The Hallmarked Man полностью

Thinking that a simple question ought to make him realise he’d texted the wrong person, she replied:

With Carmen and the baby, you mean?

There was no immediate response, so Robin returned to the line of investigation she’d been pursuing until exhaustion had defeated her in the early hours of the morning.

Shortly after midnight, she’d stumbled across the information that Rupert’s paternal aunt, Anjelica, was a historian who’d once been affiliated with the University of Ghent, in Belgium. She’d remained professionally attached to the Belgian university long after she’d moved to Switzerland with her husband, a fellow academic, and shuttled between the two countries while Rupert was growing up. The decision to put Rupert into boarding school seemed to have been made to allow his child-free aunt and uncle to pursue their separate, intellectually distinguished careers.

‘Shouldn’t have left Sánchez on the bench, should you, Wenger, you wanker?’ said Murphy. Murphy senior roared with laughter. Robin ploughed on with her research.

Anjelica had ended her professorship at the University of Ghent in the year 2000, when Rupert was nine years old.

I fink ’e said… didn’ ’e say ’e knew what ’appened to ’er? An’ din’ ’e say we’d see it on the news?

Was it possible that Rupert had heard something, or known something, about the murders of Reata Lindvall and her daughter, relayed to him by his Belgium-based aunt, or one of her colleagues?

‘YEEEEES! FUCKING GET IN!’ bellowed Murphy while his father roared his approval. Liverpool had scored again, just before half time.

Hastily hitching a smile onto her face, Robin said,

‘Anyone want another tea? Coffee?’

But Murphy’s mother was already heading for the kitchen, her fluffy pink knitting left in her armchair. Mr Murphy senior went for a loudly announced pee.

Robin took out her notebook and wrote: Rupert’s aunt worked in Belgium until he was nine. She had to admit, the information didn’t look much of a breakthrough when written down. As she closed the notebook, Mr Murphy senior re-entered the room, his hand still on his fly.

‘Your Strike’s not gonna be happy, is he?’ he said to Robin, dropping back onto the sofa and taking up two seats with ease. ‘Two-nil already!’

‘No,’ said Robin, forcing another smile. ‘He’s not.’

So you do know something about my work. You know my partner’s name.

‘They’re gonna get Sánchez off the bench,’ said Murphy.

‘Yeah, well, no choice now,’ said his father.

Robin accepted a coffee from Murphy’s mother with a smile and thanks; the latter picked up her knitting and settled back in the armchair. When the football match restarted, and the others’ attentions were once again turned yet again towards the television, Robin stood up casually, ostensibly to stretch, but in reality to look out of the window.

She could see no trace of Green Jacket, although there were parked cars in which he might be lurking.

She sat down again and reopened Instagram, now following a different train of thought. Robin had already found two Instagram accounts for Chloe Griffiths. The older account showed various Ironbridge landmarks; the new, many pictures of her and her boyfriend interrailing.

As far as Robin was concerned, the most interesting of the pictures Chloe had posted before Tyler’s disappearance was that of her birthday in April, which she’d celebrated with a party at home: Robin recognised the poster of the dope-smoking Jesus in the background.

The picture was crammed with young people, but the photo centred four of them. There was goofily grinning, large-eared Tyler Powell, whose arm was slung around Anne-Marie’s shoulders, the latter recognisable from press pictures: an insipid-looking girl whose pale face wasn’t flattered by what looked like home-dyed pink hair. Anne-Marie looked perfectly happy and at ease. However, Chloe, who was standing on Tyler’s other side, was wearing a smile that appeared forced. A young man whose face wasn’t visible, but who had a shock of ginger hair, had his arm slung around Chloe’s neck. He was falling forwards, apparently laughing, dragging her with him as his plastic cup of beer spilled. Wynn Jones stood in shadow behind the pair, smirking, whereas Ian Griffiths, beside Jones, and perhaps anticipating spilled beer on his carpet, didn’t look very happy.

‘SHIT!’ bellowed Murphy, and Robin jumped again, hastily affixing a smile to her face before registering that Murphy wasn’t celebrating, and that it was Arsenal who’d scored, not Liverpool.

‘Language,’ said Mrs Murphy softly, and Robin was reminded again of her late mother-in-law, who’d always urged a certain po-faced gentility on her family, even at times of celebration or crisis.