Page 181 of The Hallmarked Man
‘Oh God, sorry,’ said Robin, feigning absent-mindedness, though her traitorous throat was closing even as she spoke, and her eyes were stinging, ‘I just wondered if you were free for a drink some time this week.’
‘Not this week,’ said Ilsa, ‘I’m in court, we’re snowed under. Could I text you about the following week?’
‘Great,’ said Robin, but it came out as a kind of squeak.
‘Robin?’ said Ilsa.
She couldn’t immediately answer.
‘Robin?’ said Ilsa again, now sounding worried. ‘You did know everything I’ve just told you, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Robin forced herself to say, but there was no dissembling the fact that she was crying, now. ‘I just… it’s just a mess, like you said. Please don’t tell Strike I called you to talk about it, he’ll be annoyed… especially if he knows I got upset.’
‘No, of course I won’t tell him,’ said Ilsa sympathetically. ‘I’m really sorry, Robin, I know this is a nightmare for the agency, especially after those stories in the press.’
‘Yes,’ said Robin, ‘that’s the problem… but hopefully… well, we’ll wait and see what the DNA test says.’
‘I’ll call you about a drink, week after next,’ said Ilsa.
‘Great,’ said Robin. ‘Bye, then.’
She hung up, then slumped down onto the desk, face in her arms, and a dam broke inside her, and the unshed tears of months poured forth at last, as the confused tangle of feelings inside her, some acknowledged, but most long repressed, burst free of all constraint.
So Strike might have just become a father, along with Matthew, Stephen, Martin, Shah and Barclay, whereas she… she’d tried not to think about her baby, because it had been just a bunch of cells, hadn’t it? Not an actual human being that was hers, but still, she’d been robbed of what so many other women did deliberately and with ease, even if it meant a grubby tryst with a bit of slimy rubber in a bin; no, her child had been created through carelessness and ignorance, then there’d been agony for her, and death for the tiny person who’d lodged in her fallopian tube, forever barred from meeting its mother, and Robin hadn’t wanted that baby, but she mourned it now, full of shame that it had both lived and died…
And Strike, for whom she had feelings she ought not to have, feelings she’d tried to extinguish but which lately had been gaining power over her again – he’d given her that bracelet, and he harped on Charlotte’s suicide note, and he offered her loans for a Land Rover, simply to keep her bound to him and the agency; it was all cynical, he wasn’t honest with her, he didn’t warn her that fresh scandalswere going to explode like landmines under her feet. He didn’t want what Murphy was offering her; no, all he wanted was to keep sneaking around and hiding massive secrets about other women, and maybe she’d find out in another year’s time that he’d slept with Kim Cochran, and there’d be more sordid fallout and another shattering discovery for Robin, who needed to stop, now, for ever, feeling anything other than friendship for him – though right now she barely felt that…
And she cried out of guilt, because she hid so many things from Murphy, especially the biggest of the lot: that she felt as she shouldn’t about her detective partner, there was no denying it now, but that had to end, today…
How many times was she going to torture herself about his real feelings, while he was busy concealing huge secrets from her? How much of her life was she going to put on hold, in hope and expectation – she was admitting it to herself, now – that Cormoran Strike would become sincere and straightforward, and tell her plainly what he wanted and felt? He’dshownher what he wanted, he didn’t need to say it: a string of good-looking women, to be discarded when no longer convenient, and Robin on tap to help him run the successful business that was now being threatened by his own actions. What kind of starry-eyed fool expected that man to change, at the age of forty-two, into somebody who wanted monogamy and a settled home life?
At last, taking deep breaths, Robin sat up, wiping her stinging, swollen eyes on the sleeve of her coat, then went to fetch toilet roll from the bathroom on the landing, to blow her nose and wipe the desk which was now smeared with tears and mascara. Then she sat back down, still hiccoughing occasionally, with a headache burgeoning and the long Tube ride home still to come.
She wasn’t going to betray Ilsa; two could play the duplicitous game of not admitting what they knew, but she couldn’t stand speaking to Strike, not until she’d got herself under better control.
The office phone rang. Robin didn’t want to answer: she didn’t want Strike to know she’d been here. Nevertheless, she automatically switched the phone to speaker so she could hear the message, if there was one. She listened as Pat’s gravelly voice informed the caller that they’d reached the Strike and Ellacott Detective Agency, that office hours were nine to five, and that they could leave a message. There was a beep, and then a rasping male voice spoke.
‘You were told to leave it.Fucking leave it, or you’ll get what’s comin’ to ya, ya fuckin’ bitch!’
A click: the caller had hung up.
Eyes still smarting, Robin stared at the phone. Even in her current state, she thought she recognised that voice as the same one that had hissed in her ear ‘it’ll ’appen again unless you fuckin’ give this up,’ while grasping her neck in Harrods. She thought about Todd (the upskirting incident seemed hours ago) and the way he’d looked directly into her eyes, almost as though he’d sensed her watching him, but it hadn’t been Todd who’d thrust the gorilla into her hand; she’d have felt his massive belly pressing into her back.
You were told to leave it.The unknown man knew she wasn’t ‘leaving it’. How? Had Todd called someone and told them he’d been followed by Robin? Was the caller watching the office right now? It wouldn’t be the first time someone had turned up in Denmark Street to menace the agency. She could well imagine both Strike and Murphy barking at her to be careful, to call a cab, to take this threat seriously, as men did, when they were worried, when they’d rather turn their aggression on you than assess the situation dispassionately, but if the man on the other end of the phone genuinely wanted to hurt her, why leave messages first? Would they be sensible to track her to the office, after what had just happened?
Dismissing the call from her mind, Robin switched on her computer. She needed to find something she could use to get out of the trip to Scotland on Monday night…
Forty minutes later, she had two sound reasons, which had come so easily she felt as though some kindly fate had reached out through the screen to pat her on the head.Here. You deserve a break.
Robin picked up her phone, then set it down again. She didn’t want to text Strike, because he might call back. Instead she opened email. After considering what salutation she should use, she decided to dispense with one entirely, because he wasn’t her ‘dear’ anything, tonight.
I’ve found out why Todd’s so keen on riding the Circle Line all afternoon. He’s upskirting young girls. He was spotted while I was watching him and was literally chased off the train. In the commotion I lost him.
Robin stopped to think, then typed on.
I’ve been thinking about next week’s trip and it seems pointless for both of us to do Jade Semple when you’re the one who’s persuaded her to talk. I’ve just identified the school Sapphire Neagle was attending before she disappeared and I want to try and talk to a friend of hers on her way in/out of school, and find out what she knows about Oz, if anything.
I’ve also been looking at Valentine Longcaster’s Instagram. He’s been recceing a place called God’s Own Junkyard for a fashion shoot on Tuesday and I know the place. It’s in Walthamstow, not far from me. I think I should go along in person and try and interview him. He might be more likely to talk to me than you.
