Page 293 of The Hallmarked Man
‘’Ow do I know? Know enough o’ the fuckin’ cocksuckers, dontcha?’
‘They speak highly of you, too,’ said Strike. ‘All right. Just wanted to give you advance warning.’
‘Awright, cheers,’ said Shanker grumpily, and he hung up.
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… forgive me! I abase—
Know myself mad and monstrous utterly
In all I did that moment; but as God
Gives me this knowledge—heart to feel and tongue
To testify—so be you gracious too!
Judge no man by the solitary work
Of—well, they do say and I can believe—
The devil in him…
Robert Browning
The Inn Album, IV
At exactly the moment Robin heard Murphy’s key turn in the lock of the front door again, Strike called her mobile. She refused the call and waited, feeling sick, for Murphy to reappear in the sitting room, which he did seconds later, phone in one hand and a curry in his other.
‘Got you chicken Madras,’ he said, smiling and holding up the bag.
Then his eyes fell on the open water bottle Robin had positioned on the coffee table in front of her.
‘What’s that doing there?’
‘It spilled,’ said Robin. ‘In your sports bag.’
‘What were you doing rummaging in my—?’
‘It leaked out onto the floor,’ said Robin. ‘I was mopping it up when I realised what it was.’
She stared up at him, waiting, feeling strangely shivery, like someone in the early stages of flu.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked at the bottle with its vodka dregs, back at Robin, then said,
‘I…’
Robin had imagined his possible reactions while waiting for him to return. She’d wondered whether he’d try and pretend this was a one-off lapse, even that someone else had filled the bottle without his knowledge. Life had taught her there were few limits on the lies desperate men were prepared to tell.
Murphy’s eyes filled with tears. He dropped the takeaway and sat down in an armchair, face in his hands, and began to sob. There was no question that his tears were genuine: he was making noises that were barely human; strangled, whooping wails, his whole body shaking.
Robin had never seen him cry before, but she offered no comfort. She wanted to hear what he had to say, how many more untruths he was prepared to tell.
At last, he began to talk in broken sentences, not looking at her, and still crying.
‘Those kids who were shot… I fucked up… it was all on me… I thought the eyewitness was bullshitting… went and arrested the wrong… it was all on me, I did it… I was sure the fucker had done it… I got rough with him… investigation… complaints…
‘I had a beer in the pub… just one… couldn’t stop… couldn’t fucking stop… you’re going to leave, aren’t you?’
