The Hallmarked Man полностью

‘Except that she’s losing her mind as well as her restaurant,’ said Kim, ‘and you two have been milking her for every penny while you go on jaunts and do pointless surveillance, pretending to find out who that body was. She was at casualty two days ago, convinced the baby’s ill because it won’t stop crying. That’s who you’re exploiting. And you’ve been colluding in hushing up the kid. I suppose if you’d alerted a social worker you might’ve been letting someone in on the situation who’d have stopped you milking her for cash.’

‘Nice angle,’ said Strike appreciatively. ‘Yeah, I can see how the press could spin that. Well-to-do restaurateur with her secret baby, got a delusion about her ex-boyfriend, newsworthy detectives stringing her along… not bad at all.’

The wine arrived. When Robin refused any, Branfoot chortled.

‘My word, I’ve never met anyone who’d turn down a Montwachet ’92. Still, all the more faw us, eh, Mr Stwike – or may I call you Cormowan?’

‘Feel free,’ said Strike.

Once the wine waiter had departed, Strike said,

‘So, what’s the deal? We stop investigating the body in the vault, and you don’t talk about Decima and her baby to the press?’

‘I have no personal intewest in the matter, you understand,’ said Branfoot, ‘but this is pwecisely the kind of thing I feel should be maw stwictly wegulated. Financial exploitation of vulnewable people, exowbitant fees faw vewy little gain, a notably lax attitude to child pwotection – now, I don’t deny you two have done some pwaiseworthy things, but – to speak completely fwankly – I have excellent police contacts thwough my chawitable twust and – cowect me if I’m wong – you were questioned wecently about cowupting witnesses. Dangling money in fwont of them, which of cawse wenders their evidence suspect in court.’

‘Well, it sounds like you’ve got us properly stitched up,’ said Strike. ‘Is that everything?’

‘Not quite,’ said the smiling Branfoot. ‘Miss Ellacott’s boyfwiend – I apologise for bwinging him up again—’

Three amuse-bouches now arrived for each of them. The waiter gave loving descriptions of each, but Robin didn’t hear a word of it. She felt slightly sick. If Murphy’s career was ruined through association with her…

‘Where was I?’ said Branfoot, when the waiter had left again. ‘Oh, yes: DCI Murphy. Yes, I’m sowwy to have to mention this, but he’s welevant. In wather a lot of twouble at work, isn’t he? Between the dwinking and the wongful awest? And he’s been passing you infawmation beneath the counter, to boot.’

‘No,’ said Robin, ‘he hasn’t. The only person who’s passed us confidential information she shouldn’t have is sitting right opposite me.’

Branfoot laughed.

‘I can tell yaw not in politics, Miss Ellacott. Does DCI Murphy pass the smell test? The public don’t like law enforcement officers who make wongful awests, and wough up suspects, and leak information on murder cases to whichever pwetty young woman they happen to be sleeping with – and that’s befaw we get to the daytime dwinking. So if you’ll forgive me faw saying so, I think the pwess will find your pawamour smells wather whiffy.’

‘Well, you certainly seem to have got the goods on us,’ said Strike. He turned to Kim. ‘Picked up anyone good in Lambeth lately?’

‘What?’ said Kim.

‘Anyone been chatting you up in the vicinity of Lord Branfoot’s office? Anyone who owns a flat on Black Prince Road?’

Kim’s expression became strangely blank. She stared at Strike, and Robin, though she knew she should deplore such a thing, found herself hoping that Kim had indeed allowed herself to be talked into going back to that flat. Then she looked at Branfoot.

The mask of the genial buffoon had melted away. His eyes burned dark in the usually comic, gnome-like face, and suddenly it was easy to imagine him handing over an envelope of cash to a dangerous young criminal, and telling him that he wanted a second young man murdered. Yet she thought she read calculation rather than panic in Branfoot’s expression. Perhaps he was reminding himself of the panoply of lawyers, politicians, police, masons and press contacts available to him, should the danger he’d just glimpsed become acute, just as Robin herself had found reassurance in the feel of the pepper spray in her bag.

Strike’s mobile buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket and saw a two-word text from Wardle:

Ed Billings

He returned the mobile to his pocket. The waiter reappeared to take away the plates on which the amuse-bouches had arrived. Then Strike said,

‘One of the “jaunts” Miss Cochran’s just mentioned us taking was to the island of Sark, although you’ll be pleased to hear we didn’t bill Miss Mullins for that. Ever been to Sark?’

Branfoot didn’t answer. His sudden, uncharacteristic stillness was less of a prey animal than of a carnivore preparing to attack.

‘Interesting place,’ said Strike conversationally. ‘Lots to see. And guess who we met there? An acquaintance of yours.’