The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike, #8)

by Robert Galbraith

There were three kinds of people he was unusually good at identifying on short acquaintance: liars, addicts and the mentally ill. He had a hunch Decima Mullins might belong in the third category, and while this might excuse her ill-kempt appearance, it made him no keener to take her case.

On this undoubtedly puerile but satisfying thought,

The customer, one of whose eyes was hypertrophic and staring up at the ceiling, scanned Strike and Robin superciliously with the other as he went out of the shop.

‘People who’re already in trouble are the very people who can’t afford to get careless,’ said Strike sententiously.

‘You have to roll up your trouser leg during initiation into the Freemasons. Prove you’re unshackled – a free man. I don’t think the Freemasons killed Wright,’

‘He’s never going to set the world alight, brains-wise, but he’s a really nice guy.

Almost against her will, the vice-like grip of anger and anguish that had been with Robin ever since Ilsa had told her about Bijou’s baby was loosening.

See, therefore, that first controlling your own temper, and governing your own passions, you fit yourself to keep peace and harmony among other men, and especially the brethren.

It took a full forty-eight hours for the whites of Strike’s eyes to recover from the pepper spray, during which time he had an emergency tetanus shot and passed his video footage of the dog fight, and the names and addresses of Plug and his friends, to police in Ipswich.

Admittedly, Strike didn’t know exactly what that state was, but their friendship, at least, appeared to have been mysteriously and completely repaired.

Then, rather as scrap itself may slide and settle, something in the depths of his mind shifted, and he saw what had lain hidden, and knew why he’d stayed.

She stared up at him, waiting, feeling strangely shivery, like someone in the early stages of flu.

Life had taught her there were few limits on the lies desperate men were prepared to tell.

The bodies of Jim Todd and a woman Strike assumed to be his mother, Nancy, were lying on the dirty carpet in a foul miasma encouraged by the gas fire that continued to blaze.

‘How much information has DCI Ryan Murphy been feeding you?’ asked Northmore. Out of the corner of his eye, Strike saw a stiffening of Iverson’s expression. He was surprised they’d named Murphy, on tape. Could the man be under some kind of cloud? Might he even be under investigation? ‘Zero,’ said Strike.

‘Nothing’s been let slip during bedroom talk?’ said Northmore. ‘Haven’t shagged him yet,’ said Strike. ‘Playing hard to get.’

‘My partner interviewed Schiff, and no, she didn’t give her money,’ said Strike, who’d decided it was time to pull out his metaphorical stick. ‘Have to say, we were surprised you hadn’t got the information about Oz out of Schiff, especially as Medina isn’t the only young woman who disappeared after meeting him, is she?’

‘Strange, the way Truman didn’t want to look at anything that didn’t fit with the body being Knowles,’ said Strike.

Strike was tired, hungry, his leg was throbbing and he’d been forced to leave his BMW in Harlesden. Nevertheless, he felt he’d come through the night on the profit side of the ledger.

The cumulative effect of these texts was not only to rob Robin of sleep, but to fill her with anger, guilt and fear.

Murphy’s story contradicted itself.

She ordered tea and a bacon roll, and when the waiter had departed, Strike filled her in on his overnight activities, starting with Barnaby’s, moving through the discovery of two corpses, and concluding with his arrest, interview and release without charge, by which time Robin’s roll and mug of tea had arrived, and her mouth was hanging open. ‘Oh – my – God.’

Frankly, I think we could frogmarch the living Fleetwood right up to her at this point and she’d still insist he was dead.’

the police,’ said Longcaster. ‘It was so quick, Daddy, one minute

‘But if “rumours” means Dino Longcaster telling people Fleetwood had nicked his nef, they were true.

‘I might have more information on Fleetwood on Monday. Following a lead. Might go nowhere. I’ll tell you if it comes off.’

He’d just seen what he’d come for when he heard footsteps again, and returned to stand beside the fireplace.

She was as thin as she’d always been, wearing her expensive interpretation of country clothing, which in this case meant a silk blouse and tweed trousers. Had she been able to move her face properly, Strike knew it would have been wearing an expression of fury.

‘I don’t know how you’ve got the fucking balls to walk in here,’ sneered Tara. ‘Why’s that?’ said Strike, sitting down without invitation on the sofa. ‘You know fucking well why not. After what you did.’ ‘I’ve done a lot of things,’ said Strike, stretching out the leg bearing the prosthesis, which was cramping again, after the long drive. ‘You’ll have to be more specific.’

‘It’s not your sideboard, it’s your son’s, and he’s going to be royally fucked when the press find out where Dino Longcaster’s silver ship went, isn’t he?’

‘Sit down,’ Tara said again. ‘Sit.’ ‘I’m not a fucking dog,’ said Strike. ‘Are you going to answer my questions?’

‘Well,’ said Tara, eyes narrowed over her coffee cup, ‘aren’t you clever?’ ‘The evidence points that way, yeah,’ said Strike. ‘Which hotel is Fleetwood hiding out in?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Tara. ‘I told them to find him something, and they did.

But for a few seconds, the pub and the screams and the drinkers had blurred into non-existence: he’d been back on the yellow dirt road in Afghanistan, in the vehicle that was about to blow up, because he’d shouted ‘brake’ too late. Strike suspected his blood pressure had remained elevated for hours after the terror attack and wasn’t confident it was normal now.

‘You’ve got a daughter, right?’ ‘Yeah,’ said Barclay, looking understandably perplexed by the non sequitur. Strike, who had a confused idea that the father of a daughter was the next best thing, in the absence of a woman, nodded towards Sapphire.