Page 352 of The Hallmarked Man
‘Why’s that?’ said Strike, sitting down without invitation on the sofa.
‘You know fucking well why not.After what you did.’
‘I’ve done a lot of things,’ said Strike, stretching out the leg bearing the prosthesis, which was cramping again, after the long drive. ‘You’ll have to be more specific.’
‘It’syour bloody fault she killed herself!’ shouted Tara.
Strike wasn’t remotely surprised that they’d arrived within seconds at this grotesque accusation, which to most people would have made sense only as the culmination of a vicious row. Tara’s tactic in arguments had always been to reach for the most damaging thing she could throw at her opponent before the latter had time to collect their wits. Charlotte had been forever branded with her mother’s opening salvos.I wish I’d never fucking had you. Go overdose again, whining attention-seeker. God, you’re a tedious, ugly little shit.
‘So whose fault were the two suicide attempts before I ever met her?’ asked Strike.
‘Fuck you!’
‘Eloquent as ever,’ said Strike. ‘Anyway, back to the sideboard.’
‘It’s none of your fucking business what’s on my sideboard!’
‘It’s not your sideboard, it’s your son’s, and he’s going to be royally fucked when the press find out where Dino Longcaster’s silver ship went, isn’t he?’
‘Sacha knows it’s here and he doesn’t care!’ said Tara, with what Strike was certain was gross mendacity. If Sacha knew what his mother had done, he’d be extremely nervous about anyone else finding out about it, most of all journalists. ‘I read Charlotte’s suicide note,’ she added loudly. ‘I know what you did to her.’
‘The worst I can be accused of with regards to Charlotte is not reconfiguring my entire life around her death wish,’ said Strike.
‘You were unfaithful, you were—’
‘I picked up the fucking pieces until there was no putting her back together any more,’ said Strike, ‘and I’m looking at the reason she was never going to make old bones.’
‘Bastard,’ said Tara. ‘And I mean thatliterally, of course.’
‘I’d say I’m a fairly good advert for having an unmarried mother, if you and Charlotte are the control,’ said Strike. ‘Back to the nef.’
‘If you think I’m going to explainanythingto the thug who as good as killed my daughter—’
‘Fine,’ said Strike, getting up. ‘I’ll go to the press, tell them Sacha’s got the stolen ship and, trust me, I’ll enjoy it.’
‘Don’t youdare– come back here!’ shrieked Tara, as Strike made for the door. Before he could reach it, it opened to reveal the frightened-looking housekeeper.
‘Getout,’ Tara shouted at her, ‘this is priv—!’
The housekeeper checked, holding her tray. Tara made a noise ofexasperation.
‘Bring the coffee infirst,’ she said. ‘Thenleave. Come back here!’ she yelled at Strike. ‘Comeback!’
‘We’ve got nothing else to say to each other,’ said Strike, turning to look at her as the housekeeper set her tray down on the coffee table and poured Tara a cup with a quivering hand.
‘Yes, we have,’ said Tara furiously. ‘Sit down.Sit down.’
Strike didn’t move. It was liberating to be able to treat her as he considered she deserved; in the past, he’d always had to remember that Charlotte would pay the price if he permitted himself to lose his temper with Tara, but Charlotte was in Brompton Cemetery, finally beyond suffering, unlike the scrawny flesh and blood woman with the distorted, carefully made-up face and a lipstick-stained cigarette in her claw-like hand.
Having poured Tara’s coffee, the housekeeper scurried out of the room and closed the door while Strike remained standing.
‘Sit down,’ Tara said again. ‘Sit.’
‘I’m not a fucking dog,’ said Strike. ‘Are you going to answer my questions?’
‘Yes,’ said Tara impatiently. ‘Sitdown.’
Before returning to the sofa, Strike helped himself to coffee. Then he said,
