Page 141 of The Hallmarked Man
It was very cold out on Silver Street, but Robin was grateful to be out of the crowd. She leaned back against the whitewashed wall of the pub, thinking that this would sober her up, and then she’d go back inside. She tossed back the last of her fourth whisky, then, through force of habit, drew her phone out of her pocket to see whether Strike had texted her, but of course he hadn’t, because he was at Lucy’s party. It was Christmas. There was no work to be done.
Her good mood had vanished; she ought to have stopped at two whiskies, or have eaten more at lunch. Her breath rose in a cloud on the wintry air as she looked right, towards Chapman Lane, and then, with a funny inward start, she thought what a coincidencethatwas; strange, how you took things for granted when they were familiar, and didn’t question them, and it took distance to make you look back, and wonder why, and how, and whether it was all chance, or there was meaning there…
Strike would laugh at her, for that… mystic mumbo jumbo…
She had to make it up with her mother, especially now that she’d seen Martin and Carmen together…
Linda.
Rita Linda.
Asked if we knew ’er.
Rita Linda.
’E knew what ’appened to ’er.
Ritalin-da.
Robin raised her phone to eye level and typed in ‘Rita Linda’.
Linda Rita Clay was a hairdresser in Nantwich. Rita Linde was a German composer. Linda Mae Ritter lived in Detroit and had seven children, including a set of triplets.
Robin tried different spellings. Reeta Linder. Reena Lynda. Reata Lindar.
Did you mean Reata Lindvall?
‘All right, Rob?’
Robin looked round. Her ex-husband was standing there, a packet of Marlboro Lights in his hand. He’d smoked occasionally as a student, but never afterwards, at least while they were together.
‘Hi,’ said Robin.
He lit up.
‘Working?’ he said, with a half-smile.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Huh,’ said Matthew.
They stood in silence for a while. The church where they’d got married, where Strike had gatecrashed the ceremony, knocking over one of the flower arrangements, was barely five minutes’ walk away from where they stood.
‘Who’s the Paul Newman lookalike?’
‘What? Oh – Ryan? He’s a CID officer.’
‘Ah,’ said Matthew, nodding as he blew out smoke. ‘I always thought you’d end up with Strike.’
‘You hid that well,’ said Robin sarcastically. Matthew laughed.
‘How long you home for?’
‘Until the twenty-ninth.’
‘We’re here till New Year.’
When Robin didn’t respond, he added,
