine on the table, of which Murphy’s father partook liberally, cracking jokes, some of them funny.

Robin couldn’t help being reminded of her former in-laws. Matthew’s father, too, had been garrulous, whereas his late mother had been quieter, more polished and watchful, and Robin had always felt that the latter didn’t much like her. Murphy’s mother was far friendlier than her Cunliffe counterpart, yet Robin still detected signs that she was being covertly assessed.

‘We were sorry to hear the house fell through,’ she told Robin.

‘Yes,’ said Robin. ‘It was a shame.’

The longer lunch went on, the more certain Robin became that Murphy’s parents had no idea about his recent alcoholic relapse. Mrs Murphy’s searching look suggested she’d sensed there might be more to the story than that they’d been gazumped for a second time. Perhaps (a dart of unease shot through Robin) Murphy’s parents knew about the ectopic pregnancy. Robin had made her boyfriend promise not to tellherparents, but had extracted no guarantees about his.

Over lunch, she learned for the first time why the London-born Murphy supported Liverpool: his father had spent most of his teens in the city and remained a passionate supporter; he couldn’t have tolerated his son supporting anyone else, he told Robin, who laughed politely. Liverpool was playing Arsenal that afternoon, kick-off at five thirty, which was why Mr Murphy senior hadn’t wanted to go out to lunch – you never knew how long these fancy London restaurantswould string out a meal. Robin was told repeatedly by both parents how proud they were of Murphy, and the latter looked strained as they said it. Robin found herself longing for match kick-off, because ‘we won’t be allowed to talk once it starts’, said Murphy’s mother, with a humorous eye roll. ‘I’ve brought my knitting.’

‘Her business partner supports Arsenal,’ said Murphy, nodding towards Robin, who felt a very faint sting of animosity in this remark, and it led to a certain amount of good-humoured chaff from his father about how the office was bound to be an uncomfortable place on Monday, then, because Arsenal was about to be thoroughly trounced.

At five o’clock, the three Murphys removed to the sofa and armchair in plenty of time for the start of the game, Mr Murphy sprawling so much that there was very little room for Robin, so she remained at the table where they’d eaten.

Once the match was underway, Robin surreptitiously took out her phone. She’d have preferred her laptop, but she could hardly have brought that with her. Murphy and his father, who were apparently allowed to talk all they wanted, criticised and eulogised various plays and players, while Mrs Murphy concentrated mostly on knitting what looked like a baby’s sweater in pink angora.

Robin first checked to see whether Tish Benton (currently at a five-star hotel in Paris, judging by her most recent Instagram photo) had responded to the request for a chat Robin had sent via the Clairmont chain, but there was no response.

‘GET IN!’ bellowed Murphy and his father in unison, and Robin jumped. Both men were fist-pumping; Firmino had scored for Liverpool. Robin hastily made celebratory noises and affected a broad smile until the Murphys’ attention had returned to the TV.

She’d just closed Instagram when a text arrived from her brother Martin.

Could I come stay for a couple of days?

Robin stared at this message, wondering whether Martin had sent it to the wrong person. Not only had her second brother never come to visit her in London, he was, by some distance, the family member to whom she was least close. She loved him, of course, but as she’d told Strike on Sark, they had very little in common. He’d been insecure in their youth about his siblings’ better academic records, and metedout a low but sustained level of persecution to Robin, purely on the basis that she was the only girl. Their friends, habits and life choices could hardly have been more divergent.

Thinking that a simple question ought to make him realise he’d texted the wrong person, she replied:

With Carmen and the baby, you mean?

There was no immediate response, so Robin returned to the line of investigation she’d been pursuing until exhaustion had defeated her in the early hours of the morning.

Shortly after midnight, she’d stumbled across the information that Rupert’s paternal aunt, Anjelica, was a historian who’d once been affiliated with the University of Ghent, in Belgium. She’d remained professionally attached to the Belgian university long after she’d moved to Switzerland with her husband, a fellow academic, and shuttled between the two countries while Rupert was growing up. The decision to put Rupert into boarding school seemed to have been made to allow his child-free aunt and uncle to pursue their separate, intellectually distinguished careers.

‘Shouldn’t have left Sánchez on the bench, should you, Wenger, you wanker?’ said Murphy. Murphy senior roared with laughter. Robin ploughed on with her research.

Anjelica had ended her professorship at the University of Ghent in the year 2000, when Rupert was nine years old.

I fink ’e said… didn’ ’e say ’e knew what ’appened to ’er? An’ din’ ’e say we’d see it on the news?

Was it possible that Rupert had heard something, or known something, about the murders of Reata Lindvall and her daughter, relayed to him by his Belgium-based aunt, or one of her colleagues?

‘YEEEEES! FUCKING GET IN!’ bellowed Murphy while his father roared his approval. Liverpool had scored again, just before half time.