Page 179 of The Hallmarked Man
‘’S’what I told him. She’s got a lot more in ’er.’
The two men fell silent, both looking truculent. It was hard to tell whether they disliked each other or were bosom friends; they belonged to that category of Englishman whose love and hatred bore almost identical faces.
The train arrived and Strike followed the men into the carriage. It was crowded, so it didn’t seem unnatural for him to choose a seat near them, pretending to be texting, but actually making notes on as much of the conversation as he could hear.
‘’Eard you ’ad trouble up Ipswich.’
‘Not trouble. People, ’s’all. But they ain’ bin back.’
The train moved off. Strike strained his ears.
‘Gaz’s bitch might do it.’
‘Fuck that,’ said Plug.
‘She’s lookin’ good.’
‘If you wanna waste your money,’ sneered Plug.
The train rattled on towards London Bridge.
56
I took my question to the shrine that has not ceased from speaking,
The heart within, that tells the truth and tells it twice as plain;
And from the cave of oracles I heard the priestess shrieking
That she and I should surely die and never live again.
A. E. Housman
XXV: The Oracles, Last Poems
Robin had chased along passages and searched crowded escalators, but found no sign of Jim Todd. It probably wasn’t the first time he’d been spotted upskirting, and maybe he had strategies for such contingencies, had hiding places in his favourite Circle Line stations, and knew the quickest ways to escape above ground. Shortly after she’d given up looking for him, Robin saw the young man who’d also spotted what Todd was up to, and the teenaged girls, now tearful and agitated, talking to an Underground official, but Robin knew nothing would be done. The crime was too commonplace and Todd was gone. What was the woman in the navy blue uniform supposed to do about it?
With a stitch in her side from all the running she’d just done, Robin leaned up against the tiled wall of the station platform, watching Saturday-night drinkers and diners pass, and imagined the snide comments Kim was going to make when she heard that Robin had lost Todd at Barbican, just as she’d lost Plug in Victoria station. Then – because it had been preying on her mind for hours now, and even the revelation of what Todd was up to, riding the Circle Line for days at a time, couldn’t drive it out of her head – she thought about Strike and Bijou.
She had an excuse to call him, now. Strike had the evening off,so he was probably at home. She’d tell him about Todd’s upskirting, then slip in a casual question about why Bijou was calling the office. She’d tell him Shah had been worried about it, frame the whole thing as a personnel matter. Thus resolved, Robin returned to the escalator and, in spite of her stitch, walked up it, keen to call Strike sooner rather than later.
Out on dark Aldersgate Street, she rang Strike, but the call went straight to voicemail. She left no message, but tried again, with the same result.
Something that was worse than anxiety pierced her. It was Saturday night. Where was he, with his phone turned off? Robin watched the passing traffic for a few more seconds, then turned and headed back into the station, and as she descended the escalator, she remembered the night Strike had come over to the flat to hear what Murphy had to tell them about Jason Knowles, and how he’d said ‘I’m meeting Bijou’. Perhaps that hadn’t been a joke. Perhaps hehadbeen off to meet Bijou.
Murphy had wanted to see her tonight, but she’d had to work, so they’d agreed to spend Sunday together. The thought of the following day spent with her boyfriend ought to be cheering her, should mitigate this awful mixture of fear and anger, but it didn’t. Robin wanted to look Strike in the face as she told him about Todd, and asked him about Bijou Watkins.
She knew as soon as she entered Denmark Street that Strike wasn’t there, because the lights were all off, both in the attic flat and in the office. Nevertheless, Robin called him again while looking up at the windows. The call went to voicemail once more.
He’s out with her.
You don’t know that.
Then why isn’t he picking up his phone?
Robin let herself in through the street door and climbed the three flights of metal stairs to Strike’s attic flat, knowing it would be fruitless, but determined to make sure. She knocked on the door, but there was no answer, so she descended to the office level, unlocked the glass door and turned off the alarm.
In the inner office, she switched on the light, vaguely registering changes to the noticeboard since she’d last laid eyes on it. She checked the time on her phone: it was far earlier than she’d expected; her long day, and the darkness of the sky outside the window, had made her imagine it was nine o’clock at least. Heart thudding in her throat, shesat down in her usual seat and remained motionless for a minute or two, thinking. Then, taking a deep breath, she phoned Ilsa Herbert.
