Page 56 of The Hallmarked Man
‘Are you ’im ’oo done that church? An’ got that strangler?’
‘She did the church,’ said Strike, indicating Robin. ‘I got the strangler.’
‘Ha,’ said the woman, looking from one to the other. It was clear that she considered herself in the presence of celebrity, and Strike reflected that here he was seeing the flipside of the inconveniences of becoming newsworthy: the lure, to potential witnesses, of reflected glory.
‘We’ve been hired to find out anything we can about Wright,’ he said, now pulling his wallet out of his pocket. The woman’s eyes followed it greedily as he extracted three tenners.
‘I fort they knew ’oo Wright was?’ she said.
‘Maybe,’ said Strike, ‘maybe not. Anything you tell us would be in strictest confidence. We’ve got nothing to do with the police,’ he added, in indirect acknowledgment of the strong smell of weed hanging in the crisp winter air.
She chewed her lip, thinking.
‘Yeah,’ she said at last. ‘All righ’.’
She plucked the banknotes out of Strike’s hand, then unlocked the front door while her son peered up at them with the blank, wary stare of small children. The foursome stepped over a mess of fliers lying inside the front door that nobody had bothered to pick up. The overhead lightbulb was out, the uncarpeted floor was of grimy stone, and there was a mingled smell of damp and cooking. The woman opened a door on the right, and led them into her home.
What must once have been a drawing room had been converted into a cramped bedsit, which smelled strongly of cannabis and body odour. Much of the floor was cluttered with bowls used as ashtrays, empty cigarette packets, and other, less readily identifiable bits of detritus. In one corner of the room stood an aged cooker and a fridge; evidently occupants were supposed to wash up in the dirty sink visible through the door to a cramped bathroom. There was a double bed, a cot, a television standing precariously on a cardboard box, a small sofa currently occupied by two bulging black bin bags, and a chest of drawers, on top of which were two mugs growing mould, and a slightly crumpled letter headedHM Courts and Tribunals Service.
Strike was instantly and unpleasantly transported back to those parts of his childhood spent with his mother. Even the man with long greasy hair who was lying face down in the double bed seemed familiar. The latter jerked awake as his partner closed the door.
‘Hurgh?’ he said groggily, turning a swollen-eyed face towards them. ‘The fuck?’ he repeated in dazed alarm, looking up at Strike who, even in civilian clothes, conveyed an air of officialdom to those primed to detect it.
‘’E’s Cameron Strike, the private detective,’ the woman, with dim excitement. ‘’Im what caught that Shacklewell Ripper an’ done that church. An’…’
She’d forgotten Robin’s name already.
‘Robin Ellacott,’ supplied Robin.
‘Yeah,’ said the woman. ‘They wanna talk abou’ William Wright. They’re not police, Daz.’
Strike, who had considerable expertise in this area, recognised in the sleepy man the signs of a fully committed pothead: slothful speech, dazed affect and a slight, though in this instance not unreasonable, paranoia.
‘Yeah, but – the fuck?’ said Daz again, weakly. ‘I’ve got nuffing fuckin’ on, Mandy.’
Mandy cackled, tugged a pair of jeans out of one of the black bin bags and chucked them at her boyfriend.
‘Put ’em on under the duvet,’ she instructed him, now heaving both bin bags off the sofa. ‘Gonna go the laundrette later,’ she informed the detectives. Her son ran to pick up a Spider-Man action figure which had been dislodged from between the sofa cushions.
‘Council put us ’ere,’ Mandy informed Strike and Robin. ‘Shit’ole,innit? You can sit down,’ she said, pointing at the sofa. It was extremely dirty, but the two detectives did as invited, forced to sit so close that their arms and thighs touched. Mandy perched on the end of the bed; Daz, now hidden beneath the duvet, was wriggling into his jeans.
‘They don’t fink William was that Jason Fing,’ Mandy informed the undulating lump beneath the bedclothes. ‘Inever fort ’e was,’ she said proudly.
‘Yeah, you did,’ came Daz’s muffled voice from under the duvet.
Their son was now rummaging through Mandy’s bag of shopping.
‘No, Clint!’ said Mandy sharply. ‘Fuck’ssake—’
Clint began to cry.
‘Oh, all right,’ she said, relenting instantly. She pulled out a pack of chocolate biscuits, ripped them open with her teeth and handed him one. ‘Don’ blame me when the dentist wants to take ’em all out,’ she added, pulling out a packet of Mayfair cigarettes for herself, and unwrapping them.
‘Is it OK if we take notes?’ Robin asked.
‘Yeah, go on,’ said Mandy, looking rather excited.
‘I’ll do it,’ muttered Strike to Robin, pulling out his own notebook. He thought Robin might appear less threatening to Daz, whose head had just re-emerged from beneath the duvet.
