The Hallmarked Man полностью

What must once have been a drawing room had been converted into a cramped bedsit, which smelled strongly of cannabis and body odour. Much of the floor was cluttered with bowls used as ashtrays, empty cigarette packets, and other, less readily identifiable bits of detritus. In one corner of the room stood an aged cooker and a fridge; evidently occupants were supposed to wash up in the dirty sink visible through the door to a cramped bathroom. There was a double bed, a cot, a television standing precariously on a cardboard box, a small sofa currently occupied by two bulging black bin bags, and a chest of drawers, on top of which were two mugs growing mould, and a slightly crumpled letter headed HM Courts and Tribunals Service.

Strike was instantly and unpleasantly transported back to those parts of his childhood spent with his mother. Even the man with long greasy hair who was lying face down in the double bed seemed familiar. The latter jerked awake as his partner closed the door.

‘Hurgh?’ he said groggily, turning a swollen-eyed face towards them. ‘The fuck?’ he repeated in dazed alarm, looking up at Strike who, even in civilian clothes, conveyed an air of officialdom to those primed to detect it.

‘’E’s Cameron Strike, the private detective,’ the woman, with dim excitement. ‘’Im what caught that Shacklewell Ripper an’ done that church. An’…’

She’d forgotten Robin’s name already.

‘Robin Ellacott,’ supplied Robin.

‘Yeah,’ said the woman. ‘They wanna talk abou’ William Wright. They’re not police, Daz.’

Strike, who had considerable expertise in this area, recognised in the sleepy man the signs of a fully committed pothead: slothful speech, dazed affect and a slight, though in this instance not unreasonable, paranoia.

‘Yeah, but – the fuck?’ said Daz again, weakly. ‘I’ve got nuffing fuckin’ on, Mandy.’

Mandy cackled, tugged a pair of jeans out of one of the black bin bags and chucked them at her boyfriend.

‘Put ’em on under the duvet,’ she instructed him, now heaving both bin bags off the sofa. ‘Gonna go the laundrette later,’ she informed the detectives. Her son ran to pick up a Spider-Man action figure which had been dislodged from between the sofa cushions.

‘Council put us ’ere,’ Mandy informed Strike and Robin. ‘Shit’ole, innit? You can sit down,’ she said, pointing at the sofa. It was extremely dirty, but the two detectives did as invited, forced to sit so close that their arms and thighs touched. Mandy perched on the end of the bed; Daz, now hidden beneath the duvet, was wriggling into his jeans.

‘They don’t fink William was that Jason Fing,’ Mandy informed the undulating lump beneath the bedclothes. ‘I never fort ’e was,’ she said proudly.

‘Yeah, you did,’ came Daz’s muffled voice from under the duvet.

Their son was now rummaging through Mandy’s bag of shopping.

‘No, Clint!’ said Mandy sharply. ‘Fuck’s sake—’

Clint began to cry.

‘Oh, all right,’ she said, relenting instantly. She pulled out a pack of chocolate biscuits, ripped them open with her teeth and handed him one. ‘Don’ blame me when the dentist wants to take ’em all out,’ she added, pulling out a packet of Mayfair cigarettes for herself, and unwrapping them.

‘Is it OK if we take notes?’ Robin asked.

‘Yeah, go on,’ said Mandy, looking rather excited.

‘I’ll do it,’ muttered Strike to Robin, pulling out his own notebook. He thought Robin might appear less threatening to Daz, whose head had just re-emerged from beneath the duvet.

‘So you didn’t think Wright was Jason Knowles, Mandy?’ asked Robin.

‘You did,’ said Daz, before his girlfriend could answer. ‘When it was on the news, you said, “fuck, ’e was on the run!” I was the one what said ’is voice was off. ’E wa’n from Doncaster,’ Daz informed Robin. ‘I ’ad a mate from Doncaster.’

‘You think he was putting the accent on?’ asked Robin.

‘Yeah,’ said Daz.

‘Could he have been Scottish?’ she said, thinking of Niall Semple.

‘Dunno,’ said Daz. ‘Maybe.’

‘Could he have been upper class, and trying to sound working class?’ Robin asked, thinking of Rupert Fleetwood.

‘Maybe,’ said Daz again.

‘I seen ’im out there,’ said Mandy, who seemed to want to reclaim the detectives’ attention, and she pointed towards the hall. ‘Seen ’im the day ’e arrived.’

‘Did he have much stuff with him?’ asked Robin.

‘Just a suitcase,’ said Mandy. She bent down, retrieved a lighter from beside a sock on the floor, and lit her cigarette.

‘Which room did he have?’ asked Robin.

‘One above this,’ said Mandy, pointing at the ceiling. ‘S’even worse. ’Alf the size. Mind, there was on’y one of ’im.’

‘Were you the people who identified William from the pictures in the press?’

‘Nah, that was Hussein,’ said Mandy, exhaling smoke. ’’E’s moved out now, ’im an’ ’is wife an’ daughter. They wuz in the rooms on the top.’

‘D’you know their surname?’ asked Robin. ‘Where they went?’