Page 263 of The Hallmarked Man
‘Oz sounds younger than Todd, doesn’t he? But notreallyyoung.’
‘Agreed,’ said Strike, ‘but he and Todd seem to have an identical taste in victims: teenagers and very young women. I think it’s within the realms of possibility that they met through the trafficking stuff.’
The plane began to move.
‘Well, I found out a few new things about the Lindvall murders last night,’ said Robin. ‘I was combing through old news reports, and obviously they’re mostly in French, so it wasn’t easy, but the human remains they found in the woods are interesting – more for what was missing than what was there.’
‘Which bits were missing?’
‘Heads, hands and feet,’ said Robin. ‘The bone fragments they retrieved were so small they couldn’t even tell whether they’d come from an adult or a child. Whoever the bones belonged to seemed to have been dismembered, and the bones were then baked to make them easier to crush.’
Pushed back into her seat as the plane’s nose rose into the air, she brought up a saved article on her own phone, which showed pictures of the woodland beside the Lac d’Ougrée.
‘I know wild animals might’ve dug up or carried off bits of the corpses in the years before the remains were found,’ said Robin, ‘but it seems very convenient foxes would have removed the exact parts that might have led to an ID.’
‘It does, yeah,’ said Strike. The caffeine was wearing off quicker than he’d hoped, but he was forcing himself to concentrate, partly out of a desire to ingratiate himself, but also because his interest had been genuinely awakened. ‘So we’ve got a definite overlap in the m.o. of the Lindvalls’ killer and William Wright’s?’
‘Exactly,’ said Robin, ‘but there’s more. Most of the old articles I’ve found take it for granted that Reata and Jolanda were both in the woods, because clothing and belongings from both were found there, but the most detailed contemporary account I’ve found, which I hadto translate into English, says the bone fragments only showed one set of DNA. The trouble is, Reata and Jolanda both had unknown fathers, and Reata’s mother had been cremated, so there was no way of telling whether the fragments were the mother’s or the daughter’s, and of course the belongings in the woods had rotted and rusted and were untestable, and the accused boyfriend had chucked all their stuff at home.’
‘Makes you think,’ said Strike, not entirely honestly. In spite of his best efforts, he was feeling increasingly groggy.
‘And then the case became really politicised,’ said Robin, swiping right to show a picture of a women’s march proceeding along a bridge over the River Meuse, near the Lac d’Ougrée. ‘Did you read about the protests while the trial was going on?’
‘Angry women,’ said Strike, as the plane hit a small amount of turbulence and he and Robin bumped elbows.
‘Yes,’ said Robin. ‘Maes’s defence team argued Reata had neglected Jolanda, found her an inconvenience, regretted not having her adopted, and killed her, possibly accidentally, in a fit of temper. The defence argued that the possessions of Reata’s found at the burial site could have been planted by Reata herself, in the hope people would think she was dead, as well as Jolanda.’
‘Pretty thin,’ said Strike.
‘I know. You can see why it became a realcause célèbrefor feminists. I’m not saying the jury was swayed by that, but objectively speaking, they had no concrete proof that two people had been murdered. All that’s beyond doubt is that parts of one body were in the woods. But Maes was the only person claiming Reata was a neglectful mother. Other witnesses said she loved Jolanda. Meanwhile the prosecution argued that the bone fragments found were more likely to be Reata’s, because Jolanda’s would have been smaller and easier to hide. Maes still sticks to it that he’s innocent. He’s got a little online fan club of men who think he was framed by Reata. There are supposed sightings of her after she disappeared, but none of them look very credible.’
In spite of Strike’s best efforts, Robin could tell he wasn’t finding what she was telling him of gripping import, so she reverted to a more obviously relevant subject.
‘I’m making some headway with Powell’s friend Wynn Jones, by the way. We’ve been texting back and forth.’
‘Really?’ said Strike, fighting another yawn. He was finding the plane’s motion distinctly soporific.
‘Yes. He’s actually been a bit—’ The word that came to Robin’s mind was ‘creepy’, but reflecting that, compared to some of the men involved in this case, Jones’ behaviour was more oafish than sinister, she said, ‘—flirty.’
‘Has he, now?’
‘Yes. He Googled pictures of me going in and out of court,’ said Robin. ‘Anyway, I think I’ve managed to convince him the Whiteheads aren’t our clients. I told him we’re working for a woman and he said “it’s Dilys, isn’t it?” I said I couldn’t confirm that, but he told me Dilys had called him, worried that Tyler was the body in the vault, and he – Jones – told Dilys she was soft in the head.’
‘Might explain why Dilys thinks Jones is rude.’
‘That’s what I thought. Anyway, I’m hoping to get him to FaceTime me and press him on why Powell mentioned silver on the phone to him, because he’s ignored that question twice.
‘But while we’re on Powell: I don’t feel great about this, but I really do think I should try and talk to the Whiteheads. Just to find out whether there was any concrete reason for thinking Powell sabotaged his own car, or if it was just a rumour. And there are a couple of other things,’ said Robin. ‘This might be absolutely nothing, but—’
She realised, mid-sentence, that Strike had sunk into a doze, head against the window. As she looked at him, he let out a loud, deep snore. To her left, the Frenchman laughed.
‘’E’s tired, your ’usband.’
‘Yes,’ said Robin, tugging the in-flight magazine out of the pocket in front of her. ‘He works nights.’
Fifty minutes later, as the plane began its bumpy descent, Strike woke with a start.
‘Shit,’ he mumbled. ‘Sorry.’
