Page 148 of The Hallmarked Man
‘’S is Valentine Longcaster,’ said a slurred, upper-class voice, against a background of clatter and chatter. ‘I’ve got all your fuckin’ messages. I’ve got nothing to fuckin’ say to you. Do’s all a favour an’ make your new year’s fucking resolution gassing yourself.’
Strike set his alarm, yawned and got into bed. Valentine’s response to the emails Strike had sent him wasn’t a surprise. Several times, when full of drink, cocaine or both, Valentine had informed rooms full of people thatthis, pointing at Charlotte, was hisfavourite fucking person in the world.It seemed that, unlike the determinedly oblivious Sacha, Valentine wasn’t prepared to pretend he’d forgotten the contents of Charlotte’s suicide note, in which she’d blamed Strike’s refusal to pick up the phone for the planned overdose, and the slitting of her wrists in her bath.
His phone buzzed. He picked it up to see a text from Jade Semple.
all rightg you can come on the q17hb ut don’t tell noone because they djnat woant me talking to you
Great, Strike texted back, with a shrewd idea who ‘they’, who didn’t want her to talk to him, might be.See you on the seventeenth.
He lay back down to sleep, thinking that the year had, after all, started on a positive note, and already planning strategic manoeuvres that had nothing whatsoever to do with the missing Niall Semple.
43
The stars have not dealt me the worst they can do:
My pleasures are plenty, my troubles are two.
But oh, my two troubles they reave me of rest,
The brains in my head and the heart in my breast.
A. E. Housman
XVII, Additional Poems
Several days after returning from Masham and having worked almost non-stop since, Robin still felt as she had done ever since she’d unwrapped Strike’s bracelet: anxious and guilty. Her nervousness resembled the state in which a person waited for exam results, or the outcome of medical tests. When, from time to time, her unruly subconscious made suggestions as to what she might be anticipating, or dreading – she wasn’t sure which – she quelled them as best she could.
Strike’s bracelet was now hidden inside her only evening bag in her wardrobe, but it was hard to forget what she’d drunkenly thought on first examining it. Moreover, she knew that if another woman had shown her the bracelet, and explained the significance of the charms, she’d have responded, ‘I think he might be trying to tell you he’s in love with you.’ What man would give a present so intimate, so full of meaning only two people could understand, without knowing how it might be interpreted?
Yet the gift had been given by Cormoran Strike, he who voluntarily lived in two rooms over his office, alone and self-sufficient. Yes, the recent references to Charlotte’s suicide note might suggest a desire to open a conversation they’d only once before come close to having, while eating curry at the office, when Strike had told her she was his best friend, and she’d thought he might be about to say more,to acknowledge what both of them, she remained convinced, had felt on the day they’d hugged at Robin’s wedding, when she could have sworn he’d considered asking her to run away with him, and leave Matthew standing on the dancefloor…
But he hadn’t spoken at the wedding, had he? Nor in the office, over whisky and curry. In the midst of her guilty deliberations about what might be going on inside Strike’s head, Robin kept bumping back against the conclusion she’d reached in the bathroom of the Prince of Wales pub: that Strike, whether consciously or unconsciously, was playing some kind of game intended to weaken her ties to Murphy, lest she contemplate leaving the agency for a more settled existence.
The thing she’d thought, when sitting, drunk, on her parents’ bathroom floor, felt like a betrayal of the man with whom she was now supposed to be setting up house. She loved Murphy, didn’t she? She’d certainly told him so, and she thought – knew – she did. Barring his two recent cobra strikes of anger, one born of stress, one of jealousy, and both entwined with his own history of drinking and the failure of his marriage, they hardly ever argued. He was kind and intelligent, and she couldn’t have asked more of him in the aftermath of the ectopic pregnancy. He’d never expressed an opinion on how much she earned, or complained about the old Land Rover, or what everyone else seemed to see as her rackety career. Their now-resumed sex life was far more enjoyable than the one Robin had had with Matthew, because Murphy seemed to actually care whether Robin was enjoying herself, whereas Matthew, she realised in retrospect, had mostly wanted applause. He was generous, too: she was currently wearing the opal earrings he’d bought her for Christmas, which matched the pendant her parents had given her for her thirtieth. Most importantly of all, Murphy was open and honest. He didn’t play games, didn’t lie, didn’t compartmentalise his life so that Robin didn’t really know where she stood.
So she owed him similar honesty and transparency, didn’t she? Yet she was increasingly feeling as she supposed unfaithful spouses must do as their lies snowballed and they were kept in a constant state of alertness for the slip that might lead to discovery. If Murphy found out she and Strike were interviewing relatives of other possible William Wrights, he’d know they were investigating the body in the vault, not just trying to find the missing Rupert.
Almost worse: Strike had sent her an itinerary for their visit toCrieff and Ironbridge. He’d booked two sleeper berths to Glasgow for the night of the sixteenth. They were then to pick up a hire car and drive to Crieff to interview the abandoned wife of Niall Semple, before continuing south to Ironbridge, where Tyler Powell’s grandmother lived, breaking their journey overnight in the Lake District. Robin had Googled the Lake District hotel. It looked rather beautiful, with stunning views out over Windermere. She and Strike usually stayed in the cheapest possible accommodation when on investigative trips. Little ripples of nervous excitement kept hitting her at the thought of the place, and she was trying not to analyse them, because she was already burdened with so much guilt. She’d told Murphy the forthcoming three-day trip north was connected to ‘the Fleetwood case’. Thankfully, being as busy as ever at work, Murphy hadn’t asked for many details.
Robin’s nagging feelings of guilt and confusion manifested themselves outwardly as an increased niceness and consideration to her boyfriend. Before they’d returned to London, she’d agreed to put in an offer on the second house they’d viewed, but she’d known all along that it wouldn’t be accepted, and was unsurprised when they heard, at the end of the first week of January, that it had sold for nearly ten thousand pounds more than the most they could have afforded. Now Murphy was sending her the specs of other houses, and she was making half-promises to view them when she had time.
Meanwhile, she was policing and second-guessing every move she made where Strike was concerned. On the dark and dreary evening of New Year’s Day, she arrived home after a stint of surveillance of Plug, who hadn’t stirred since he got back from the pub in the small hours, and had barely pulled off her coat when Strike texted her.
Valentine Longcaster doesn’t want to talk to us. Not a big surprise. He was Charlotte’s biggest fan.
Sitting on her sofa, Robin felt again that thrill of – what? Panic? Excitement? – at the recurrence of Charlotte’s name, but she was determined to appear unflustered and professional, so she texted back:
Pity. I want to know why Rupert crashed Legard’s birthday party. On the subject of trying to get people to talk, I’ve been wondering what you’d think of me trying an approach to Gretchen Schiff, Sofia Medina’s flatmate?
Strike was slow at responding to this suggestion. After five minutes had passed, Robin thought he might have forgotten who Sofia Medina was, and added:
Sofia, the girl whose body was found on the North Wessex Downs. Pink top.
When there was still no answer, Robin took her phone with her into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Strike’s response came just as the kettle was boiling.
Sorry, thought Mrs TT was on the move, false alarm. I think trying to get Schiff to talk is a good idea. If Medina knew a bloke with dark curly hair who likes wearing sunglasses indoors, we’ve finally got something concrete.
OK, I’ll message Schiff. I’ve found her Instagram.
