Page 324 of The Hallmarked Man

Oh God, no.

She lifted out the receipt, not to see the price, but the date. He’d bought it days before she’d discovered the vodka, before they’d agreed to let the new house go.

Robin replaced the ring and receipt carefully back in their bag and returned it to the old briefcase, then closed the wardrobe door and set about gathering her things. If Murphy really hadn’t run off to the pub or the off licence, he’d probably be back soon, full of contrition, wondering whether this time he’d blown everything.

So flustered was Robin when she left the flat that she forgot all about Green Jacket. However, she arrived safely at the Land Rover and set off, even more frightened than she’d been on arrival: not of sudden physical attack, but of the silver-coloured band hidden in the depths of Murphy’s wardrobe: a tiny, sparkling shackle.

100

Ha ha, John plucketh now at his rose

To rid himself of a sorrow at heart!

Lo,—petal on petal, fierce rays unclose;

Anther on anther, sharp spikes outstart;

And with blood for dew, the bosom boils;

And a gust of sulphur is all its smell;

And lo, he is horribly in the toils

Of a coal-black giant flower of Hell!

Robert Browning

The Heretic’s Tragedy

At half past eight on Monday morning, Strike set off for a journey to the West Country in his BMW. He hadn’t needed to set off so early, but he didn’t want to run into Robin at the office, nor had he replied to the email she’d sent him about what he considered Rupert Fleetwood’s very flimsy family connection to Belgium. Convinced that Murphy had proposed and been accepted, and that Robin’s uncancellable lunch on Saturday had been with her future in-laws, Strike required longer than forty-eight hours to build himself up to the congratulatory expression and tone he’d need when they next spoke.

At a quarter to nine Strike received a call from Midge.

‘I’ve got the address of Branfoot’s flat,’ she said triumphantly.

‘Fantastic,’ said Strike, his mood very slightly improved by this news, because scaring off Branfoot and his henchmen was one of his top priorities. ‘Where is it?’

‘Black Prince Road, Lambeth, second floor of smart block,’ said Midge. ‘Tailed him there last night. He went in around eleven, anhour later a black guy in leather and a drunk girl went in. Lights went on on the second floor and stayed on for about three hours.

‘At four, Branfoot creeps outside again. At six, the girl staggers out onto the pavement to get into a taxi, looking rough as hell. Half an hour later, the porn sleaze comes out. Got pictures of all of them.’

‘Excellent work,’ said Strike.

‘Cheers,’ said Midge. ‘Right, well, I’m supposed to be catching that Hussein Mohamed between his Uber shifts. Need coffee. Speak to you later.’

Strike drove on down the M40 for half an hour, then Robin called him, as he’d half-expected she would. Steeling himself, he answered.

‘Pat says you’re driving to Hereford,’ she said. ‘Why—?’

‘I’m meeting Rena Liddell. She responded to me last night on one of her old Twitter accounts: “Hereford, 2pm tomorrow” – and Hereford’s got a Golden Fleece.’

‘Wow, great,’ said Robin. ‘Well, Midge has found—’

‘I know, she just called me,’ said Strike, ‘so when I get to Hereford I’m going to call de Leon and warn him I’m about to go to Branfoot myself and tell him I know what he’s up to in that flat, and if de Leon wants to sit on his arse and wait for the story to break without putting a decent spin on his own involvement, that’s his problem.’

‘Well, I’ve got other news,’ said Robin, who was currently in the inner office, and Strike’s stomach clenched.

‘Or rather, Pat has,’ Robin continued. ‘She’s found a pub in Yeovil called the Quicksilver Mail that had a barman for a couple of weeks last June who called himself Dave. He was short and had big ears. They let him go because he wasn’t very good.’