Page 113 of The Hallmarked Man
John Oxenham
A Maid of the Silver Sea
31
… Polyphemus blinded, striking at random, and falling headlong among the sharp rocks by the impetus of his own blows.
Albert Pike
Morals and Dogma of the Ancient and Accepted Scottish Rite of Freemasonry
Strike doubted that MI5 would order an operative to grab Robin round the back of the neck and force a rubber gorilla on her in an attempt to make the agency back off the silver vault investigation, but the question of who was behind the assault was making Strike wonder exactly which of the hornets’ nests the agency seemed, unwittingly, to have kicked was responsible. He was particularly worried by the fact that Robin’s assailant had known exactly where to find her, and had seized the opportunity to attack where he was least likely to be seen, which suggested that he’d been tailing her for a while, without her noticing.
This thought had occurred to Robin, too. When she and Strike spoke the following morning by phone, she admitted her fear that the man had been following her for hours.
‘Anyone could miss a tail in Christmas crowds in the middle of London,’ said Strike, keen to keep on Robin’s right side, in spite of his own concern.
‘I know,’ said Robin, ‘but I still feel stupid. I won’t make that mistake again.’
‘I think we have to take that anonymous phone call to the office a bit more seriously now,’ said Strike.
‘“Leave it and you won’t get hurt?”’
‘Exactly.’
‘So “it”’s definitely the silver vault body?’
‘My gut says so.’ Strike vacillated before saying the next thing, well aware of how sensitive a subject it was, yet certain it had to be mentioned. ‘I can’t see how he knew—’
‘That I was Witness G at the rape trial?’ said Robin, who’d steeled herself to discuss this.
‘Yeah.’
‘I think I do,’ said Robin. ‘It’s online. I found out last night.’
‘Shit,’ said Strike. ‘How—?’
‘Local gossip, maybe,’ said Robin, trying to sound unconcerned, although, in fact, when she’d found her name on the website the previous evening it had made her feel physically sick. ‘People in Masham knew what had happened. Friends and family, after I left uni. Anyway, I found it in the comments under – well, it was actually in the comments of that article about you. Some anonymous person said they don’t understand how I can work with you, because I was a victim of a high-profile rapist myself.’
‘Oh Christ,’ said Strike. ‘I’m—’
‘Don’t apologise,’ said Robin flatly. ‘It’s not your fault.’
Strike was reluctant to voice his next opinion, but even if it led to a row, he decided it had to be said.
‘I’m serious about you keeping me posted on where you are. No lonely streets in the dark, on your own. Someone might’ve decided you’re the soft target.’
‘All right,’ said Robin, but Strike could tell from the tone that he’d barely got away with this. His partner never took kindly to Strike expressing concern in any manner that implied he didn’t trust her to look after herself. In truth, while he had good reason for thinking her occasionally reckless – he wouldn’t soon forget her jumping in front of a moving train to try and drag a man she definitely couldn’t have lifted to safety, nor sprinting ahead of him into a house where a known killer was waiting in the dark – he trusted her ability to assess risk more than perhaps she knew. And of all the members of the agency, her work ethic was the only one that truly matched his.
‘Did you tell Murph—?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Robin, with an edge to her voice, and Strike decided it was safest to drop the subject completely.
But Robin was lying. She’d said precisely nothing to Murphy aboutthe man in Harrods, because she was damned if she was going to take security lectures from more than one man, or have to discuss the rape yet again. The small rubber gorilla was now wrapped in a freezer bag in her sock drawer at home.
Strike and Robin were due a face-to-face catch-up on December the twenty-second, which would be the last morning Robin spent at work before Christmas. Strike woke that morning with the alarm, slapped it off, tugged his vape pen loose from its charger, then took a deep drag on it, the chill December air creeping into the flat from his poorly fitted windows as he watched the vapour drifting across his shadowy ceiling.
He’d been asking himself ever since their last conversation whether today might not be as good a time as any to force the discussion with Robin for which he’d as yet found no natural opening. It wouldn’t, of course, be the way he’d planned it. He’d hoped for a far-flung pub or restaurant, where wine and laughter might have lowered her guard, but he was worried about the house-hunting, and about Christmas, with the possibility that Murphy might be about to spring a festive proposal. If Strike declared himself today, before Robin travelled north to Masham, she’d have time and space to think about what she really wanted. Perhaps this, after all, was the way: on a winter’s day, unromantically, in the office where their friendship had been forged and where Strike, most unwillingly, had fallen in love with her.
