The Hallmarked Man полностью

‘I’m sure Rupert’s still alive,’ said Robin, ‘but wouldn’t you have expected some sign of him by now? He must know we’re looking for him. Sacha Legard must have checked where he is, after you spoke to him. And I’m certain Albie Simpson-White knows what happened to him. And yet Rupert hasn’t done anything to stop us trying to find him, or to put Decima out of her misery. He must know that would be kinder, in the long run – and what about his son? Doesn’t he care about him at all?’

‘No idea,’ said Strike.

‘He’s another one who seems to have acted really inconsistently,’ said Robin. ‘Albie really did make him sound like a good person, you know. He swore Rupert loved Decima, and yet he’s gone without a word… I’ve got to try and corner Cosima Longcaster,’ said Robin, with determination. ‘I’m going to try and do that this week… Listen, would you mind if I turn in? I’m so tired – you must be, too, you were awake all night.’

‘Yeah,’ said Strike. ‘I could use an early night.’

‘I’ll just wash up,’ said Robin, freeing herself from the throw she’d wrapped around herself.

‘I’ll do it, you cooked. It’s a pan and two plates,’ said Strike, rising with difficulty out of his chair, with the help of his stick. ‘Go to bed. I’ll take care of it.’

When Robin had gone upstairs, Strike limped back to the kitchen, feeling thoroughly miserable. It wasn’t much comfort to think he’d done the right and decent thing in not forcing his own emotional crisis on Robin when she was clearly in the middle of a serious one of her own, but his last glimmer of hope had now fizzled into darkness, leaving him full of self-recrimination. He had nobody but himself to blame for the fact that he’d been forced, in what was likely to be the most auspicious setting for romance he and Robin would ever visit together, to listen to her outline her plans to preserve her eggs for Murphy.

A framed affirmation stood on the sill over the sink where he washed up the dinner things. It read: Always end the day with a positive thought. No matter how hard things were, tomorrow is a fresh opportunity to make it better.

Strike cast this a dark look as he dried his hands, then hobbled off across the hall towards his bedroom.

88

But she had mistaken her man. Perhaps she had not met many like him.

John Oxenham

A Maid of the Silver Sea

The injury to Strike’s face looked even worse the following morning, the swelling slightly diminished but livid blue bruises dappling his skin. His face continued to ache and he chose not to shave, for fear of reopening the gash left by the spade.

Before heading back to the ferry, he and Robin walked a little way along La Coupée, which lay just beyond the Old Forge: a high, narrow isthmus connecting the main island from Little Sark. While a windswept Robin was looking down at the turbulent grey sea, Strike, who’d just checked his phone, said,

‘We might be lucky to get back today.’

‘Why?’

‘Storm Doris just hit the UK,’ said Strike. ‘Ninety mile an hour winds. They’ve grounded a ton of flights.’

Sure enough, when they arrived at the airport on Guernsey it was to find their flight had been delayed and rumours flying between tetchy passengers that it would be cancelled. Robin caught herself hoping it would; that she and Strike could just retire to a Guernsey hotel and that she’d be able to enjoy another evening away from London with a clear conscience. However, an hour after the scheduled departure time they were allowed to board.

The descent into Gatwick was nerve-racking, and at one point Robin instinctively grabbed Strike’s forearm as the plane zig-zagged on its approach to the runway, buffeted by gale-force winds. However, they landed without mishap to a round of applause from the passengers, excluding Strike, for whom the forearm-grabbing had been bittersweet, and who’d happily have endured a far rougher descent for prolonged physical contact.

Though London still bore traces of the battering it had taken from the storm, the following day was calm, bright and cold. A tree had been blown over in the Richmond street where Two-Times and his wife lived, and Strike watched men in yellow jackets dealing with it while sitting in his BMW, glad to be able to keep the weight off his leg after all the walking he’d done on Sark, his jaw still painful, and feeling even more depressed than he had at the Old Forge. He could draw no comfort from the memory of Robin clutching his arm on the plane or holding his hand in the kitchen, because she and Murphy would soon be living together, and whether or not she wanted children now, the direction of travel was plain to see; Murphy putting on subtle pressure, Robin finally caving, and then realising, as she’d said back on Sark, that she couldn’t detach from her child sufficiently to work as she worked now…