The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike, #8)

by Robert Galbraith

She was lying watching a murmuration of starlings twirl across the leaden sky outside her window when her mobile rang.

There were many subjects on which he knew Shanker to be almost impressively ignorant – the geography of anywhere beyond Greater London, how taxation worked, who made laws – but his knowledge of organised crime in London was peerless.

‘How sure are you? Out of ten?’ ‘Dunno… five? But it could of bin ’im – Wright was a bit—’ Instead of finishing the sentence, Todd raised his right hand and let it hang, limply, from his wrist. ‘What?’ said Strike. ‘Camp?’ ‘Poncey. Yeah.’

‘I’d imagine it’s occurred to you that we’ve got an unusual number of sex offenders congregating around this crime?’ Strike asked Robin. ‘McGee felt up a workmate on a previous job, Todd’s a rapist and trafficker, Oz appears to groom young women—’ ‘You probably won’t like my answer to that,’ said Robin. ‘Which is?’ ‘That men perennially underestimate how many of their fellow men are perverts and predators. You know what they say: “all women know a rape victim, no man knows a rapist”.’

Not only was he on tenterhooks about the DNA results, relations with Robin continued to be icy.

‘and if you’ve got something you want to say about the smallness of houses, go right ahead and say it.’ ‘I’m not—’ ‘Oh, aren’t you?’ said Robin in a loud, furious whisper. ‘Don’t tell me “no pressure”, then hint that I don’t want space for kids!’ ‘That’s in your head, not mine!’ ‘Don’t gaslight me, Ryan, I’m not a fool. I’ve got to go.’

Two enormous dogs, one grey, one brindle, both bandy-legged with blunt noses, were locked together in the dirt, rolling and snarling and already bleeding.

I won’t give two shiny shits how much of it’s true.’

He’d finally, and perhaps too late, found something he wanted more than solitude and safety, and he supposed all he could do now was wait to find out whether Robin Ellacott decided whether she wanted it, too.