Page 248 of The Hallmarked Man
‘It’s not,’ said Murphy. ‘I just wish I’d had this conversation with Lizzie before we got hitched, because I didn’t know she definitely didn’t want them, and I did.’
Wondering whether he’d looked up the odds of a live birth with IVF, Robin said,
‘I know I need to make a decision about egg freezing. I know time’s not on my side.’
The feeling of constriction she’d experienced back in that sea captain’s house in Deptford, which she’d thought she’d left behind for ever, had returned.
76
How shall I name him?
This spare, dark-featured,
Quick-eyed stranger?
Matthew Arnold
The Strayed Reveller
Strike’s anxiety about the results of the DNA test had become acute by the fourth afternoon without news, so he called Bijou while walking towards the shabby street in Holborn where the vanished Jim Todd, or Todd Jameson, as Strike now knew him to be, had lived until very recently.
‘I haven’t heard anything yet,’ Bijou snapped. ‘I’ll let you know whenIdo!’
‘You’re sure the samples got there, are you?’
‘Yes, I had an acknowledgment email!’
‘Some of these places get back to you within a couple of days,’ said Strike.
‘There’s been a weekend,’ said Bijou, with what Strike considered a deplorable lack of concern. ‘I told you, I’ll be in touch when I hear anything.’
He walked on, hamstring aching, his mood dark. Not only was he on tenterhooks about the DNA results, relations with Robin continued to be icy. Her latest communication was a long email detailing the movements of the hired Peugeot used in the Ramsay Silver theft and murder, crediting Murphy for the information in a way that suggested, passive-aggressively, that Strike ought to pass on his thanks to the CID officer. Strike had simply responded ‘very interesting, let’s discuss’. He’d followed this up with a brief text telling her he wantedto put surveillance on Lord Oliver Branfoot to try and find out the location of the flat where the covert filming was taking place. Robin hadn’t responded, probably, Strike thought, because she was still angry he was trying to prove the Freemasonry connection between Oliver Branfoot and Malcolm Truman.
He arrived outside the busy Lebanese restaurant above which Todd had been living and rang each of the bells beside a grubby grey-painted side door without any response. He therefore took up a position in a doorway opposite, watching and waiting.
The restaurant operated a takeaway service as well as seated dining, and appetising smells trailed after those who passed Strike with their recently purchased dinners. Dusk had fallen when, at last, a short young brown-skinned man, wearing a stained white tunic that suggested he was a kitchen worker, rounded the corner of the street and approached the grey door. Strike crossed the road at once, reaching his target just as the man put his key in the lock.
‘Evening,’ said Strike. ‘Would you happen to know if Jim Todd’s in?’
‘Todd?’ repeated the young man, blinking tired, bloodshot eyes. He had thick black brows, and a faint but perceptible Punjabi accent. ‘You know him?’
‘Not well.’
‘Where is he?’
‘That’s what I was hoping to find out,’ said Strike.
‘He’s your friend?’
‘No,’ said Strike. ‘Just looking for him.’
‘He owe you money?’
‘No,’ said Strike. ‘Why?’
‘He owes me money. Fifty quid,’ said the young man. ‘Tell him that, when you find him.’
‘Lent him cash, did you?’
