Page 282 of The Hallmarked Man
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But she had mistaken her man. Perhaps she had not met many like him.
John Oxenham
A Maid of the Silver Sea
The injury to Strike’s face looked even worse the following morning, the swelling slightly diminished but livid blue bruises dappling his skin. His face continued to ache and he chose not to shave, for fear of reopening the gash left by the spade.
Before heading back to the ferry, he and Robin walked a little way along La Coupée, which lay just beyond the Old Forge: a high, narrow isthmus connecting the main island from Little Sark. While a windswept Robin was looking down at the turbulent grey sea, Strike, who’d just checked his phone, said,
‘We might be lucky to get back today.’
‘Why?’
‘Storm Doris just hit the UK,’ said Strike. ‘Ninety mile an hour winds. They’ve grounded a ton of flights.’
Sure enough, when they arrived at the airport on Guernsey it was to find their flight had been delayed and rumours flying between tetchy passengers that it would be cancelled. Robin caught herself hoping it would; that she and Strike could just retire to a Guernsey hotel and that she’d be able to enjoy another evening away from London with a clear conscience. However, an hour after the scheduled departure time they were allowed to board.
The descent into Gatwick was nerve-racking, and at one point Robin instinctively grabbed Strike’s forearm as the plane zig-zagged on its approach to the runway, buffeted by gale-force winds. However,they landed without mishap to a round of applause from the passengers, excluding Strike, for whom the forearm-grabbing had been bittersweet, and who’d happily have endured a far rougher descent for prolonged physical contact.
Though London still bore traces of the battering it had taken from the storm, the following day was calm, bright and cold. A tree had been blown over in the Richmond street where Two-Times and his wife lived, and Strike watched men in yellow jackets dealing with it while sitting in his BMW, glad to be able to keep the weight off his leg after all the walking he’d done on Sark, his jaw still painful, and feeling even more depressed than he had at the Old Forge. He could draw no comfort from the memory of Robin clutching his arm on the plane or holding his hand in the kitchen, because she and Murphy would soon be living together, and whether or not she wanted children now, the direction of travel was plain to see; Murphy putting on subtle pressure, Robin finally caving, and then realising, as she’d said back on Sark, that she couldn’t detach from her child sufficiently to work as she worked now…
Kim was supposed to be taking over surveillance on Mrs Two-Times at seven that evening, but with ten minutes to go, Strike received a text from her.
Really sorry, personal emergency, are you all right to stay on her? I’ll be there as soon as I can.
As he was tired and hungry in addition to feeling depressed, Strike wasn’t best pleased by this message, but he returned an affirmative answer, only to see Mrs Two-Times emerge alone from her house a few minutes later, climb into an Uber, and set off in the direction of central London. Strike followed in his BMW, hoping she wasn’t going too far; he really wanted to get home. While watching her check her make-up in the back seat of the car, Strike wondered whether Two-Times wouldn’t end up ditching her, as he’d done a previous girlfriend who’d proved disappointingly monogamous. It was a shame, Strike thought, that he didn’t have the same fetish as Two-Times; he’d be having the time of his life if he derived pleasure from knowing the woman he loved was fucking someone better-looking.
Mrs Two-Times’ driver dropped her outside the St Martins Lane Hotel. Strike found a parking space, then entered the spaciouswhite-floored lobby, which was decorated with such objects as giant chess pieces and a sofa draped in fake fur. Trying not to limp too obviously, he crossed to an information desk and was informed that there was a restaurant and café. He went to check both, but neither showed any sign of his target.
Now wondering whether Mrs Two-Times hadn’t actually disappeared into a bedroom for an assignation, he asked a passing staff member whether there was anywhere else he might check for his date, and was directed to the Blind Spot, a secret bar, admittance to which was gained via a hidden white door with an outstretched golden hand as a handle. Strike was in no mood to find this charmingly whimsical.
The room inside was long, narrow and so dark that he nearly fell on his face by snagging his fake foot on the edge of a rug. Having regained his balance, he spotted Mrs Two-Times at the far end of the room, barely illuminated by a small shaded lamp and sharing a booth with two other women. A waiter directed Strike to the only vacant table, which was a leather booth positioned so that Strike was forced to keep an eye on Mrs Two-Times in a large mirror on the opposite wall, which gave a partial and distorted image.
Speakers over his head were playing ‘Itchycoo Park’.
I feel inclined to blow my mind…
The waiter handed him a cocktail menu.Fuck it.He was a ten-minute walk from the office; he’d leave the car where it was; he deserved alcohol. Having flicked impatiently past the cocktails, all of which were themed for different cities and countries, he ordered a double Ardbeg and attempted to find a way to extend the leg bearing the prosthesis in the narrow space between table and leather sofa.
Strike’s drink arrived shortly after he’d texted Kim the new location. He took a large gulp of the smoky whisky, disinclined to order expensive bar snacks, in spite of his hunger, because he was hoping not to be there long. All around him in the dim lighting sat couples, their faces illuminated by small puddles of light cast by the lamps, so, hoping to look like someone waiting for a girlfriend, he took refuge in his phone, searching online records for Jim Todd’s mother, a task he’d been doing intermittently all day.
Nancy Jameson was proving difficult to locate, because she’d alternated between her married and maiden names. Strike had found several court judgments against her, mostly for disorderly conduct, but also for shoplifting, though the last of these dated from five yearspreviously. Strike knew she might be dead, but persisted in looking for her, because the mundane task was keeping his mind off his other troubles. When he’d finished his first whisky, he ordered another.
By eight o’clock, with Françoise Hardy singing over the speakers, and Strike on his third double Ardbeg, his mobile rang with a call forwarded from the office. Raising it to his ear, he said,
‘Strike.’
The line was bad. For a few seconds, nobody spoke, but Strike could hear a crackling noise. Then a notably deep, male voice said,
‘This is Rupert Fleetwood.’
It was a few seconds before Strike registered what had just been said; two and a half double Ardbegs hadn’t improved his powers of concentration. Fumbling hastily for the notebook in his pocket, he said, raising his voice over Françoise Hardy:
‘It’s good to speak to you, Mr Fleetwood.’
‘You’ve been looking for me,’ said the deep voice.
