The Hallmarked Man полностью

There was silver there without a doubt, and the many thin veins they came across lured them on with constant hope of mighty pockets and deposits of which these were but the flying indications.

John Oxenham

A Maid of the Silver Sea

69

Weary of myself, and sick of asking

What I am, and what I ought to be,

At this vessel’s prow I stand, which bears me

Forwards, forwards, o’er the starlit sea.

Matthew Arnold

Self-Dependence

So that was that, thought Robin: Strike had lied to her face. He who berated her for not immediately informing him of a minor incident (for the purposes of her present resentment, it suited Robin to minimise the impact on her of the gorilla-faced, dagger-waving stalker) was deliberately concealing a further risk to the agency of scandal and press intrusion (and it suited her to attribute all her rage and hurt to this, rather than investigate the weight in the pit of her stomach, which grew heavier every time she thought of Strike as a father).

As she and Barclay entered Wycliffe Road in the latter’s car early the following morning, Robin had yet another source of aggravation: a smarting right eye, from which tears kept leaking. The previous evening she’d chopped up a lot of very hot chilli peppers in her kitchen, and evidently she hadn’t washed her hands thoroughly enough afterwards, because in touching her eyelid she’d inflamed her tear ducts. The chilli-chopping had been part of a project she didn’t intend to tell Murphy about, firstly, because he still didn’t know about either the man in Harrods, or the one with the masonic dagger, and secondly, because it was illegal to carry or use pepper spray in the UK. Nevertheless, Robin felt a little safer this morning, knowing that she was carrying a potent mixture of chillies, cayenne pepper, garlic and vinegar in a clear plastic spray-bottle in her handbag. She’d worry about the legal consequences later, if she had to use it. The internet had advocated the spray as a way to repel garden pests, but she might be on flimsy legal ground should she claim she was carrying it around in her handbag for the benefit of three pot plants she’d left at home. Nevertheless, if Robin had any choice in the matter, no more men would seize her by the neck from behind without suffering consequences, nor would any of them get near enough to her to wave even blunt daggers in her face.

Barclay parked a short distance away from the maisonette where Fyola Fay, whose utility bills were addressed to Fiona Freeman, lived with her boyfriend, a very large, muscled and entirely bald porn director called Craig Wheaton, whose personalised number plate read, in part, GYM. Fiona used social media only to promote new films she’d been in, or tease her OnlyFans account. Her most recent post was an advertisement for a fleshlight modelled on her own genitalia, with the tagline Get Inside Your Favourite Star! Thus far, the agency’s surveillance hadn’t identified any times when Wheaton was regularly absent, and Fiona at home. Robin definitely didn’t want to attempt an interview until she was sure Wheaton was out of the way, because she’d once before spoken to a woman whose partner had returned unexpectedly, physically assaulting Robin in his fury at finding her in his house, and she didn’t want a repeat. The plan was that Barclay would keep an eye on Wheaton if he went out. If the couple stayed home all day, nothing would be attempted.

‘Poke me if I fall asleep,’ said Barclay, with a yawn. ‘Ah was on Mrs Two-Times till two this morning. Mind, it’s nice not tae be pukin’.’

‘When were you puking?’ asked Robin, mildly interested.

‘Did Strike not tell ye about the prawn?’

‘What prawn?’

‘Ate one, accidentally, coupla weeks ago, while I was watchin’ Plug’s mum’s house. Bought a sandwich from some shithole that doesnae label their stuff properly. You put seafood anywhere near me, I turn into a double-ended fuckin’ volcano. Strike had tae come an’ take over for me. It was that night you caught that cleaner upskirting.’

‘Oh,’ said Robin.

She looked back at Fiona Freeman’s front door, thinking of that night, and her conviction that Strike had been with Bijou Watkins, either for a clandestine hook-up, or to sort out the mess of Bijou’s baby’s paternity. So he hadn’t been with Bijou, after all. But did that change anything? Strike was still hiding the truth from her, wasn’t he? Still failing to admit that another explosion of sordid press might be about to jeopardise the agency?