Page 4 of The Hallmarked Man
‘Yes. I think . . no,’ said Decima, suddenly passionate, tears appearing in her eyes, ‘Iknowit was him, and… I need proof, because… I need proof. I just need somebody to prove it.’
‘Who exactly—?’
‘He was someoneveryclose to me, and he matched the bodyexactly, and it all fits: the silver, and him being m-murdered, and he disappeared at the same time – it was him. I know it was.’
The lonely house, the tearful woman: Strike felt as though he’d been plunged back into the situation he’d left in Cornwall, but with far stranger overtones. Unable to think of anything else to do, he flicked open his notebook.
‘All right, what similarities are there between the body and the man you know?’
‘I’ve written it all down,’ said Decima at once, reaching for the red notebook, and she flicked to the back of what was revealed to be a weekly diary, where Strike saw several densely written pages. ‘My friend was twenty-six – the press said the body was of a man in his mid-twenties to mid-thirties. William Wright was left-handed; so was my friend. The body was blood group A positive – that’s the same. Five feet six or seven – that matches. Wright was interviewed for the job on the nineteenth of May – I didn’t see my friend that day. Wright moved into a rented room on May the twenty-first – that fits, because my friend was moving out of his house that weekend – I wanted him to bring all his things to my place, but he wouldn’t. I didn’t understand where he was putting it all. It must have been this rented room.’
Having tried and failed to think of a more tactful way of posing his next question, Strike said,
‘And why would your friend have changed his name and gone to work in a silver shop?’
‘Because – it’s complicated.’
‘Have you reported him missing?’
‘Yes, of course, but the police aren’t helping,they just took his aunt’s word for it that—’
She broke off, then said in a higher-pitched voice.
‘Look, Iknowit was him, Iknowit was, all right?’
Strike, Robin and their subcontractors had a name for the kind of people who’d emailed and phoned their office in increasing numbers as the agency’s profile grew, desperate to tell the detectives that they were being spied on by domestic appliances, that Satanic rings were being run out of Westminster, or that they were in relationships with celebrities who were unaccountably withholding their affections due to malign forces: Gatesheads. The distinguishing characteristics of a Gateshead were an irrational belief, a dislike of common sense questions and an inability to contemplate alternative explanations for their dilemmas. The woman sitting opposite Strike was currently presenting a classic set of symptoms.
‘You said Sir Daniel Gayle’s daughter works for you,’ Strike said, hoping to unravel the problem by tugging on a different thread. ‘What exactly—?’
‘I’ve got a restaurant,’ said Decima. ‘The Happy Carrot, on Sloane Street. She’s my maître d’.’
Strike happened to know the restaurant in question, which, in spite of the name, wasn’t a vegan café but a very well-reviewed and expensive eatery offering organically produced food, to which Strike had recently tailed an unfaithful commercial pilot and his mistress. Unless Decima was lying about being Valentine’s sister she came from money: the Longcasters were a very wealthy family, and Decima and Valentine’s father, whom Strike had never met, but about whom he knew far more than he’d ever wanted to, owned one of the most expensive private members’ clubs in London. Trying yet another tack, he asked,
‘How well did you know the man you think was the body in the vault?’
‘Very well,’ said Decima. ‘I—’
To Strike’s consternation, something now stirred beneath Decima’s poncho, as though her breasts had developed independent motion.Then, making Strike jump, an ear-splitting screech echoed through the kitchen.
‘Oh God!’ said Decima in panic, scrambling to her feet. ‘I hoped he’d sleep—’
She now struggled out of her poncho, which caused her fine hair to stand up in the static, to reveal a very small baby strapped to her in a fleecy sling.
‘You mustn’t tell anyone about him!’ Decima told Strike frantically over the baby’s squalling. ‘You mustn’t tell anyone I’ve got a baby!’
Strike’s disconcerted expression appeared to trigger still more panic in Decima.
‘He’s mine! I can show you the birth certificate! I had him three weeks ago! But nobody knows about him, and youmustn’ttell them!’
Robin had chosen a fine fucking day to get a sore throat, thought Strike, as Decima tried and failed to extricate herself from the harness attaching the screaming baby to her. Finally, and mostly because he wanted the noise to stop, he went to her aid, successfully prising apart a clasp in which part of the poncho had become entangled.
‘Thank you – I think he’s hungry – I’m feeding him myself…’
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ said Strike at once, more than happy to go and sit in his car if that was what it took not to have to watch.
‘No, I – if you’ll just turn your back—’
He willingly did as he was bidden, turning to stare through the window not covered with a bin bag.
