Page 268 of The Hallmarked Man
‘Yeah, of course. We probably couldn’t match the salary you’re on, though.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Wardle. ‘I’m thinking about it. Like I said, with Mum dying, I can still see Liam right.’
‘We could use you as soon as you want to work,’ said Strike, although it occurred to him as he said it that he hadn’t yet discussed this with his detective partner. Absent-mindedly turning to face the high street, he saw Richard de Leon exit the Rue des Laches, glance around, spot Strike watching him, and beat a hasty retreat back down the track from which he’d just emerged.
Meanwhile, in the pub, a barman had just arrived at Robin’s table with two pizzas.
‘On holiday?’ he asked, as he set them down.
‘Not really,’ said Robin. ‘We’re looking for a man called Danny de Leon.’
‘Danny?’ said the barman cheerfully. ‘He’s up at Helen Platt’s, just seen him. Clos de Camille, on Rue de La Seigneurie. He’s doing her garden.’
84
What so false as truth is,
False to thee?
Where the serpent’s tooth is
Shun the tree…
Robert Browning
A Woman’s Last Word
Pizzas eaten, Strike and Robin emerged half an hour later from the Bel Air and set off up the Avenue beneath a sky still threatening rain, and following the verbal directions given to them by the helpful barman. As they passed the small, low-built shops that were either empty or closed, Strike said,
‘What would you say are the chances our friend Richard was trying to sneak off up the road to warn his brother we’re after him?’
‘High to very high,’ said Robin.
‘Why didn’t he just phone him?’
‘Maybe he has,’ said Robin. ‘Or maybe he waited for you to go back into the pub so he could dash up there. He might be waiting for us at Helen Platt’s. Hope he hasn’t brought his log.’
Strike laughed, but didn’t quip back, because even with the stick he was finding the Avenue harder going than he would have done had it been tarmacked, and didn’t want to look or sound like a man struggling with the terrain, not when Murphy would probably be vaulting gates if he was here, the limber fucker.
‘I don’t understand why this place is British,’ said Robin, as they turned right into Rue de la Seigneurie. ‘All the place names are French and we’re nearer France than Britain.’
‘I don’t think itisBritish, strictly speaking,’ said Strike, still tryingdeterminedly not to wince or pant. ‘The Seigneur used to hold the island for the British monarch, or something. All goes back to William the Conqueror.’
They passed a church and graveyard and the local police station, both old, low buildings of stone, and after a further five minutes found themselves passing attractive houses. Ahead, in the distance to the left, they could see the tower of what Strike knew from maps was the Seigneurie, the large stone building where the current Seigneur lived.
‘That’s it,’ said Robin suddenly, pointing at a house painted light pink. ‘Clos de Camille.’
It was rather better maintained than the de Leon family residence, the camellia tree for which it was named standing proudly beside the front door. However, nobody answered when Robin rang the doorbell.
‘Maybe Richardhascalled to warn him,’ she said, rejoining Strike in the street.
A painted side gate stood open, through which they could see into a long and well-tended garden.
‘There’s a bloke with a spade,’ said Strike, squinting at a figure in a bright yellow jacket, who seemed to be working at the far end of an expanse of lawn. ‘We could—’
Robin’s mobile rang.
‘Sorry,’ she said, with a sinking feeling, seeing Murphy was calling. ‘I need to—’
