Page 260 of The Hallmarked Man
‘I didn’t—’
‘Want to upset me? Want a row? Why now? Why ask me this tonight?’
But she knew why. It was because of Sark, because of Strike; Murphy might not be doing it consciously, but she could tell he simultaneously wanted to punish her and push her into admissions that were either reassurances or rebuffs.
He became conciliatory once he heard the pain in her voice, and Robin, too tired to want an argument, forced herself to respond in kind. The short conversation that followed resolved nothing, and while it ended with Robin in Murphy’s arms, she had to force herself to lie there quietly, with the familiar twist of anger and distress in the pit of her stomach.
‘You all right?’ said Pat gruffly, removing her e-cigarette to ask the question, when Robin entered the office the following morning.
‘Fine,’ said Robin.
She’d just seen something on Instagram which, while not dispelling her personal troubles, had at least forced them to the back of her mind.
‘D’you know where Kim is?’ she asked Pat.
‘She’s in Forest Gate, trying to find that Hussein Mohamed’s house.’
‘How’re you getting on with Powell?’ asked Robin, looking at the long lists of pubs with ‘silver’ in the name, most of them crossed out, that lay on the office manager’s desk. Silver End, Colchester; Silver Ball, Cornwall; Silver Hind, Lymington…
‘No luck. Has he told you’ – Robin knew Pat was talking about Strike, whom she always called ‘he’ when he wasn’t around – ‘there’s only one B&B open on Sark? You’re out of season.’
‘I know. It doesn’t matter, it’s not as though we’re going on holiday,’ said Robin, almost as though Murphy could hear her, and, keen for a change of subject, she said, glancing at the aquarium,
‘The fish are doing well.’
‘He doesn’t like the black one,’ said Pat.
‘Who, Strike?’ said Robin, looking at the knobble-headed fish as it undulated slowly through the plastic plants.
‘I told him it looks like him,’ said Pat, and, miserable though Robin felt, she laughed.
Her mobile buzzed and she looked down to see a picture sent by her mother, which showed Stephen and Jenny side by side with Martin and Carmen, both mothers holding their baby sons; fat Barnaby and the fragile-looking Dirk. With yet another pang of guilt, Robin was reminded that she still hadn’t bought either of her new nephews presents.
She moved into the inner office, sat down at the partners’ desk and was about to call Kim when her mobile buzzed with a text. To her surprise, she saw a message from Wynn Jones, Tyler Powell’s friend, whom she’d texted the previous day, reiterating her request for an interview, and assuring him that she wasn’t working for the Whiteheads.
Jones’ text had a picture of Robin that had appeared in the press two years previously. He’d written:Is this you?
Yes, Robin texted back.Why?
To her displeasure, Jones responded with a drooling emoji.
Robin knew the world was full of young men whose instinctive reaction to any passable-looking woman was sexualised banter. She also knew that, in the interests of fostering this new line of communication, she should respond with a laughing emoji. She did so, unsmiling, then took a deep breath, and called Kim Cochran.
‘Hi,’ said Kim, answering within a few rings. ‘What’s up?’
‘Any luck with the Mohameds’ house?’
‘Not yet,’ said Kim.
‘Right,’ said Robin. ‘Well, I wanted to talk to you about the dark-haired girl Albie Simpson-White met, in the Sun in Splendour.’
‘Clarissa, yeah. What about her?’
‘Well, for a start, her name isn’t Clarissa,’ said Robin. ‘That was Laetitia Benton, the girl we’ve been trying to trace.’
‘No,’ said Kim, with complete confidence, ‘her name was Clarissa, he was calling her “Riss” or something for short.’
‘Laetitia Benton’s friends call her “Tish”,’ said Robin, ‘and Iknowthat was her, because she’s just accepted my follower request in Instagram. The most recent pictures are of her on holiday, not in Sicily, which is where you said she was going, but in Sardinia.’
