Page 275 of The Hallmarked Man
‘Or Fleetwood, if we must – had to die there.’
‘Nor can I,’ said Robin. After a moment or two she said, ‘D’you think the dead man was someone else entirely, who was killed for reasons we don’t know?’
‘I think that every other hour,’ said Strike. ‘But if itwassomeone we’ve never heard of, the police don’t seem to have heard of them either, and it seems bloody odd literally nobody’s come forwards to say it might’ve been that man. But I think it’s safe to conclude that whoever Oz is, he’s not the man Branfoot paid to kill de Leon. Shanker’s been hoodwinked. I’ll have to let him know the supposed killer’s full of it.’
Rain began to fall again as they sat beside the window and each sipped their drinks.
‘So, it turns out therearebrothers who tell each other everything,’ said Robin.
‘Doubt Danny wanted to tell him,’ said Strike. ‘Probably thought he might need Richard as back-up, if Branfoot’s henchman turned up.’
‘They’re fond of each other, though, you could tell… Have you seen Al lately?’ she asked, referring to the only half-brother with whom Strike had contact.
‘No,’ said Strike. ‘Still pissed off I didn’t want to reconcile with Rokeby after finding out he had prostate cancer. We haven’t talked since.’
‘I like him,’ said Robin, who’d met Al only once, but retained the memory of someone who seemed both fond of and impressed by his older brother.
‘So you keep telling me.’
‘You do, too,’ said Robin, smiling.
‘He’s all right,’ said Strike, with a slight shrug. ‘We’ve just got fuck-all in common.’
‘Like Martin and me,’ said Robin, who then clapped a hand to her forehead and gasped, ‘oh, bugger.’
‘What?’
‘I forgot to call Mum back yesterday, about Dirk.’
‘About what?’
‘Dirk, Martin’s son. My newest nephew. He was supposed to be going home yesterday. There were some problems with the birth; he’s got a paralysed arm.’
‘Shit,’ said Strike.
‘They think it’ll resolve,’ said Robin.
‘Your family’s been doing a lot of breeding lately.’
Robin experienced again that slight inner wince that was now accompanying all mention of babies and pregnancy, unaware that Strike had noticed a slight external flinch.
‘Listen,’ she said, keen to get off the subject, ‘I doubt we’re going to be able to get a takeaway for dinner, I haven’t seen anywhere that’s open. Why don’t I go and buy some food we can cook at the Old Forge this evening?’
‘It’s raining.’
‘Which is why it’s lucky I’m not made of papier mâché.’
‘OK, I’ll come,’ said Strike, picking up his pint with the intention of downing it.
‘No,’ said Robin. ‘You stay here and rest your leg. Don’t look at me like that, we’ve still got to walk to the B&B afterwards. Just let it settle down a bit, I’ll be back soon.’
Robin left Strike to stare back out of the window, feeling as though he was some creaky old codger being looked after by a granddaughter. He hadn’t yet seen his face in a mirror, but he knew the spade injury must look bad, because it was drawing covert looks from the men playing pool. His knee, which he’d twisted during his unwise dash over wet grass in pursuit of Danny de Leon, also felt dangerously swollen again. Wondering how far away the B&B would prove to be, he watched a trickle of primary-age children running past outside, clearly just released from school, all healthy and nimble. He was still exhausted, knew he looked terrible, and, after the unforeseen physical challenges he’d already met on Sark, was in nearly as poor a state as he’d been on the occasion, over a year previously, when Robin had told him he wasn’t fit to walk upstairs with her, into what he’d feared might be a murderous trap. This wasn’t the way he’d wanted the trip to go, and, to compound his feeling of misery, he wondered whether Robin’s odd look when he’d mentioned breeding didn’t indicate that she’d soon have – or, perhaps, already had – something to tell himthat would indicate a cementing of her relationship with Murphy that no declaration of his could weaken.
It took Robin almost an hour, firstly to find the supermarket, then to load up a bag with the ingredients for spaghetti carbonara, adding wine she felt they deserved and painkillers and alcohol wipes for Strike’s face. She returned to the Captain’s Bar because she didn’t want Strike to have to walk alone to meet her, given the state of his leg. By the time she returned, the bruising and swelling of his jaw was even worse, giving his face a very lopsided appearance.
‘How does it feel?’ Robin asked.
‘Still not as bad as that bloody spray of yours.’
