Page 345 of The Hallmarked Man
‘Pwease don’t let us huwwy you,’ said Branfoot genially, as Strike drained his glass of whisky.
‘Not at all,’ said Strike. ‘We’re ready for our dinner.’
Robin, who’d picked up her bag, stood up in the knowledge that she probably looked as she felt: definitely ruffled.
‘The pwess photographs don’t do you justice, Miss Ellacott,’ said the beaming Branfoot.
Robin reluctantly allowed Branfoot to shake her hand. This was the man who’d tried to have Danny de Leon killed, and who was doing his best to sabotage their agency: his flattery added insult to the injuries concealed by the pink dress.
‘Shall we, then?’ said Branfoot, waving a long arm in the direction of the hall.
More heads turned as the foursome headed for the door, and Branfoot beamed back at every smiling face, acknowledging a few with a half salute. Kim walked beside him, looking neither left nor right, her heels an inch higher than Robin’s, every hair on her dark head in place. Robin glanced sideways at her partner, trying to gauge his reaction to this unexpected situation, but Strike’s expression told her nothing. At the same time, Robin’s mind had begun to race, and a suspicion dawned on her as she walked behind Kim, and the more she thought about it, the more certain she felt that she was right.
As they walked through the lobby, with its wallpaper painted with palms, an elderly man gave a cry of delight at the sight of Branfoot and stopped to wring his hand.
‘We need you back!’ he told Branfoot earnestly, while his wife hovered, smiling nervously. ‘You’d win in a landslide!’
‘Aut viam inveniam aut faciam,’ said the chortling Branfoot. ‘Watch this space.’
As the three detectives and Branfoot entered the large, grand, white-walled dining room complete with chandeliers and a crimson carpet, Strike said,
‘If you’ll excuse me a moment, I need to make a quick phone call.’
‘Of course,’ said the smirking Branfoot.
In complete ignorance of who Strike was calling, or why, or indeed whether he was actually making a phone call at all, Robin was led, along with Branfoot and Kim, to a round corner table with a snow-white cloth. The waiter’s deferential air was tinged with the same anticipatory amusement shown by others who’d recognised Branfoot. It was as though he was the friend whose arrival is greeted with delight at a party; now the fun would truly start.
‘Well,’ said Branfoot, ‘I’m delighted to meet you, Miss Ellacott. Let me say, I have thegweatest wespectfaw what you did with wegard to that dweadful cult last year. That was indeed a noble undertaking.’
‘Thank you,’ said Robin.
‘Young people are vulnewable in ways society often overlooks – young men in particular. The otherwise healthy desire faw acause, faw service, faw a mission, leads many young men astway, and what you did was all the more wemarkable given that you have no formal twaining in police work, do you?’
‘Well, I’ve had nearly seven years on the job n—’
‘You were Mister Stwike’ssecwetary, in fact?’
‘Not exactly. I worked for the agency as a tempor—’
‘As a temp, yes, exactly, that’s what I meant,’ said Branfoot genially. ‘Wemarkable caweer pwogwession! And given your personal histowy you’ve displayed weallyextwaordinarybwavery.’
Robin might have asked ‘what personal history?’ but didn’t trust herself to do so. Branfoot might be talking about the knife wound on her right forearm, which had been in the press, but if Strike was correct in his theory that Green Jacket was one of Branfoot’s young criminals, Branfoot knew about her rape. She reached for bread and was angry to see her fingers trembling.
‘I understand you’re womantically involved with a CID officer, is that wight?’ Branfoot persisted.
‘I’d rather not talk about my personal life, if you don’t mind,’ said Robin firmly.
‘Oh, ordinawily I’d agwee secwets of the bedchamber should wemain pwivate,’ said Branfoot, still smiling, ‘but Mr Stwike wants to talk about wegulation in your industry, and it’spweciselythe murky overlap of wegulated and unwegulated investigators that concerns me. Indeed, I know it concerns the police themselves.’
Robin looked across the table at Kim.
‘Tell Navabi, the man in the Honda Accord is rubbish.’
‘Sorry?’ said Kim coldly.
‘The PI in the Honda Accord, the grey-haired man with the tiny nose. You should tell Navabi, I’ve spotted him repeatedly.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, sorry,’ said Kim, but a faint pink blush seemed to indicate that Robin’s shot had hit home.
