The Hallmarked Man полностью

‘You go to the press, I’ll be fighting fire with fucking nukes, so don’t you dare threaten me with the fucking papers. Honbold’s got to take a paternity test—’

‘He says he won’t do it unless I take him to court! He’s so angry – Cormoran, please, please, I need you to do it, so I can prove Ottolie’s his—’

‘Will I fuck,’ said Strike, incensed. ‘That implies I think I might be the fucking father, and when word of that leaks out—’

‘How would it leak out?’

‘Probably from you, because you tell everyone every-fucking-thing, you can’t keep your fucking mouth shut even when it’s in your own best interests. If you tell Honbold I’m giving a DNA sample, his every fucking suspicion will be confirmed—’

‘It won’t, it won’t, I’ll tell him you’re only doing it to prove you’re not the—’

‘Unless you’re lying, unless you think the kid might be mine, you don’t need my DNA. Tell Honbold you’ll take him to court if necessary and see how his fucking super-injunction holds up then.’

‘But if I do that, he’ll never—’

‘Marry you? You still think you’re going to be Mrs Andrew Honbold, after this? Tell him you’ll see him in court, and leave me the fuck out of it.’

Seething, Strike cut the call.

52

… while acts are from their motives judged,

And to one act many most unlike motives,

This pure, that guilty, may have each impell’d—

Power fails us to try clearly if that cause

Assign’d us by the actor be the true one…

Matthew Arnold

Merope: A Tragedy

Robin’s Friday really only ended in the early hours of Saturday morning, when the lights in Plug’s mother’s house in Camberwell went out, and she knew her target, who’d done a lot of shouting that afternoon, had finally gone to bed. She drove home through the icy night in her hired Mazda, yawning regularly, thinking against her will of a multitude of stressful things, Decima Mullins foremost among them.

Strike might well be correct in saying the fragile woman obsessed with the corpse in the silver shop would only hire somebody else if they refused to investigate for her, but this was the first time Robin had felt grubby just for doing her job, and she didn’t need more things on her conscience. The imminent trip to Crieff and Ironbridge was already weighing on it, because she’d deliberately obfuscated their precise destinations to Murphy, leaving him with the vague impression that they were looking for Rupert Fleetwood somewhere in Northumbria. Worst of all were the small ripples of mingled apprehension and excitement she felt when she pictured that Lake District hotel.

To compound Robin’s general and specific stresses, Murphy was now pressuring her to commit to viewing at least one of the houses he kept forwarding her, and a stream of information about her new nephew appeared on her phone every ten minutes, or so it felt, meaning that Robin had to fake the delight and fascination her family seemed to expect of her, and would need to find time in her busy schedule to buy and send a gift.

Babies seemed to be everywhere. Jenny and the miniature sumo called Barnaby; Robin’s cousin Katie, to whose first son she was godmother, had just announced her second pregnancy; the soon-to-be-born child of the warring Martin and Carmen; Robin’s policewoman friend, Vanessa Ekwensi, was due to give birth shortly; and Lion Fleetwood, photographed looking frail and startled on his changing mat.

Don’t think about it. Ever since the shock of the ectopic pregnancy had worn off, Robin had been repressing a treacherous tendency in herself to dwell on the fact that what had split open her fallopian tube had been an actual human being. Better by far to think of it as something akin to a ruptured appendix, not somebody who might, but for untreated chlamydia, have made his or her appearance next August, irrevocably changing Robin’s life. Don’t think about it, what’s the point?

Robin set off to take over surveillance on Jim Todd at midday. This was the first time Robin had followed the cleaner, and she’d donned her warmest coat, a useful beanie that concealed her hair, plus a scarf that was not only useful protection against the very cold day but handy should she need to bury her face in it. Shah had already texted Robin Todd’s current location: a café on Kingsway. The agency had at last, by dint of watching the cleaner, found out which Lebanese restaurant he lived over, and discovered that he rarely emerged from the building before noon on the days when he wasn’t cleaning. Robin remained alert for anyone following her, as she had ever since the unknown man had forced the rubber gorilla into her hand in Harrods, but was certain nobody had.