Page 147 of The Hallmarked Man
It took Robin several long minutes to regain control of herself, and then she examined each charm again, twice over, thinking that nothing else anyone gave her today (because it must now be Christmas Day) could possibly mean as much to her; not diamonds, not a new Land Rover: nothing. She knew how much hard work CormoranStrike would have put into this, he who found present-giving an onerous chore, who found it inexplicable that anyone would remember what anyone liked, or wore, but he’d remembered all of this, and he wanted her to know he remembered it, andoh God, I love him, thought Robin, and then another voice in her head said sternly,
No, you don’t.
I do, I do…
You’re still drunk.
Wiping her eyes on the hem of her robe, Robin reached out for her phone. She didn’t care if she woke him, didn’t care if he wondered what she was doing awake and texting him, in the early hours of Christmas Day, when she ought to be in bed with her boyfriend.
Thank you. I love it so much xxxxx
And two hundred and fifty miles away in his sister’s spare room in Bromley, sleepless, suffering heartburn and gas after too much lager, and grumpy after what was probably the worst party he’d ever attended, Cormoran Strike heard his mobile vibrate and reached for it in the dark. Looking down at Robin’s text, Christmas, and the unusual opportunities it afforded you, if you were prepared, at last, to put in the work, suddenly seemed a wonderful thing.
I’m glad, he typed, and then, slowly, painstakingly, he added a kiss for every one of hers.
PART FOUR
And all putting in and getting nothing out results in stressful times, in business ventures as in the case of individuals. The great shafts sank deeper and deeper, the galleries branched out far under the sea, and there was a constant call for more and more money, lest that already sunk should be lost.
John Oxenham
A Maid of the Silver Sea
42
In every man’s career are certain points
Whereon he dares not be indifferent;
The world detects him clearly, if he dare,
As baffled at the game, and losing life…
Thus, he should wed the woman he loves most
Or needs most, whatsoe’er the love or need…
Robert Browning
Bishop Blougram’s Apology
Strike spent New Year’s Eve on surveillance in the Stapleton Tavern in Haringey, watching Plug drink in the new year with a group of equally rough-looking friends. He used the time productively. He and Jade Semple had been in intermittent text contact ever since Lucy’s party, and they continued to text backwards and forwards tonight. She was very obviously drunk again. Although she continued to insist that she no longer believed her husband had been the body in the vault, her readiness to keep communicating with Strike suggested a lurking doubt. Strike hoped he might, through sheer persistence, be on the verge of securing a face-to-face interview with her.
He was determined not to pass up the chance of securing an evening alone with Robin in a decent restaurant, hundreds of miles away from Murphy or any other fucker who wanted to interrupt. Of course, if he declared himself and Robin shot him down, the rest of the round trip would be singularly uncomfortable, but there’d always be reasons not to risk it. If the worst happened, he’d simply have to deal with it. He’d accommodated the loss of half a leg, after all.
His partner’s Christmas Day response to his foray into truly imaginative gift-giving had given Strike hope. She must have understoodwhat he was implicitly telling her when she examined those silver charms, all of them freighted with memories and private jokes, mustn’t she? Didn’t opening his present in the early hours of Christmas Day indicate an unusual eagerness to know what he’d given her? The five kisses that had followed her thank you, the use of the word ‘love’ – admittedly followed by ‘it’ rather than ‘you’ – could this be the behaviour of a woman trying to keep a man firmly at arm’s length? And where had Murphy been, while Robin was typing in all those ‘x’s? Was it too much to hope for that they’d had an argument?
Such ruminations enabled Strike to endure the long, unproductive hours watching Plug with good grace. However, on arrival back in cold, deserted Denmark Street at three a.m., his pleasant musings were rudely interrupted.
A large, still wet letter ‘G’ had been painted in scarlet on the street door of the office. Strike stood contemplating it for a full minute, dismissing within seconds the possibility that he was looking at the tag of some drunken graffiti artist. No other door in Denmark Street had been so decorated, and it seemed far too much of a coincidence that anyone should have randomly slapped up the one letter of the alphabet that had recently acquired an ominous double meaning for the agency on the upper floors.
Was he supposed to take this ‘G’ to symbolise the letter emblazoned in the middle of the square and compasses of Freemasonry’s most identifiable sign? Had it been chosen because an eye of providence or an acacia tree would have required more artistry? Or was this a message for Robin, who’d been Witness G in the trial of her rapist and would-be killer?
Inwardly cursing the necessity, Strike hauled himself upstairs to his attic flat, dug out cleaning materials, and returned to the street to remove the letter, though, having no white spirit, he was able only to render what had been there illegible, leaving a large red smear. The door would definitely need repainting before the landlord next saw it.
It was four before Strike finally removed his prosthesis, wondering whether he should tell Robin what had happened. He didn’t want to drag up her rape again. Was this, perhaps, an obvious case of least said, soonest mended?
Only as he connected his mobile to its charging lead did he notice that he’d received a voicemail message at some point overnight, and play it.
