Page 23 of The Hallmarked Man
‘It’s not that,’ said Murphy.
He rubbed a hand across his face.
‘The woman I know, who’s on the case… I had a drunken grope with her, about six years ago.’
‘Oh,’ said Robin.
‘No sex. Lizzie had just left. I was shitfaced. It happened down the pub.’
‘Right,’ said Robin.
Murphy sighed.
‘I could ask her, if it’s really that important to you. She knows I’ve got a girlfriend now.’
‘She does?’
‘Yeah,’ said Murphy, ‘because every time I run across her she makes it clear she wouldn’t mind a replay, so I mention you a fair bit… but if it’s that important to you, I could try and get her talking.’
Robin hesitated. She was aware of a need to word what she said next extremely carefully, but also dimly aware that what she currently felt wasn’t what many women would feel, faced with the prospect of their highly eligible boyfriend seeking out a woman with whom he’d previously had an amorous encounter, drunk or not.
‘Well, I trust you,’ she said slowly, ‘but I don’t love the idea of some woman trying to lure you away…’
She’d said the right thing; Murphy looked happier at that. His fingers tightened on hers.
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thank you,’ said Robin, returning the pressure.
‘D’you only love me for my intel?’
‘No,’ said Robin. ‘I also like the chips… and quite a lot of other stuff.’
He pulled her into a hug, and this time, Robin didn’t fend him off. The realisation that she wanted the information, even if it meant Murphy having to buy drinks for a woman who clearly fancied him, was slightly disconcerting, but given how many other things she had to worry about at the moment, there was no need to start analysing that, as well.
10
… a Brotherly affection and kindness should govern us in all our intercourse and relations with our brethren…
Albert Pike
Morals and Dogma of the Ancient and Accepted Scottish Rite of Freemasonry
Strike called a team meeting on Wednesday morning, because the ex-wife of the cricketer Pat preferred to call ‘Mr A’ had boarded a plane to the Canary Islands. Plug was at his mother’s house in Camberwell, over which Midge was keeping watch. Strike was keen to brainstorm, with particular emphasis on getting rid of Mr A as soon as possible.
He arrived at the glass door of the office at nine o’clock to find it unlocked and office manager Pat Chauncey already at her desk. Sixty-eight years old, simian of face and with unconvincingly boot black hair, Pat had, as was her invariable practice, an e-cigarette clamped firmly between her teeth.
‘Happy birthday,’ she croaked, in the baritone that often led to her being misidentified as Strike on the phone.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Yeah. Thanks.’
He hadn’t forgotten his birthday, he’d just hoped the rest of the agency would. He didn’t want an early morning tea party, with candles and present opening, and he didn’t particularly want to remind Robin that he was forty-two. However, a large envelope and a sizeable cube-shaped present wrapped in blue were sitting on Pat’s desk, and, glancing towards the kitchen area, he saw an old cake tin decorated with pictures of Princess Diana that definitely didn’t belong to the office.
‘A woman called Decima Mullins called,’ said Pat. ‘She wants to know when you’ll be getting a contract to her.’
‘When I’ve decided whether we’re taking her case,’ said Strike, heading towards the kettle.
‘And Mr A left a message last night. He wants an update.’
