Page 128 of The Hallmarked Man
And never looked away again.
A. E. Housman
XV, A Shropshire Lad
Strike had few strong opinions on architecture, but he’d always considered the brutalist building that housed the National Theatre, which resembled a cross between a multi-storey car park and a power station, one of London’s worst eyesores. Walking towards it at ten to three that afternoon, with the dull grey Thames glimmering in the middle distance, Strike thought it compared unfavourably with the builders’ warehouse where he’d just handed over surveillance to Midge. A banner hanging close to the door announced that Sacha’s play was calledDeath Is No Punishment, and featured a headshot of Sacha looking serious and resolute in what appeared to be striped pyjamas.
A timid-looking, bushy-haired young woman in glasses was hovering beside the entrance, a lanyard around her neck.
‘Mr Strike?’
‘That’s me.’
‘I’m Grace. Sacha asked me to take you up to him. It’s a bit of a confusing building, if you don’t know it.’
‘OK,’ said Strike.
She held the door open for him, and, as they walked together across the vast, brown-carpeted foyer, with its high ceiling patterned like a gigantic concrete waffle, his guide asked Strike whether he’d seen Sacha’s play.
‘No,’ said Strike.
‘Oh, it’s wonderful,’ she said breathlessly, and she spoke for several minutes about the piece, in which Sacha played the real life Dr Walter Loebner, who’d survived Gestapo torture, escaped from a camp and lived to testify against his tormentors.
Strike resisted the temptation to snort. There was, of course, no law decreeing that only courageous men should impersonate those who’d survived unspeakable atrocities before effecting death-defying escapes, but he happened to find it supremely incongruous that Sacha Legard should be doing so. Charlotte and Strike, both of whom possessed physical courage aplenty, had often laughed together about how successfully Tara had inculcated in her adored son her own horror of blemishing nature’s finest handiwork. Strike knew very well that Sacha fretted about the safety of flying harnesses and the likelihood of sustaining injury during well-rehearsed sword fights, had never progressed past the nursery slopes when skiing, and preferred his stunt doubles to do anything in the nature of diving, horseback riding or jumping off high ledges. None of this was widely known, of course, because Sacha made such a convincing on-screen daredevil.
‘… go to Broadway, but I don’t think they can imagine anyone except Sacha as Walter, and he’s committed to a film next year…’
Strike and his guide ascended in a lift to the upper floors, and the young woman continued to rhapsodise about Sacha until Strike’s bored expression intimidated her into silence. She led him at last into a small bar reserved for the cast on the third floor, and there sat Sacha, alone except for the barman.
The actor was wearing jeans and a dark blue shirt, and even in the bar’s unflattering lighting looked astoundingly handsome. Like many of his fellow thespians, he was far slighter in person than he appeared on stage or screen.
‘Cormoran,’ he said warmly, getting to his feet. ‘Last time we saw each other must’ve been at Dad’s funeral.’
‘Must’ve been, yeah,’ said Strike, shaking Sacha’s proffered hand.
‘Thanks, Your Grace,’ said Sacha, smiling at the bespectacled young woman, who turned pink with pleasure at what was evidently a standing joke, and responded with,
‘You’re welcome, My Lord. Shall I get—?’
‘What are you drinking?’ Sacha asked Strike.
‘Coffee, if there is any,’ said the detective, and Grace bustled to fetch it.
‘You’ve done bloody well for yourself since we last met,’ said Sacha heartily.
‘As have you,’ said Strike, with an effort.
‘Ha,’ said Sacha, with a self-deprecating smile,‘you’re only as good as your last review in this game.’
‘He can afford to say that,’ trilled Grace from the counter, ‘because he “owns the stage”, according to theIndependent!’
‘“Owns the stage”,’ said Sacha, with a grin and a slight eye roll, as he sat back down. ‘What does that evenmean?’
Strike had often thought Sacha more natural onstage than off. When the cameras were on, or the curtain went up, Sacha perfectly aped genuine human emotion. Offstage he always had a slight air of performing himself, and Strike was currently being given a private performance ofTalented Actor, Resting.
‘So, you’re Lord Legard these days,’ said Strike.
‘Oh, Christ, no,’ said Sacha, with a laugh. ‘No, I’m like Dad, I don’t use the title. It’s so bloody outdated, all that.’
