Page 393 of The Hallmarked Man
‘You all right, babe?’ said a wary voice behind them.
The man with the ginger moustache Strike had glimpsed in Crieff had come to collect Jade.
‘Yeah,’ she croaked, getting to her feet again. ‘’M fine… see ya,’ she said to Strike, and Ginger Moustache led her away, with a suspicious glance back at the large man with the bandaged ear.
Strike watched as Jade was absorbed by the crowd. This time, he didn’t return to the function room. Once certain that nobody was looking at him through the glass door, he returned to his car.
125
When shall I be dead and rid
Of the wrong my father did?
How long, how long, till spade and hearse
Put to sleep my mother’s curse?
A. E. Housman
XXVIII: The Welsh Marches, A Shropshire Lad
The Hotel Serenità was even more beautiful in reality than on Instagram: a large building of weathered yellow stone, which had once been a country estate. Having paid the driver, Robin crossed the air-conditioned lobby with an assumed air of confidence, heading straight through it to an exterior area where she could see a few people enjoying lunch. She intended to order a meal, and then start making enquiries of the staff.
But that wasn’t necessary. Robin had barely been seated for two minutes when a round-faced, short-necked young man whose blond hair had been bleached nearly white in the Sardinian sun appeared, to offer her a menu written in English, and enquire whether he could get her a drink before she ordered.
‘Rupert,’ said Robin. Even though she’d expected him to be here, his sudden physical materialisation had come as a shock.
Fleetwood’s round face became suddenly slack with what Robin guessed was the culmination of months of dread.
‘My name’s Robin Ellacott,’ she said. ‘I’m a private—’
‘I know who you are,’ he said, in his deep, bass voice. ‘Oh Christ – she’s not here, is she?’
‘Decima?’ said Robin. ‘No, she’s in the UK.’
‘Does she—?’
‘She knows you’re working for a Clairmont hotel, but she doesn’t know which one. I guessed you were here. I knew Tish Benton came here out of season, and I thought she’d probably come to visit you.’
Fleetwood stared at her, frozen to the spot.
‘I’m not here to cause you trouble, Rupert,’ said Robin quietly, because a family at a nearby table were watching the waiter, intrigued by his strange, slack-jawed behaviour. ‘I just want to talk to you. When d’you get a break?’
She thought he wasn’t going to answer, but then, with an air of hopelessness, he muttered,
‘Three.’
‘Could we talk then, please? I promise I won’t contact anyone before then.’
He assented with a miserable nod.
So, at three o’clock, Robin and Rupert Fleetwood met on a shady terrace with a canopy of bright pink bougainvillea that was just coming into flower. Fleetwood brought coffees for both of them with him, but seemed unable to meet Robin’s eye. When she’d thanked him he nodded, then added sugar to his own without looking at her.
‘How is she?’ he said, staring at the surface of the coffee he was stirring.
‘Not great,’ said Robin.
‘I tried to… I called your partner.’
