Page 137 of The Hallmarked Man
‘That’d seem unwise,’ agreed Strike.
‘So…’ said Robin, unwilling to put into words what she was thinking; if she’d worried that connecting Sofia Medina with the murder of Wright might sound far-fetched, this, surely, was a hundred times more so.
‘You think Lambert mentioned to his mate Branfoot that I’ve been nosing around at Ramsay Silver,’ said Strike, ‘and Branfoot, who ordered the hit on Wright, panicked and started gunning for us?’
‘Well… I know it’s a stretch,’ said Robin, ‘but you can’t say it doesn’t fit. Shanker said “you were seen”, and we knew all along that could only have been Ramsay Silver or St George’s Avenue. I know Branfoot’s a real rent-a-quote, but why’s he suddenly so interested in the private detective business? Why’s he out to get us? And he’s on the telly, which fits the cipher note, too.’
Robin heard someone coming upstairs. Right now she’d be delighted for Murphy to find her on the phone to Strike; indeed, she might ask him to leave the bedroom until they’d finished the call. However, the footsteps moved on past her bedroom door, and she reflected that Murphy would probably make sure his run was a long one, after the scene in the kitchen.
‘Well,’ said Strike at last, ‘there’s no reason, just because a man’s a raging self-publicist, he can’t also be a crook. Look at Jeffrey Archer. Look at Savile.’
He got to his feet and, once again, stood contemplating the corkboard on the office wall, where the four present candidates for William Wright were pinned, eyes on Dick de Lion, with his fake tan, his peroxided hair and his very white teeth.
‘Might be worth finding out which way Branfoot swings, sexually speaking.’
‘He’s married,’ said Robin, who’d done some speedy Googling before calling Strike. ‘To a woman. She’s here in this picture in theTelegraph, with Branfoot and Lambert. They’ve got two sons.’
‘Strong motive, if he’s been doing the dirty with de Lion, and doesn’t want the family and the papers to know,’ said Strike. ‘Still doesn’t explain why de Lion would have gone to work at Ramsay Silver, but… yeah, I think we’ll need to take a closer look at Branfoot. I might call Fergus Robertson again, see what he can tell me,’ said Strike, turning away from the board to write a reminder to himself in the notebook open on the desk. ‘We’ve had another threatening phone call, by the way.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yeah. “Leave it or gow-too will get you.”’
‘What’s “gow-too”?’
‘Exactly what I asked him. He hung up.’
‘Is it a name?’
‘Not one I’ve ever heard of. Anyway, be on the watch for him, or it, or them. I also spoke to Sacha Legard.’
‘Really?’ said Robin, with a slight inward tremor. ‘How did that go?’
‘Pretty informative,’ said Strike, and he described the interview, leaving out some of the more aggressive things he’d said to Legard, and concluding, ‘so one of us needs to speak to Valentine Longcaster, and if he’s not willing, we’ll see whether his sister Cosima can explain what Fleetwood was doing, gatecrashing an A-list party where he wasn’t wanted, to talk to the family he’d nicked a large bit of silver from. I’ve looked Cosima up. Remember Legs?’ he said, in reference to a teenage girl the agency had watched for a while, because her mother believed her to be having an affair with her own ex-boyfriend.
‘Yes,’ said Robin, who’d tailed the filly-like blonde teenager on a few occasions.
‘Well, she looks just like her. You might have to do that interview, if it comes to it. She’s only eighteen; I’ll probably be accused of more sexual harassment if I go anywhere near her.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Robin.
‘And there’s something else,’ said Strike. ‘Last night, I sent Shah to watch the entrance of Freemasons’ Hall. Guess who turned up for his six-thirty lodge meeting, apron bag in hand?’
‘DCI Malcolm Truman?’ said Robin, with a sinking feeling.
‘Right in one,’ said Strike. ‘Shah got some covert snaps.’
‘Interesting,’ Robin forced herself to say.
‘How’s things in Masham?’ Strike asked, moving to the window and staring down into Denmark Street, where last-minute panic buyers were wending their way in and out of the music shops.
‘Lousy. I’ve just had a blazing row with my mother.’
‘Ah,’ said Strike, thinking it was a shame it couldn’t have been Murphy as he watched an ageing hippy below, hurrying along with a ukulele under one arm and a stack of vinyl records under the other. ‘Well, it’s the season for it.’
‘When are you off to Lucy’s?’
‘Trying to leave it as late as possible,’ said Strike. ‘Aiming to arrive at the party halfway through, pleading pressure of work.’
