Page 223 of The Hallmarked Man
A few seconds later, Fiona opened up. From her online research, Robin knew that Freeman was twenty-three. She was a well-built young woman, literally every visible inch of whom had been embellished or enhanced to send one loud, crude signal: long platinum hair and a deep artificial tan; thick eyelash extensions and pointed, neon pink false nails; fake breasts, filler in her lips and cheekbones – even her toes were adorned with rings and nail varnish, and there was a chain tattooed around her right ankle.
‘Fiona, my name’s Robin Ellacott. I’m a private detective, I work with a man called Cormoran—’
Fiona made to slam the door. Robin shoved her foot in the gap and said, very fast,
‘We’re investigating the body in the silver vault. We know you think it was Dick de L—’
‘Get out.Get fucking out!’ panted Fiona, in a voice almost as deep as Pat’s.
‘Anything you say would be in complete confidence – nobody needs to know you spoke to me. It’ll be better for you if you talk—’
‘Fuck –OFF!’
In danger of having bones in her foot broken, Robin withdrew.The door slammed. Robin remained where she was, on the doorstep, now slightly dishevelled and breathless.
A minute later, Fiona appeared at the window beside the door.
‘FUCK OFF OUT OF HERE!’ she bellowed through the glass.
‘It’ll be better for you if you talk to me!’ Robin shouted back.
Fiona flipped her the finger and disappeared again. Robin remained where she was, hoping that her vague threats might work, once they’d had time to percolate.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw another flash of lime green. Fiona had returned briefly to the window to see whether Robin was still there, but whipped herself back out of sight again.
Five more minutes passed. Robin wondered whether Fiona was waiting for Wheaton to come home and deal with her. Then the front door opened a crack.
‘I told you tofuck off,’ said Fiona. ‘Fuckoff.’
‘It’s either talk to me, in which case I can protect your identity, or you can explain in court why you wrote that note,’ said Robin. ‘That’s the choice.’
For a few more seconds the door remained open just a crack. Then, it opened six inches.
‘I dunno what you’re fucking talking about,’ said Fiona. ‘I never wrote no fucking—’
‘Yes, you did,’ said Robin. ‘You wrote an anonymous note in a masonic code and put it through our agency’s door.’
‘You’re out of your head. I never—’
‘You were caught on camera,’ Robin bluffed. ‘We can prove it was you.’
Fiona’s fake tan was too opaque to enable Robin to see whether she’d blanched, but a taloned hand flew to her mouth and the pupils of her light blue eyes dilated. She remained stock still, apparently robbed of speech, the other hand gripping the door.
‘Just tell me what you know, and I’ll leave,’ said Robin.
The neighbour’s front door opened.
‘Get in,’ whispered Fiona, backing away to allow Robin entrance, and clearly frightened of her neighbour knowing what was going on.
Fiona appeared to be close to hyperventilating. She led Robin towards the kitchen, one taloned hand still covering her mouth, her enormous, cosmetically enlarged buttocks undulating beneath the lime green Lycra. There was a butterfly tattooed just above herwaistband. Robin took out her mobile, set it to record, and hid it in her bag again.
The kitchen was white-walled, with a white island in the centre, on which sat a clean ashtray, a pack of Marlboro Lights and an iPhone in a pink sparkly case. An expensive-looking exercise bike faced French windows overlooking a small backyard. The décor was dominated by a framed blown-up black and white photograph of Wheaton and Fiona from the waist up, both naked. He stood behind her, muscles oiled, bending to kiss her on the mouth, his hands over Fiona’s breasts.
Fiona started pacing in the tight space between kitchen island and bike. ‘Craig’s gonna kill me,’ she gasped, through the fingers still covering her mouth. ‘He’s gonna go fuckingnuts.’
‘Craig’s your partner?’ said Robin, pretending she didn’t know.
‘Yeah.’
