Page 283 of The Hallmarked Man
‘Yes,’ said Strike.
The unexpectedness of the call, coming so soon after Robin had expressed surprise that Fleetwood hadn’t been in touch with them, had caught him off-guard.
‘Your ex-girlfriend’s very worried about you.’
There was no response.
Oui mais moi, je vais seule
Car personne ne m’aime…
‘Where are you, currently?’ asked Strike, who’d managed to get his notebook open and was trying to find his pen.
‘That doesn’t matter,’ said the deep voice. ‘Just tell Decima I’m all right.’
‘That won’t make her very happy, I’m afraid,’ said Strike, switching his mobile phone to his left ear, so he could write. ‘She doesn’t believe you’d ever have left her. She thinks the reason you haven’t been in touch is that you’re dead.’
He waited, but there was no response.
‘At a bare minimum, I think she’d like to know why you disappeared,’ said Strike.
‘It wasn’t going to work between us.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘It just wasn’t,’ said the voice. ‘It isn’t her fault.’
‘I’m going to need proof you’re genuinely Rupert Fleetwood if youwant me to pass this message on,’ said Strike. ‘Tell me something only he and Decima would know.’
He waited, pen poised.
‘She called me “Bear”,’ said the deep voice.
‘And she and Rupert are the only ones who’d know that, are they? Decima never did it in anyone else’s hearing?’
Comme les garçons et les filles de mon âge
Connaîtrais-je bientôt ce qu’est l’amour?
‘I can think of something only Rupert and Decima knew, before he disappeared,’ said Strike.
‘I stole her father’s silver ship,’ said the deep voice.
‘Plenty of people know Fleetwood stole that ship. I want something only Rupert and Decima—’
The caller hung up.
Strike lowered his mobile, frowning. He wondered whether to call Robin with the news that Rupert Fleetwood, or somebody pretending to be him, had just called, but she was probably with Murphy.
While the whisky wasn’t precisely cheering him, it was at least having a numbing effect, which was better than nothing, so he ordered a fourth, wondering what had become of Kim. This lateness was most unlike her; she was usually punctual to a fault.
His fresh drink had just been set down in front of him when his mobile rang again, also with a call forwarded from the office. Hoping it might be the man with the deep voice again, he answered.
‘Strike.’
‘Aye, it’s me,’ said a loud and angry whisper. ‘Wha’ for are ye waitin’?Ah need tae meet ye!’
After a moment’s incomprehension Strike said,
