The Hallmarked Man полностью

‘I’d say I’m a fairly good advert for having an unmarried mother, if you and Charlotte are the control,’ said Strike. ‘Back to the nef.’

‘If you think I’m going to explain anything to the thug who as good as killed my daughter—’

‘Fine,’ said Strike, getting up. ‘I’ll go to the press, tell them Sacha’s got the stolen ship and, trust me, I’ll enjoy it.’

‘Don’t you dare – come back here!’ shrieked Tara, as Strike made for the door. Before he could reach it, it opened to reveal the frightened-looking housekeeper.

‘Get out,’ Tara shouted at her, ‘this is priv—!’

The housekeeper checked, holding her tray. Tara made a noise of exasperation.

‘Bring the coffee in first,’ she said. ‘Then leave. Come back here!’ she yelled at Strike. ‘Come back!’

‘We’ve got nothing else to say to each other,’ said Strike, turning to look at her as the housekeeper set her tray down on the coffee table and poured Tara a cup with a quivering hand.

‘Yes, we have,’ said Tara furiously. ‘Sit down. Sit down.’

Strike didn’t move. It was liberating to be able to treat her as he considered she deserved; in the past, he’d always had to remember that Charlotte would pay the price if he permitted himself to lose his temper with Tara, but Charlotte was in Brompton Cemetery, finally beyond suffering, unlike the scrawny flesh and blood woman with the distorted, carefully made-up face and a lipstick-stained cigarette in her claw-like hand.

Having poured Tara’s coffee, the housekeeper scurried out of the room and closed the door while Strike remained standing.

‘Sit down,’ Tara said again. ‘Sit.’

‘I’m not a fucking dog,’ said Strike. ‘Are you going to answer my questions?’

‘Yes,’ said Tara impatiently. ‘Sit down.’

Before returning to the sofa, Strike helped himself to coffee. Then he said,

‘I’m assuming you didn’t ask Fleetwood to steal the nef. He nicked it, then brought it here because he couldn’t think where else he might be able to offload it, right?’

He took Tara’s silence for assent.

‘How much did you give him for it?’

‘That’s none of your business. You can tell fucking Dino—’

‘He’s not my client,’ said Strike.

‘Don’t lie to me, I’m not stupid, and he hasn’t told you the full story, but you can tell him I’ve got the witnesses. Lottie Hazlerigg and Angus Lyall told me all about it!’

‘All about what?’

‘Dino cheated. He always coveted that nef, and Peter Fleetwood was so pissed the night he bet it, he was probably seeing two backgammon boards. Lottie and Angus were there and they saw it happen, they know what Dino did, but nobody wanted to challenge him, because he can turn bloody nasty, as I well know. He dislocated my bloody shoulder when—’

‘Yeah, I’ve heard the story about your shoulder,’ said Strike. ‘I remember the overturned table and the burns to your leg, I know you found him in bed with a teenager hired to serve at a party. I’m only interested in the nef.’

‘I’m telling you about it!’ she snapped. ‘Dino always bullied Peter, treated him as though he was still his fag at Eton, even when I was married to him. So you can go right back to that piece of shit and tell him from me—’

‘I’ve just told you, he’s not my client. I’m working for his daughter, Decima.’

‘Why does she care about the bloody ship?’

‘She doesn’t. She’s only interested in the whereabouts of Rupert Fleetwood. Did Rupert mention Decima when he came to see you?’

‘No.’

‘So how much was it worth to you, to get one over on Dino?’

‘I’ve just told you, that’s none of your bloody busi—’

‘It is my business, because if you gave Fleetwood fifty grand he’ll have been able to hide himself far more efficiently than if you gave him a tenner.’

Tara glared at him, took another drag on her cigarette, then said through a cloud of smoke,

‘I gave him six grand. There. Happy?’

‘I think you gave him something else, as well.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like a job abroad, at a Clairmont hotel.’

‘I’m not in charge of hiring and firing.’

‘I doubt anyone on the board’s going to turn down the only surviving Clairmont if they say they want their nephew by marriage given a job in a restaurant or a kitchen. I doubt they’d even protest too much if you leaned on them to offer a brand consultant job to the only other person who knew where the nef had gone.’

‘Well,’ said Tara, eyes narrowed over her coffee cup, ‘aren’t you clever?’

‘The evidence points that way, yeah,’ said Strike. ‘Which hotel is Fleetwood hiding out in?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Tara. ‘I told them to find him something, and they did. I don’t know where he went. He wrote me a thank you card, though. Nice manners. I don’t remember any thank you letters from you.’

‘What the fuck would I thank you for?’ said Strike.