The Hallmarked Man полностью

Murphy had wanted to see her tonight, but she’d had to work, so they’d agreed to spend Sunday together. The thought of the following day spent with her boyfriend ought to be cheering her, should mitigate this awful mixture of fear and anger, but it didn’t. Robin wanted to look Strike in the face as she told him about Todd, and asked him about Bijou Watkins.

She knew as soon as she entered Denmark Street that Strike wasn’t there, because the lights were all off, both in the attic flat and in the office. Nevertheless, Robin called him again while looking up at the windows. The call went to voicemail once more.

He’s out with her.

You don’t know that.

Then why isn’t he picking up his phone?

Robin let herself in through the street door and climbed the three flights of metal stairs to Strike’s attic flat, knowing it would be fruitless, but determined to make sure. She knocked on the door, but there was no answer, so she descended to the office level, unlocked the glass door and turned off the alarm.

In the inner office, she switched on the light, vaguely registering changes to the noticeboard since she’d last laid eyes on it. She checked the time on her phone: it was far earlier than she’d expected; her long day, and the darkness of the sky outside the window, had made her imagine it was nine o’clock at least. Heart thudding in her throat, she sat down in her usual seat and remained motionless for a minute or two, thinking. Then, taking a deep breath, she phoned Ilsa Herbert.

‘Hi, Robin,’ said Ilsa, answering after a few rings. ‘How’re you?’

Robin was certain she heard a trace of caution.

‘Been better,’ said Robin truthfully. ‘How’re you? How’s Benjy?’ she asked of her godson.

‘Walking,’ said Ilsa, ‘which means he’s tugging on leads of table lamps and headbutting the coffee table twice a day, so that’s nice and restful. What’s going on?’

‘Not much,’ said Robin, with faux lightness. ‘Kind of a fraught time, one way or another. Busy at work and the Land Rover’s packed up.’ She swallowed. ‘You know about Bijou Watkins?’

There was a very slight pause. Robin could picture Ilsa’s wary expression.

‘What about her?’

‘About her and Strike,’ said Robin.

‘Has… he’s told you?’ said Ilsa, and Robin’s pulse quickened even further.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Oh, thank God,’ said Ilsa, sounding immensely relieved. ‘He asked me not to tell you, said he was going to do it, but I literally said to Nick half an hour ago, “I bet he doesn’t.” Has he spoken to her yet?’

‘I think he’s doing it now,’ said Robin, whose ears were ringing.

‘Meeting her face to face?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Oh God,’ said Ilsa, and she turned her mouth from the phone to tell her husband, ‘Robin says he’s meeting Bijou tonight.’ Ilsa came back to the receiver. ‘I tried to warn him, you know I did! If it is his… he says it can’t be, but I told you about her little condom trick, didn’t I?’

‘The thing where she took them out of the bin?’ said Robin, the shrill whine in her ears becoming louder. ‘Yes, you told me.’

‘Between you and me, the gossip around chambers is that it is Corm’s, that she realised she was pregnant after he’d ditched her, so tried to pass it off as Honbold’s, but that’s probably what people want to have happened. Neither of them are popular – Bijou and Honbold, I mean. Did Corm tell you about the super-injunction?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Robin.

‘I’m amazed Honbold got it through. If your public persona’s all about personal ethics and family values, and you’ve cheated on your wife and want to wriggle out of your obligations to a daughter you’ve fathered out of wedlock, that’s pretty solid public interest. But Honbold’s got friends in high places, and he didn’t get to be as rich as he has without knowing how to argue a case. He must’ve persuaded them there’s no story, but that won’t hold for long, the papers will be straining at the leash. I suppose it’s going to come down to a DNA test and then the papers will be able to let rip, one way or another… God, I hope she’s not Corm’s.’

‘So it’s a daughter, is it?’ said Robin’s voice, from some far-off place that didn’t seem to be connected to either her numb mouth or her paralysed brain.

‘Yes. I’d say she can’t be his, because Bijou was trying to trap Honbold for ages, but – I hate saying this – she really did fancy Corm. It wasn’t a random thing. I think she quite liked the idea of being Mrs Cormoran Strike, but then he ditched her, obviously, so it was back to Honbold.’

‘Right,’ said Robin’s disembodied voice.

‘I’d feel sorry for her, it’s no joke, being thrown over right after you’ve given birth, but she’s so obnoxious I can’t help feeling she’s got what was coming to her. But I feel for Corm… I know he’s a dickhead, but he used protection, and condoms are, what—?’

‘Ninety-eight per cent effective,’ said Robin like an automaton, ‘if used correctly.’

‘Unless someone fishes them out of a bin. God, it’s such a bloody mess.’