The Hallmarked Man полностью

It was hardly a surprise to discover that King was violent, but Strike had expected to hear that the man was very young, living in some squalor, desperate for money and recently released from jail: in short, exactly the kind of youth Lord Branfoot could use as a henchman. Why would a man who until recently had had a steady job, albeit one he’d now lost, not to mention a partner and child at home, attempt to abduct a woman, purely for cash? And he’d been a long-distance lorry driver… the dead Todd had also had a long-distance driving job from which he’d been fired. Could this be coincidence?

As Strike travelled by cab towards the Goring, one of the very few five-star hotels in London he’d never visited, he found himself musing once more on the mysterious Oz. Maybe, as Robin had suggested, King was Oz? Had the police just arrested then released the man Strike believed had killed at least four people in under a year? He pulled out his notebook and wrote himself a reminder to find out, if at all possible, where Wade King had been when William Wright and Sofia Medina had been murdered.

Upon arrival in the Goring’s cocktail bar he found Robin already seated at a small, round table beside the marble fireplace, framed botanical prints on gold paper on the wall behind her, and looking (which made nothing any easier) as good as he’d ever seen her, with her strawberry blonde hair clean and loose and wearing a high-necked, form-fitting dress of dusky pink, which Strike found sexy in its ostensible demureness. As he approached her, she set down the same magazine he’d read in the Savoy, with the windswept Cosima Longcaster on its cover.

‘Hi,’ he said, pulling out a velvet chair to sit down, and he added, because what did it matter, now? ‘You look great.’

‘Thought I should make an effort,’ said Robin, trying to deflect the compliment, though it had pleased her. Rather than admitting she’d chosen the pink rather than the black version of the dress because of Dino Longcaster’s unsolicited styling advice, she said, ‘I bought it online, because I needed something to cover my neck.’

‘Ah,’ said Strike. ‘Marks?’

‘Trust me, you don’t want to see what’s under here.’

Try me, thought Strike.

She handed him the menu with her right hand, but her left was out of sight.

‘Have you ordered?’ Strike asked.

‘Not yet. I’m going to have something non-alcoholic.’

Having asked the waiter for a whisky and a mocktail, Strike turned back to see Robin pushing her hair out of her face with a left hand that bore no jewellery whatsoever. Robin, who’d noticed his sharp glance, checked the back of her hand in case there was something there she hadn’t noticed: smeared mascara, for instance, as he’d failed to inform her about in Ironbridge.

‘Any particular reason for not drinking?’ Strike asked, wondering whether abstaining from alcohol was a concomitant of egg harvesting.

‘Just don’t fancy it,’ said Robin, choosing not to say that she wanted to be in full possession of her wits. She’d be getting a cab home, but there was still the walk between pavement and door. ‘Why?’

Strike suddenly decided to carry the battle into the enemy’s territory.

‘Wardle told me Murphy’s fallen off the wagon.’

‘Oh,’ said Robin, far from pleased Strike knew this. She wanted distraction, not discussions about her relationship. ‘Well – yes, he had a lapse, when things were so tough for him at work. But he’s back at AA now. He’s doing fine.’

‘Right,’ said Strike. ‘Still moving in together?’

‘No, actually,’ said Robin. ‘The house fell through.’

‘Ah,’ said Strike. ‘Still looking, then?’

‘It’s on hold just now, with everything else we’ve got on. Anyway,’ she said, clearly not wanting to pursue the subject of house hunting, ‘I’ve found someone on Abused and Accused who also posted on Truth About Freemasons – that, or two people using the same username.’

‘Seriously?’ said Strike, surprised. ‘What’s the name?’

‘Austin H,’ said Robin.

The word ‘fuzz’ popped incongruously into Strike’s mind; why, he didn’t know, but before he could pursue the subject, a plummy male voice said,

‘Hello, hello!’

Strike and Robin looked up to see Lord Oliver Branfoot, tall and podgy, with his trademark messy hair and drooping eyes, a genial smile curving his full lips.

Beside him, in a skin-tight, knee-length black dress, stood Kim Cochran.

108

But Vengeance travels in a dangerous way,

Double of issue, full of pits and snares

For all who pass, pursuers and pursued—

That way is dubious for a mother’s prayer.

Matthew Arnold

Merope: A Tragedy

Branfoot’s entrance had caused a ripple of excitement to pass through the room. Many heads had turned, and most expressions were amused.