Page 34 of The Hallmarked Man

‘Very grateful,’ he said. ‘More tears.’

The two partners walked on in silence, Strike thoroughly satisfied with his last ten minutes’ work. He’d just made an excellent start in establishing that he was no longer interested in casual affairs by saying what he had about Bijou Watkins, and Robin had agreed to the investigation, in spite of her boyfriend’s clear disapproval. No matter the risks, no matter the possible fallout, he now intended to seize the first auspicious moment to tell her what he felt, and if no such opportunity arose naturally, he’d engineer one.

There’s no pride in having what you never worked for.

Never let the other chap change your game plan.

Stick to your own, and play to your strengths.

PART TWO

‘Sometimes the deepest mines prove the best in the end.’

‘And as long as there’s anybody to pay for it I suppose you go on digging.’

John Oxenham

A Maid of the Silver Sea

14

You have taken the first step over its threshold, the first step toward the inner sanctuary and heart of the temple. You are in the path that leads up the slope of the mountain of Truth…

Albert Pike

Morals and Dogma of the Liturgy of the Ancient and Accepted Scottish Rite of Freemasonry

‘Where are you?’ were Strike’s opening words on the second of December, when Robin answered his call.

‘On the A40,’ said Robin, who was having to speak loudly because she was in her decrepit Land Rover, which didn’t have Bluetooth. ‘Mrs A’s staying near Stroud. I’m taking over from Midge.’

‘Kim’ll do Stroud,’ said Strike. ‘I’ve just got off a call from the owner of Ramsay Silver. I didn’t expect him to be so keen to talk to us; he nearly bit my hand off. He wants to know if we can go along there today at one.’

‘OK, great,’ said Robin, who was considerably more interested in seeing the site of William Wright’s murder than she was in staring at a deserted croquet lawn from behind a hedge. ‘I’ll come back.’

‘Meet you outside Freemasons’ Hall at half twelve.’

So Robin turned London-wards again. The chilly day was overcast, but from time to time the sun slid out from behind clouds, revealing the dirt on the windscreen she’d been first too busy, and then too recently operated on, to clean. The ancient Land Rover had developed a mysterious rattle in the past few days, which Robin hadn’t yet managed to trace to its source. Its MOT was imminent and she had a strong feeling that this time it might not scrape through.

The prospect of visiting Ramsay Silver had raised her mood, which happened to require some lifting, because, prior to Strike’s call, she’d been brooding about a couple of recent conversations she’d had with Murphy. Her boyfriend hadn’t said so explicitly, but Robin could tell he was angry about the agency taking the silver vault case, even though she’d claimed they were trying to find Rupert Fleetwood, rather than identify the body. Then, the previous evening, Murphy had been complaining over the phone about his own unsatisfactory neighbour, whose slamming doors and shouting matches with her teenage children were a constant bar to relaxation, when he’d suddenly said,

‘You know, if we bought a place together, we could get away from all these wankers.’

At these words, Robin had felt something very like panic. However, feeling guilty about the way she’d lied about the silver vault case, she felt she owed him.

‘Yes, I suppose we could,’ she said.

‘Don’t be too enthusiastic.’

She’d laughed nervously.

‘No, it’s definitely an idea.’

Ever since the call had ended, Robin had been trying to argue herself out of an increase in anxiety. She loved Murphy, didn’t she? Yes, she really thought – knew – she did. And most women would be delighted to know that the man they loved, and who loved them, wanted to make this kind of commitment, wouldn’t they? And didn’t it make sense to find a better place together, without rowdy neighbours?

But when Robin thought about cohabitation, the image that presented itself was of the third and last home she’d shared with her ex-husband. Robin knew it had been a lovely house, in an eighteenth-century terrace that had been built for shipwrights and sea captains, but she couldn’t picture it in any detail now. What she mostly remembered was the leaden feeling of constriction and misery in which she’d spent too many of the days she’d lived there.

But that was Matthew. Ryan’s not Matthew.