The Hallmarked Man полностью

Robin returned to the picture of Chloe’s birthday party. The young woman was wearing a bracelet of what looked like enamelled violets, and Robin assumed this had been Tyler’s birthday gift, worn, perhaps, out of politeness, because it didn’t really chime with Chloe’s plain black dress. She wondered why Chloe hadn’t done as various angry comments had demanded, and taken down pictures of Tyler, although there was a clue in one of her replies.

ponzie2 chloegriff take these down nobody wanna see that fucker

chloegriff fuck off telling me what to do

The last post on the old account, which had appeared a few weeks after Chloe’s birthday, was a quotation by Sylvia Plath.

‘I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I’m here.’

An odd quotation, Robin thought, exhibiting the sort of nihilism she’d have expected of a teenager rather than a young woman in her early to mid-twenties. Was it an expression of grief for her friend Anne-Marie? The old account had been left up, perhaps as an act of defiance towards the censoriousness of Ironbridge, but the new account appeared to represent a conscious turning of a leaf, because this opened with a Plath quotation, too.

‘I felt my lungs inflate with the inrush of scenery – air, mountains, trees, people. I thought, “This is what it is to be happy”.’

The new photos showed Chloe’s travels through Europe with a notably good-looking young man. There were arty photos of cities and the food the couple were eating, some selfies taken alone with picturesque backgrounds, others with her boyfriend. Then, following another train of thought, Robin left Chloe’s page for that of Oz.

The account had acquired another thirty followers since Robin had last looked at it, which angered her. It had been used to groom two girls, one of whom was dead. Was the Met taking any action at all, or was it so determined not to take the agency’s word for anything that the fake account had been assigned low priority?

Oz’s most recent pictures were views of Nashville, with the usual non-specific, intriguing hashtags: #TS6, #SecretProject. One girl in the replies had replied excitedly:

OMG – TAYLOR SWIFT?????????

To which Oz had replied with a winking emoji.

Another bellow from the sofa announced Liverpool’s third goal.

‘That’s it!’ shouted Mr Murphy senior. ‘We’re done!’ He turned and said to Robin, ‘send Mr Strike my condolences’, in a tone, and with a gloating expression, that convinced Robin Strike had been a topic of conversation between Murphy père et fils, and that Murphy had told his father plainly how little he liked Robin’s business partner.

Right, thought Robin, and using the Instagram account in the name of Venetia Hall, which she reserved for work, she typed into the comments beneath Oz’s most recent post:

This man is an imposter. He doesn’t know Taylor Swift, he isn’t working on her sixth album and if you reverse search his pictures you’ll find he’s stolen all of them.

The match finished, Mr and Mrs Murphy at last made moves to leave, gathering up their things, now intent on getting to Murphy’s aunt’s on time.

‘It’s been lovely meeting you,’ said Robin, with every bit of enthusiasm she could muster. ‘Really lovely.’

She was caught off-guard by Murphy’s mother’s embrace.

‘We’re so happy to know you, at last.’

But the embrace felt forced, the older woman’s body stiff, rather than yielding.

‘You want to take the odd weekend off, girl,’ said Murphy’s father, winking at her. Apparently he’d guessed she’d been working while they were watching the game. Had Murphy complained about her workaholic tendencies, too?

The three Murphys left at last, their son walking his parents down to their car. Robin returned to the window to check for Green Jacket again, but saw no sign of him. The Murphys talked for five minutes at the front of the building, then the parents departed and Murphy headed back inside.

Robin knew as soon as he re-entered the sitting room that she was in trouble. Nevertheless, she tried to defuse the atmosphere he’d brought back into the room with him.

‘They’re really ni—’

‘If you don’t want to be here,’ said Murphy in a low voice, ‘just say so.’

Robin stared at him.

‘What d’you mean, “if I don’t want to be—?”’

‘You couldn’t have acted more bloody bored if you’d tried.’

‘Hang on,’ said Robin. ‘I was told we weren’t allowed to talk while the football was on.’

‘She didn’t mean it literally! You couldn’t even come and sit with—’

‘Your father was taking up two thirds of the sofa!’

‘You could’ve asked him to move!’

‘I’ve only just met him, I’m not telling him where to sit in a flat I don’t own,’ retorted Robin.