Page 73 of The Hallmarked Man
‘When?’ he asked.
‘Soon. Now,’ said Shanker.
‘Where are you?’
‘Clapham Junction. You’ll ’ave to come to me. I gotta stay ’ere. Meetin’ a geezer.’
Strike’s gaze moved to the window. It was another wintry, grey day; his leg was still sore and he’d been counting on an afternoon with his partner, hoping, however over-optimistically, that he might get a chance to declare himself, but Shanker rarely got in touch without having something that was worth hearing.
‘All right,’ Strike said reluctantly. ‘Give me an hour.’
‘Falcon pub,’ said Shanker, and hung up.
‘What does he want?’ asked Robin.
‘To meet,’ said Strike. ‘Now.’
‘Why?’
‘Maybe he’s found out Dredge the drug-dealer did have Rupert Fleetwood murdered in the silver vault?’
‘So the case might be wrapped up by teatime?’ said Robin, conscious of a faint disappointment, because she, too, had been looking forward to an afternoon together.
‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ said Strike, hoping he was right. He needed this case.
‘I like your shirt, by the way,’ Robin said. ‘Is it new?’
‘It is, yeah,’ said Strike. ‘Thanks.’
Feeling slightly more cheerful, he headed into the outer office to fetch his coat.
21
Yet my heart forebodes
Danger or death awaits thee on this field.
Fain would I know thee safe and well…
Matthew Arnold
Sohrab and Rustum: An Episode
It took Strike forty minutes to reach Clapham Junction station. By coincidence, the last time he’d been in this part of London, he’d been running surveillance on Two-Times’ first PA-turned-lover. The area had become progressively more upmarket over Strike’s lifetime; he remembered Clapham Junction when it had been home to pawn shops and dodgy garages turning over stolen cars. Now there was a Waitrose, wine bars and brisk professionals bustling homewards to houses worth well over a million pounds.
He knew the pub Shanker had designated as their meeting place of old, but the Falcon, too, had been gentrified. Strike entered to find polished wood, a stained-glass chandelier and freshly upholstered leather benches. There was something reassuring about spotting Shanker sitting alone, scowling and compulsively clicking his fingers, thereby effortlessly repelling anyone who might consider sitting near him. Shanker’s beard concealed the deep scar that ran from the middle of his upper lip towards his cheekbone, which, unshaven, would reveal a mouth dragged upwards in a permanent Elvis-style sneer. His closely cropped head and the tattoos that covered his hands and neck marked him as of a life apart from the polite newcomers to the area, who clustered around the bar, some of them throwing Shanker sideways glances with a mixture of fascination and trepidation.
Shanker, as Strike well knew, was almost entirely amoral, a man raised in conditions most people in the developed world barely understood, where violence was a daily reality, and the only law was self-interest. The place where he and Strike had bonded, against all odds, was in their mutual love of a deeply flawed woman who’d been Strike’s biological, and Shanker’s adoptive, mother. Leda, who’d scraped the teenaged Shanker off the street after he’d been stabbed, and taken him home to the squat where she was living with her two children, had unwittingly forged a regard between the two teenagers that had survived a divergence of interests that should have been absolute, and they were occasionally useful to each other. Both would have been sorry to know the other was dead, but months and sometimes years had passed without contact, and it was highly unusual for Shanker to summon Strike to meet him, as he had today.
‘How’re you doing?’ said Strike, once he’d got himself a pint and sat down.
‘I’m lookin’ at firty-six monfs unless me fuckin’ lawyer pulls ’is ’ead out of ’is arse,’ said Shanker, glowering.
‘Yeah? What’s the charge?’ asked Strike, not bothering to act surprised. Shanker had been in and out of prison all his adult life.
‘Obstruction of fuckin’ justice. Load of bollocks. An’ Alyssa’s fuckin’ chucked me out again.’
‘Sorry to hear that,’ said Strike.
