Page 197 of The Hallmarked Man
‘So?’
‘What did he say to upset her?’
‘That’s none of your fucking business.’
‘Well, itismy business,’ said Robin, ‘because I’m being paid to find out why Rupert disappeared.’
‘He hasn’t fucking disappeared, he’s in America.’
‘How d’you know that?’
‘Sacha told me.’ After a slight hesitation, Valentine said, ‘Fleetwood was rude to Cosima when she told him he shouldn’t have gatecrashed, all right?’
‘She approached him, did she? To tell him he should get out?’
‘No,’ said Valentine, but then, ‘possibly.’
‘Sacha told my partner that Rupert seemed to have come looking for a fight. Who did he want to fight with? Cosima? You?’
Valentine sipped his Peroni.
‘Because I don’t think it adds up,’ Robin persisted, ‘that he went there just for free drink. He was moving out of his house that weekend. That’s always stressful, and hard work. Plus, I spoke to a good friend of Rupert’s, Albie Simpson-White—’
‘Who?’
‘He used to work at your father’s club. The way he described Rupert, gatecrashing that party would be quite out of character.’
‘But he did it,’ said Valentine, ‘so Albie What-ever-the-fuck’s powers of perception don’t seem great, do they?’
‘Sacha said Cosima was in tears. Does she cry that easily, in the middle of a party, just because a gatecrasher’s rude to her?’
‘Are you trying to be funny?’ said Valentine, suddenly aggressive, and leaning in.
‘I’m simply—’
‘If you or your fucking partner go anywherenearCosima—’
‘We won’t need to, if you just tell me—’
‘Did you hear what I just said to you?’
‘Why did you agree to talk to me?’ asked Robin, feigning composure. When he’d leaned in she’d seen the slight residue of white powder around his nostrils; he’d taken cocaine either in the car or just before leaving God’s Own Junkyard. ‘People usually agree to an interview because they want to find out what we already know.’
‘Is this what the great detective’s taught you? Transparent little mind games?’
‘It’s not a mind game, I’m—’
‘D’you sit at Brokeby’s one and a half feet, drinking in his wisdom?’
‘Two feet, one fake. You’re thinking of his legs. But go on.’
‘That’s exactly the sort of thing he’d say, the point-scoring little fucking pedant.’
‘He’s hardly little,’ said Robin.
‘You’d know, of course.’
‘We’re seriously doing penis innuendoes, are we?’ said Robin.
