The Hallmarked Man полностью

‘Nasty,’ said Strike, though without much sympathy. ‘Well, unless we can get a friendly copper to give us some inside info, I think this is a dead end. We can’t tell Decima it definitely wasn’t Fleetwood unless we know what forensics said.’

‘I’ll try Ryan,’ said Robin.

‘I’ve also called one of Fleetwood’s friends, a bloke called Albie Simpson-White,’ said Strike. ‘He’s a waiter at Decima’s father’s club, Dino’s, but “isn’t available to talk”.’

‘Dino’s?’ said Robin. ‘That private members’ place with the restaurant at the back?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘I looked into taking Mum there for her sixtieth. The average cost per person for lunch is four hundred pounds.’

‘Four hundred quid? For lunch?’

‘It’s got three Michelin stars.’

‘I’m not spending four hundred fucking quid on lunch unless they’re chucking in the table and chairs.’

Robin laughed, but stopped quickly, because it hurt.

‘I haven’t asked how it was in Cornwall.’

‘What? Oh. As you’d expect,’ said Strike. ‘Non-stop crying from Lucy. She’s taken virtually the entire contents of the house back to Bromley with her, which I doubt Greg’ll be happy about. Funeral was packed. I wish – shit, got to go, Mrs A’s on the move.’

Strike hung up, leaving Robin wondering what he wished.

In the absence of anything else to distract her, the disquiet she’d been trying to suppress ever since her talk with the surgeon intensified. After staring for a further minute at the name of the masonic lodge to which DCI Truman allegedly belonged, Robin moved her cursor back up to the top of her laptop screen, and, reluctantly, typed in: ‘egg freezing’.

8

It is the saddest of all sights upon this earth, that of a man lazy and luxurious… He is the faithless steward, that embezzles what God has given him in trust…

Albert Pike

Morals and Dogma of the Ancient and Accepted Scottish Rite of Freemasonry

The ex-wife of the cricketer Strike called ‘Arsehole’, and Pat, ‘Mr A’, was driving in the direction of her flat in Chelsea. While her social circle overlapped with that of Dominic Culpepper, she and the journalist had shown no sign so far of being anything other than nodding acquaintances. Strike had pitched to their cricketer client the idea of looking more closely at other people close to him to discover the source of leaks to Dominic Culpepper’s paper, but Arsehole – ‘living right up tae his name’, as Barclay had put it – had sneered at this suggestion, remaining insistent that the agency keep watching his ex-wife.

So Strike drove on through the steadily fading sunlight to Glebe Place, where the gorgeous ex-model parked her Mercedes S-Class and entered the townhouse she’d received as part of her divorce settlement. Strike parked his BMW, then settled back to watch the woman’s front door. Judging it safe to assume that, at a bare minimum, she was changing her clothes to go out again, he took out his mobile and found the number Decima had given him for Rupert Fleetwood’s Aunt Anjelica in Zurich.

The European dialling tone sounded long and shrill in his ear, and after a few seconds, was replaced by an upper-class voice.

‘Wallner.’

‘Mrs Anjelica Wallner?’

‘Speaking.’

‘My name’s Cormoran Strike, and I’m a private detective. I was given your contact details by—’

‘You’re what? What did you say you are?’

He got as far as ‘private detective’ a second time, at which some sort of explosion seemed to happen at the end of the line.

‘What is this? What is this? Is this that Decima again, or whatever her damn name is?’

‘I was hoping to ask you about your nephew, Rup—’

‘This is intolerable! First the police, then you!’

‘You’ve spoken to the police, have—?’

‘Who does she think she is, sending people to badger me?’

‘I understand she’s your nephew’s girlfriend,’ said Strike.

‘I’ve looked her up! I know who she is!’ said Rupert’s aunt. ‘What he thought he was doing, getting involved with the daughter of that ghastly man—’

‘You don’t like Dino Longcaster?’

‘It’s immaterial whether I like him or not! And she’s old enough to be his mother!’

‘Well, not qu—’

‘He was after her money and I suppose he didn’t get enough of it, that’s why he’s left her! Tell her that! Tell her that from me!’ shouted Mrs Wallner, née Fleetwood. ‘He just wants an easy life! Doesn’t want to work!’

‘Decima told me you think Rupert’s in New—’

‘He is in New York! I told him he needed to get a proper job and he did, and about bloody time too! He’s a grown man and he needs to sort out his own messes!’

‘Would you happen to have contact det—?’

‘If he hasn’t given her his contact details, it’s because he doesn’t want her to have them!’

‘But you’re confident he’s in America, are you? You’ve heard from him since the twenty-fifth of M—?’