The Hallmarked Man полностью

With a view to keeping the conversation civilised, Strike asked,

‘Who’re you here with?’

‘My fiancé,’ she said.

‘Ah,’ said Strike, ‘congratulations. Which one’s he?’

Nina pointed at a large blond man staggering around on the dancefloor beside Mrs A.

‘Nice moves,’ said Strike. Nina didn’t smile.

‘What are you really doing here?’

‘I just told you,’ said Strike. ‘Kids. Good cau—’

‘You’re here after someone.’

‘I’m a donor. The charity helped out my godson.’

‘Oh,’ said Nina. She clearly imagined even Strike wouldn’t lie about having a seriously ill godson. ‘Right. Sorry.’

He wanted to walk away, but thought it inadvisable to do it in any way she’d consider rude. Why the fuck hadn’t he just said ‘thank you’, or sent her flowers, six years ago?

Shout out to my ex…

‘Dominic’s pissed off at you,’ Nina shouted up at him. ‘He says you’ve got too grand for him. You’ll only give tips to Fergus Robertson these days.’

‘Would you say Robertson’s grander than Dominic?’ asked Strike. Robertson was a short, balding Scottish journalist of working-class origins, whereas Nina’s showbiz reporter cousin was ex-public school. When Nina’s expression remained icy, Strike said, knowing full well he wasn’t,

‘Dominic here?’

‘No,’ said Nina. ‘Is that your date?’ she asked, watching Kim dancing virtually back to back with Mrs A.

‘Yeah,’ said Strike.

‘Huh,’ said Nina, with a faint sneer. She took a clumsy swig of wine.

‘Shout Out to My Ex’ had ended. Mrs A and her friend staggered, laughing, off the dancefloor and headed for what Strike assumed would prove to be the powder room. Kim followed.

‘What’s her name?’ asked Nina, her eyes following Kim.

‘Linda,’ said Strike, off the top of his head, then wondered why the hell the first name to spring to his lips was that of Robin’s mother, who detested him.

‘Is she a detective too?’

‘No, she works in a shop.’

‘Sure she does,’ sneered Nina.

‘People do work in shops,’ said Strike. ‘Not everyone works in publishing or PR.’

‘I know that, thank you,’ snapped Nina, taking another gulp of wine.

Strike wished he still had a drink, and wished even more that Nina would sod off. Didn’t she want to dance with her fiancé, who was now staggering around to ‘Rockabye’?

‘Still at Roper Chard?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Actually,’ she added, with a slightly snide laugh, ‘if they knew I was talking to you, they’d want me to offer a deal on your memoir.’

‘There won’t be a memoir,’ said Strike.

‘I didn’t think so,’ snorted Nina. ‘Not a truthful one, anyway.’

Strike’s ego wasn’t sufficiently enlarged to believe that this degree of anger could be accounted for by a very brief liaison, six years previously.

‘What’s that mean?’ he asked.

‘It means,’ said Nina, ‘you really fucked up a friend of mine’s life.’

‘How did I do that?’ asked Strike.

‘Never mind,’ spat Nina.

Strike spotted Kim wending her way back towards him.

‘Linda,’ said Strike, before Kim could speak, ‘this is Nina. Nina, Linda.’

‘Hi,’ said Kim brightly. ‘How do you know Cormoran?’

‘We fucked twice, a few years ago,’ said Nina, leaving Strike to deplore the tendency of the upper classes to call a spade a spade.

‘Oh,’ said Kim, without a flicker of discomposure. ‘He’s good, isn’t he? Speaking of which, Corm, I’d rather be doing that. Let’s go.’

She linked her arm through Strike’s.

‘Night,’ said Strike to Nina, as he and Kim walked away.

Kim unlinked her arm from his just as Strike was about to pull away.

‘Got her, bang to rights,’ she told Strike, and held out her mobile to show him the photo she’d just taken.

Two women, one in purple, the other in gold, were closely entwined in a passionate kiss, leaning up against a tiled bathroom wall.

‘The woman in gold is Lady Violet,’ said Kim triumphantly. ‘Dominic Culpepper’s wife.’

17

Yea, and not only have we not explored

That wide and various world, the heart of others,

But even our own heart, that narrow world

Bounded in our own breast, we hardly know,

Of our own actions dimly trace the causes.

Whether a natural obscureness, hiding

That region in perpetual cloud,

Or our own want of effort, be the bar.

Matthew Arnold

Merope: A Tragedy

Strike called Robin on Saturday morning to give her two bits of news, neither of them particularly welcome.

‘Barclay was arrested last night.’

‘Shit!’ said Robin, freezing with a mug of coffee halfway to her mouth.