The Hallmarked Man полностью

‘Strike doesn’t need to try and intimidate sex workers into screwing him,’ Robin said, on a roll now. ‘Seeing as you’re so interested, you should know he does bloody well for himself with women, he doesn’t need to hire them. I seem to remember you liking him, and telling me he’s “got something about him”, before you decided he’s the Devil incarnate – and given his background, he doesn’t need Ryan to tell him it’s criminal to try and coerce women into sex by withholding payment.’

‘Robin—’

‘Just say it to my face! Say you don’t like him, say you’d rather I’d stayed the girl I was after I got raped!’

‘You can’t – how can you say that to me?’ whispered Linda.

‘Easily. I’m where I belong, where I was always meant to be. It just took me longer to get there, because of what happened, but you’d rather I had a kind of half-life, you’d rather—’

‘I wouldn’t rather you were still with Matthew,’ said Linda. ‘We never liked him. I was glad when you called off the wedding, I never wanted to say it, but I was, we always thought he was wrong for you—’

‘Pity you’re not as smart when it comes to what’s right for me,’ said Robin.

‘Robin—’

‘I’m not still in that bloody stairwell,’ said Robin, her voice becoming louder, ‘but you make me feel like I never left it, the way you treat me!’

She’d overfilled her mug with black coffee, which had spilled over the sides. Betty, who hadn’t liked the raised voices, had skittered away and was now worrying a rubber bone in the corner. Robin knew she’d hurt Linda worse than she’d ever done before, even in her teens, when a certain amount of door slamming and mutual recrimination had of course taken place. She and her mother had been close, once; but for the last four years, ever since Robin had received the injury that had left an eight-inch scar on her forearm, a gulf had been steadily widening between mother and daughter. Robin was infuriated and insulted by Linda’s constant, implicit suggestion that her daughter was a malleable fool who did whatever her business partner wanted, without agency, without sense; her mother had no idea how often Strike had urged caution on his best female operative, how little he wanted to see her hurt.

‘You haven’t got children,’ said Linda in a low voice.

‘Thanks for pointing that out,’ said Robin. ‘I was worried I’d left them somewhere.’

‘You don’t know what it’s like, to worry yourself sick about your daughter—’

‘You don’t know what it’s like to have my worries,’ said Robin, thinking of the icy ultrasound wand on her stomach, and the rubber gorilla hidden in her sock drawer in London, and MI5 being angry at the agency for investigating, and DCI Malcolm Truman and his masonic lodge. ‘So we’re even.’

She’d just tipped some of her brimming cup of coffee into the sink when she heard the front door open and her father, Stephen and Annabel entered the kitchen, all pink-faced, cheerful and talkative. Linda hastily wiped her eyes on the tea towel as Michael Ellacott set a bulging bag of shopping on the table.

‘Auntie Bobbin,’ said Annabel, trotting over to Robin to show her a stick. ‘I’ve got Stick Man.’

‘We’re in a big Stick Man phase,’ Stephen informed his sister.

‘Lovely,’ Robin said to Annabel, who was big for her age, brunette, like her mother, but with her father’s dimples. ‘You need to look after him.’

‘Or a dog will take him,’ said Annabel, nodding gravely.

‘Jenny still asleep?’ Stephen asked Linda.

‘Yes, and so’s Jonathan,’ said Linda, her voice artificially cheerful as she resumed her drying and putting away of crockery. ‘I don’t know what his excuse is.’

Robin sat down at the kitchen table and pulled the abandoned Telegraph towards her while the others clattered around her, Linda opening and closing cupboards, Michael putting away groceries, Stephen unbuttoning Annabel’s coat and fetching her a drink. After staring mindlessly at an article on the United Nations Security Council without taking in a word, Robin turned the page.

Lord Oliver Branfoot was pictured, scruffy and bull-like, beaming in black tie beside a very tall man, and a large blonde woman in evening dress. The caption read, ‘Branfoot Trust Recommends Reintroduction of Borstals’.

‘Have you been hearing the Martin saga?’ said a voice near Robin, and she started.

‘What?’

‘Mum been filling you in on Martin?’ asked Stephen.

‘No,’ said Robin, getting to her feet, coffee in one hand, paper in the other. ‘Sorry, it’ll have to wait. I’ve got to call Strike.’

38

What were the wise man’s plan?—

Through this sharp, toil-set life,

To work as best he can,

And win what’s won by strife.

Matthew Arnold

Empedocles on Etna