‘But he did it,’ said Valentine, ‘so Albie What-ever-the-fuck’s powers of perception don’t seem great, do they?’
‘Sacha said Cosima was in tears. Does she cry that easily, in the middle of a party, just because a gatecrasher’s rude to her?’
‘Are you trying to be funny?’ said Valentine, suddenly aggressive, and leaning in.
‘I’m simply—’
‘If you or your fucking partner go anywhere near Cosima—’
‘We won’t need to, if you just tell me—’
‘Did you hear what I just said to you?’
‘Why did you agree to talk to me?’ asked Robin, feigning composure. When he’d leaned in she’d seen the slight residue of white powder around his nostrils; he’d taken cocaine either in the car or just before leaving God’s Own Junkyard. ‘People usually agree to an interview because they want to find out what we already know.’
‘Is this what the great detective’s taught you? Transparent little mind games?’
‘It’s not a mind game, I’m—’
‘D’you sit at Brokeby’s one and a half feet, drinking in his wisdom?’
‘Two feet, one fake. You’re thinking of his legs. But go on.’
‘That’s exactly the sort of thing he’d say, the point-scoring little fucking pedant.’
‘He’s hardly little,’ said Robin.
‘You’d know, of course.’
‘We’re seriously doing penis innuendoes, are we?’ said Robin.
‘Quod si non aliud potest, ruborem ferreo canis exprimamus ore.’
‘You’ll have to translate, I’m afraid. I never did Latin.’
‘Ask your fucking boyfriend to do it.’
‘My boyfriend doesn’t speak Latin, either.’
‘He’ll understand that.’
‘Cormoran Strike isn’t my—’
‘Oh,’ said Valentine. ‘Got bored already, has he? That was quick.’
‘We’re not together, and we never have been,’ said Robin. ‘I’m here—’
Her phone rang again. It was Linda, a second time. Robin refused the call.
‘You two were fucking as soon as he left Charlotte,’ said Valentine.
‘You’ve been misinformed,’ said Robin.
‘It’s you who’s been misinformed, dear.’
‘I think I’m more likely to know who I’m sleeping—’
‘Did you know he knocked her around?’
‘Mr Longcaster, I—’
‘Rather not hear hard facts about your hero?’
‘Cormoran Strike isn’t my hero, he’s my business partner,’ said Robin.
‘Charlotte told me you were pretty fucking starry-eyed whenever he walked in the room.’
‘She saw us together for about a minute and a half, tops,’ said Robin, starting to lose her cool against her will. ‘And as I recall, I was looking at her the whole—’
‘I’ll bet you were. Like what you see?’
‘What’s that supposed—?’
‘Eyeing up the competition? You were no fucking competition, not to her.’
‘As I wasn’t competing, that’s neither—’
‘D’you know what she called you?’
‘I really couldn’t care le—’
‘“PP”,’ said Valentine. ‘Want to know what that stands for?’
‘I think we’re done here,’ said Robin, but with execrable timing, the waitress now returned and put a plate of spaghetti in front of her.
‘Thank you,’ muttered Robin.
‘Parmesan?’
‘No, thank you.’
The waitress walked away.
‘I think we’re done,’ Robin repeated to Valentine, but he didn’t move.
‘If Corporal Brokeby had come to me with that “what if Fleetwood’s killed himself?” bullshit he pulled on Sacha, I’d’ve given him what he deserves,’ said Valentine. ‘He wants to talk suicide, I’m more than fucking ready to talk suicide.’
‘Well, you had your chance,’ said Robin, ‘and you refused to speak to him.’
‘It’s on him Charlotte’s dead.’
‘It isn’t,’ said Robin.
‘He fucking destroyed her.’
‘They split up six years before she did it.’
‘That’s what he told you, is it?’
Robin felt a creeping sensation in her stomach. Had Strike hidden that, too? Had he continued to meet Charlotte, and sleep with her, through those years he’d pretended they’d split up?’
‘PP stands for the pit pony,’ said Valentine remorselessly. ‘Cormoran Strike’s scruffy little Yorkshire helper.’
‘Charming,’ said Robin. ‘If you’ve quite—’
‘He screwed around when he was supposed to be with her, he knocked her about, and she still fucking loved him, and the night she died, he said stuff to her—’
‘My information is, he didn’t pick up the phone,’ said Robin.
‘Then you need a better source of fucking information,’ said Valentine.
He got to his feet, looking down at her.
‘You are a fucking pit pony. He drags you along in the dark like some dumb fucking animal. Now fuck off away from my family. I don’t want to see you, ever again.’
He strode away, jacket over his shoulder, swearing at a woman who was too slow to move aside from the door.
63
The thoughts of others
Were light and fleeting,
Of lovers’ meeting
Or luck or fame.
Mine were of trouble,
And mine were steady;
So I was ready
When trouble came.
Robin didn’t have the slightest appetite for her spaghetti now. Just as she was thinking of calling the waitress over to say she’d like the bill, her mobile rang for a third time. Seeing her mother was calling again, she took a deep breath, put a finger in her free ear to block out the noise of the restaurant, and answered.
‘Hi Mum, sorry I didn’t answer earlier, I was on a job. Is everything OK?’
‘Carmen’s had the baby,’ said Linda.
‘Wait – what? I thought she wasn’t due ’til—’
‘He’s a month early,’ said Linda, ‘and it was a bad birth, and they think there’s something wrong.’
A chill ran through Robin.
‘With the baby?’
‘Yes,’ said Linda. ‘We’re waiting to hear, we’re at the hospital.’
‘What—?’
‘He’s not moving an arm properly or something, I don’t know, nobody’s giving us full information. They think it’s a birth injury, torn nerves, or – nobody seems to know.’
‘Oh no,’ said Robin, who felt completely helpless. ‘I – what can I do?’
‘Nothing, nothing, I just needed to let you kn – Robin, that’s the doctor – I’ll call you back.’
She hung up.
‘Everything all right with your spaghetti?’ said the young waitress, reappearing at the table.
‘Fine,’ said Robin, looking up. ‘Could I have the bill, please?’
‘Are you sure there’s nothing—?’
‘No, please – please just get me the bill.’
Five minutes later, Robin emerged into the icy night, and set off in the direction of the nearest station. Finally, unable to bear her anxiety alone, she tugged off her gloves and called Ilsa.
‘Hi, how’re you?’ said the latter, answering on the third ring.
‘I’m really sorry to do this to you again, Ilsa, I just need to talk to someone. Well, to you.’