Page 337 of The Hallmarked Man
‘I’ve just finished giving my police statement and he’s being interviewed… I s’pose this could end up being a good—’
‘How thefuck’sit a good thing?’
‘Please do not shout at me!’ shouted Robin.
‘Sorry – sorry, I’m just—’
‘At least he’s in custody – and Strike, he’s got curly hair. He could be Oz. This might be it. His driving licence says he’s Wade King, but that’s all I know so far. I’ll call you back once I know more. They want me to wait here until they’ve heard what he’s got to say.’
‘All right,’ said Strike. ‘Which station are you at? I’ll come and pick you up.’
‘It’s OK, Ryan’s coming to get me,’ said Robin.
‘All right, well – keep me posted… thank fuck for that spray.’
‘I’ll probably need to explain why I had it in my bag,’ said Robin distractedly. ‘God knows what I’m going to say. Speak to you later.’
She hung up, leaving Strike standing in the wood-panelled hall, staring at a Damien Hirst butterfly mandala without seeing it. Recalling himself, he headed back into the drawing room.
‘Everyfing all right?’ said Rokeby.
‘Yeah,’ said Strike. ‘That was my partner.’
‘Robin?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Pru likes ’er. Says she’s a good person.’
‘She is, yeah.’
‘Pru finks you two should be togevver.’
‘Really,’ said Strike.
‘Yeah. She finks you’re in love wiv ’er. Don’ tell Pru I told you that, though, she’ll be pissed off at me.’
The drawing room door opened and the housekeeper entered carrying a second tray, this time laden with two triple-decker sandwiches and fresh beers.
‘’Ow did you—?’ began Rokeby.
‘I started making them when I heard you weren’t going to dinner,’ she said, smiling.
‘Worf your fuckin’ weight in gold, you are, Tala,’ said Rokeby. ‘Fanks, darlin’.’
‘You could still go to dinner,’ said Strike. ‘Don’t let me stop you.’
‘Din’t wanna go in the first place,’ said Rokeby, through a mouthful of sandwich, as the housekeeper departed again. ‘Can’t fuckin’ stand me son-in-law. Danni’s new ’usband, but don’ tell Danni I said that.’
‘We’re not in touch,’ said Strike.
‘’E’s a PR ’otshot,’ said Rokeby. ‘An’ a tosser.’
Strike’s sandwich was very good. The two men ate for a minute, and Strike suddenly realised where it was that Rokeby’s drawing room reminded him of: the Ritz bar outside which he and Robin had almost kissed. Then Rokeby said,
‘Want some advice?’
‘No,’ said Strike, and Rokeby laughed.
