Page 252 of The Hallmarked Man
For the second time in a few days, Robin imagined fleeing somewhere warm and light, where she’d have space to decide what she really wanted. Distance, she felt, might give her perspective; unfamiliar surroundings might jolt her out of this pattern of agreeing because she felt she ought to agree, because when you said ‘I love you’, certain obligations ensued. She reminded herself yet again about how kind and considerate Murphy had been after the ectopic pregnancy, and following her long stay at Chapman Farm, not to mention how open and upfront he’d been in the discussion about children. She thought – knew – she loved him, but when he phoned her a third time, she let him go to voicemail again.
Robin handed over surveillance of Mrs Two-Times to Midge at four o’clock, then set out for the garage where the new Land Rover was parked, because she was supposed to be taking over from Strike, who was watching the house in Carnival Street where Plug Junior had received his dog bites, and which Plug Senior was currently visiting. She’d just put the key in the ignition when a text arrived from Murphy.
Seeing as you’re not answering my calls, I’m texting. This isn’t how I wanted Valentine’s Day to go. I hoped you’d be as disappointed as I was about being gazumped, but you didn’t soundit, that’s all I was saying. I said the thing about small places because we both like a bit of space. It wasn’t anything to do with kids.
Bullshit,thought Robin, and she typed back,
You talked about me having an ‘end game’. What ‘end game’? I don’t appreciate the remark about the car, either. I’d have thought you’d be glad I didn’t have to lay out thousands of my own money when we’re trying to buy a house together, but any chance to drag Strike into an argument, you take it.
Robin’s phone buzzed several more times while she was driving to Haringey, but she ignored the new texts. A tight knot of anxiety and fear had lodged behind her rib cage, though of what she was afraid she couldn’t have said. Being honest with herself? Being honest with Murphy? The fallout that was likely, if she expressed the slightest reservation about moving in together? Why had she let herself get pulled along into this situation? Hadn’t she learned anything about listening to her own doubts, from the calamity that had been her short-lived marriage?
But this isn’t the same,she argued against herself.He’s not Matthew.
Carnival Street comprised a terrace of dilapidated houses on one side and a scrapyard running the length of the other. Robin arrived to see Strike’s BMW parked just a few spaces ahead of her. Assuming he’d leave now he’d seen her arrive, Robin parked, took out her mobile and saw a text from her mother.
Martin and Carmen back together xxx
Great, Robin texted back, before turning to Murphy’s latest messages.
I don’t take every chance to drag Strike into arguments, because I know what happens when I mention him. You go off on one.
The next text read:
I wanted us to get a place we could live in long-term, not somewhere that starts feeling cramped within months. I get the impression you’d rather keep everything as temporary as possible, as if we’re students who might move on within a year. And I don’t think it’s a hanging offence to want spare bedrooms.
The last said:
Just because I wanted an open conversation about it the other night, you make this all about kids. I’m not pressuring you, but I’m not going to apologise for wanting them, either. All I want is two-way honesty.
The passenger door opened. Robin jumped, her hand moving instinctively for her bag and the pepper spray before she registered that it was Strike climbing into the car.
‘Got a few things to tell you.’
‘OK,’ said Robin, putting her mobile down and trying to focus.
‘Plug’s mate in Ipswich who got done for animal cruelty headed for the compound an hour ago, with a dog in the back of his van that, and I quote Barclay verbatim, “looks like a fucking tiger”. Apparently a lot of other blokes have rolled up since, all in vans, and on an unrelated subject – shit.’
Plug and a friend had just emerged from the house, dragging agigantic dog that looked to Robin the kind of creature that might guard the gates of hell: a muzzled, snarling, jet black, heavily muscled cross between a Rottweiler and a giant Bulldog. It took the combined efforts of both men to force it into the back of Plug’s van.
‘Don’t you want to—?’ Robin began, as she turned on the engine.
‘No,’ said Strike, pulling on his seatbelt, ‘I’m coming.’
78
More than I, if truth were told,
Have stood and sweated hot and cold,
And through their reins in ice and fire
Fear contended with desire.
A. E. Housman
XXX, A Shropshire Lad
‘Fucking typical it kicks off the night Barclay’s on them,’ said Strike, pulling his phone out of his pocket. ‘He needs to clear out. The blokes who dragged him off that roof are probably there.’
