Page 250 of The Hallmarked Man
‘OK. Anything else?’
‘When he walked away… it was funny.’
‘A limp?’
‘Kind of.’
‘Is Todd’s room still empty?’
‘No, my friend’s taken it.’
‘Would your friend mind me having a look?’
‘I can ask him.’
He led Strike into a stairwell that smelled worse than Daz and Mandy’s, back in Newham. There was a slight suspicion of stale urine. A fluorescent light overhead was flickering.
Strike hauled himself up by the banister behind the kitchen worker. The building had clearly been adapted so as to house as many tenants as possible, and Strike doubted the alterations had been done with planning permission. A door ahead stood ajar, revealing a grubby shower room. Four more doors had been crammed in. His guide knocked on the second.
‘Gagandeep?’
After a minute’s conversation in Punjabi through the flimsy door, a second brown-skinned man opened up. He was tall, bearded, equally exhausted-looking and wearing nothing but boxer shorts. Understandably suspicious, he turned to his housemate and another conversation in rapid Punjabi ensued, at the end of which Gagandeep permitted Strike to enter.
The room, the dusty window of which looked straight on to the brick side of a building opposite, was small and contained a few pieces of very old, cheap furniture. The narrow bed, Strike thought, must have been uncomfortable for the almost spherical Todd. There was flaking paint on the walls, a naked overhead bulb and a much-stained carpet.
‘Did Todd leave anything behind?’ asked Strike.
‘Yeah,’ said Gagandeep.
He crossed to the wardrobe and opened it to reveal his clothes lying partially piled beneath an inadequate number of wire hangers. After a few seconds’ digging, Gagandeep retrieved an old hardbacked book, which he held out to Strike:Know When To Hold ’Em: Win Big Every Time.
‘I’d like to buy that from you,’ said Strike, pulling more cash from his wallet before handing five tenners to his first helper. ‘And if either of you see the man who was banging on Todd’s door again’ – he pointed at the card in the kitchen worker’s hand – ‘call me. There’s more money in it, if you can give me a lead on him.’
77
What of a hasty word?
Is the fleshly heart not stirred
By a worm’s pin-prick
Where its roots are quick?
Robert Browning
A Lovers’ Quarrel
Robin’s Valentine’s Day started badly. Murphy had stayed over at her flat. In addition to a card, he’d bought her a plush dog with a heart in its mouth, in allusion to his previous offer to buy her a puppy. After Robin had laughed and kissed him, he said,
‘You can take him with you on surveillance or whatever you’re doing tonight. Valentine’s date by proxy.’
Robin chose to ignore this broad hint that Murphy was still annoyed she had to work that evening, but the residual guilt and annoyance it had caused was still with her that afternoon, while watching Mrs Two-Times, who was shoe shopping alone. When Robin’s mobile rang, she was relieved to see the office number rather than her boyfriend’s.
‘Hi, Pat.’
‘A man called Wynn Jones called,’ said Pat. ‘Friend of that Tyler Powell’s.’
‘Oh, good,’ said Robin, who’d phoned the farm at which Jones worked and left a message, asking him to call her. ‘What did he say?’
