The Hallmarked Man полностью

‘Sorry,’ he muttered, to nobody in particular. He took out his phone again and, purely to get away from those gazing at him, let himself out of the back door onto the decking that Greg had built himself, facing the chilly lawn.

Expecting Kim’s name again, he was surprised to see a text from Jade Semple and, judging by her spelling, she appeared to be trying, far more successfully than he was, to drown her Christmas Eve sorrows in alcohol.

I dont t hink bNiall was thagt body it was just the naeme William Wrihgt maed me thinkn it might have been

Strike typed back:

Did Niall have some connection with that name?

Somebody tapped on the window behind Strike. He turned and saw his eldest and least favourite nephew, Luke, whose objective in banging on the glass appeared to have been simply to make his uncle show his face to his two smirking teenage companions, as though Strike were some aquarium fish. Scowling, the detective turned his back on the window again, and saw that Jade had texted him again.

Kind of but I was just panicking g I dobn’t think it was hijm

‘Stick, what are you doing out here?’

Lucy had come out onto the decking, shivering in her thin party dress.

‘Sorry,’ said Strike again, hastily stuffing his phone back in his pocket. ‘Work. One of my subcontractors has been punched in the face.’

It was true-ish: Shah had almost had his nose broken a couple of jobs previously.

‘Oh, that’s awful,’ said Lucy. ‘How—?’

‘Let’s go back inside,’ said Strike, feeling guilty again. ‘Introduce me to your friends.’

For the next hour he drank lager and made loud, empty conversation with various parents of children at Lucy’s kids’ schools. Some wanted to quiz him about his detective career, others wanted to tell him how lovely his sister was; a few, who were already drunk, seemed unable to place him from the school run, and were confused as to why anyone who didn’t take their children to the local school should be present. The exception was a sozzled, skinny woman, who was wearing a baggy dress that was probably the height of fashion, but which Strike thought looked like a postal sack: she insisted very loudly that she knew Strike ‘from taekwondo’, and that his son, Fingal, was very talented and shouldn’t be allowed to give it up. In the end he agreed with her, and promised to preach perseverance to Fingal, upon which she hugged him and he discovered that she stank of BO.

Five minutes later, while fetching yet another lager, he was cornered by a man whose shallow forehead and long, pointed nose gave him the look of a whippet. Strike assumed he was some species of insurance agent, because he wanted to know how Strike indemnified his business against professional mistakes that led to wrongful arrests or injuries. When Strike said, truthfully, that his agency had never made a professional mistake that had resulted in a wrongful arrest or an injury, or at least, not an injury to an investigative subject (Robin might have had a case against him, if she’d ever chosen to pursue it) the whippet-faced man seemed annoyed.

‘But say it happened—’

‘Can’t see how it would,’ said Strike.

For the last twenty minutes, he’d been aware of the large silver mass that was Marguerite circling, like some large and unpredictable asteroid, and seeing that his interlocutor was determined to thrash the point out, Strike announced baldly, ‘need the bog’, and left him standing there.

There was, inevitably, a queue for the upstairs bathroom. Strike joined it with reluctance, because the woman in the sack-like dress who thought he had a son called Fingal was also waiting, so he pulled out his phone again to discourage conversation. He wanted to re-read Jade Semple’s texts, but instead saw a new message from Kim.

Working, and I’d need to know you a LOT better to send nudes.

Fuck’s sake. Was he about to be sent another ‘oops, sorry, didn’t mean to send that to you’ text, or a nude picture? What Kim Cochran didn’t realise was, Strike had played these kinds of games at a far more sophisticated level, with a Grand Master, for sixteen years; this really was minor league attempted seduction.

An obese man in a reindeer-patterned sweater had just left the bathroom; the woman who smelled of BO staggered into it instead. As Strike moved along to stand beside the closed door, another text from Jade Semple arrived.

a woman took money out on Nialls card after that body was found

Strike was still contemplating this message when the bathroom door opened.

‘I didn’t make the smell,’ shouted the woman in the baggy dress, balancing herself with the door jamb, clearly very drunk. ‘That was him, before!’