‘Bloody hell, I know you are! I’m just asking you to put yourself first for a bit!’
‘No, you’re asking me to put my eggs first. My eggs and I are not the same thing.’
A silence followed.
‘I’m trying to tell you,’ said Murphy, at last, ‘that if you want to do the egg thing, I’d support you through it, I’d be with you—’
‘What d’you mean “with me”? Will you have to be prodded and poked and fiddled about with, Ryan? Will you have to have things inserted inside you, and swallow drugs, and suffer any pain or discomfort at all?’
‘No,’ said Murphy, looking unnerved.
‘We’ve never talked about children,’ said Robin. ‘You’ve never even asked if I want them.’
‘I assumed – you like kids. Your niece, your god-kids—’
‘I do like them, I love them, of course I do. That’s not the – look,’ said Robin, still fighting tears she was determined not to shed, ‘this isn’t the way I ever wanted to have this conversation, but if you’re asking, I don’t know whether I want kids of my own, OK? But even if I don’t, it wasn’t easy – having that surgeon – tell me – out of the blue – that that fucking rapist did this to me and – no!’
Murphy, who’d risen to hug her, recoiled.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Robin. ‘I’m still sore. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise.’
Murphy dropped to his knees beside the sofa and reached for her hand instead.
‘What can I do?’ he said humbly.
‘Stop bitching about my work, and Strike, and the agency,’ said Robin angrily, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. ‘I’ve had enough of that from Matthew and my bloody mother. Nobody’s trying to show anyone up, we’re just trying to find out whether we can help that woman. She’s just given birth to her boyfriend’s baby and doesn’t know where he’s gone. It must be awful.’
‘I’ll stop bitching,’ said Murphy quietly. ‘I was being a dick. What can I do to make you feel better? Name it. Ice cream? Weekend in Paris?’
A reluctant laugh escaped Robin.
‘Dog? D’you want a puppy?’
‘Ryan, you sound like you’re trying to lure me into a van.’
He laughed, and Robin did too, even though it hurt.
‘Come on, I’m serious,’ he said. ‘Anything. Name it.’
‘Anything?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘OK,’ said Robin, taking a deep breath, ‘find out how certain the police are that it was the armed robber in that vault.’
Murphy sat back on his heels, his expression so strangely blank that Robin said,
‘Sorry, forget it. I don’t want you to do anything—’
‘It’s not that,’ said Murphy.
He rubbed a hand across his face.
‘The woman I know, who’s on the case… I had a drunken grope with her, about six years ago.’
‘Oh,’ said Robin.
‘No sex. Lizzie had just left. I was shitfaced. It happened down the pub.’
‘Right,’ said Robin.
Murphy sighed.
‘I could ask her, if it’s really that important to you. She knows I’ve got a girlfriend now.’
‘She does?’
‘Yeah,’ said Murphy, ‘because every time I run across her she makes it clear she wouldn’t mind a replay, so I mention you a fair bit… but if it’s that important to you, I could try and get her talking.’
Robin hesitated. She was aware of a need to word what she said next extremely carefully, but also dimly aware that what she currently felt wasn’t what many women would feel, faced with the prospect of their highly eligible boyfriend seeking out a woman with whom he’d previously had an amorous encounter, drunk or not.
‘Well, I trust you,’ she said slowly, ‘but I don’t love the idea of some woman trying to lure you away…’
She’d said the right thing; Murphy looked happier at that. His fingers tightened on hers.
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thank you,’ said Robin, returning the pressure.
‘D’you only love me for my intel?’
‘No,’ said Robin. ‘I also like the chips… and quite a lot of other stuff.’
He pulled her into a hug, and this time, Robin didn’t fend him off. The realisation that she wanted the information, even if it meant Murphy having to buy drinks for a woman who clearly fancied him, was slightly disconcerting, but given how many other things she had to worry about at the moment, there was no need to start analysing that, as well.
10
… a Brotherly affection and kindness should govern us in all our intercourse and relations with our brethren…
Strike called a team meeting on Wednesday morning, because the ex-wife of the cricketer Pat preferred to call ‘Mr A’ had boarded a plane to the Canary Islands. Plug was at his mother’s house in Camberwell, over which Midge was keeping watch. Strike was keen to brainstorm, with particular emphasis on getting rid of Mr A as soon as possible.
He arrived at the glass door of the office at nine o’clock to find it unlocked and office manager Pat Chauncey already at her desk. Sixty-eight years old, simian of face and with unconvincingly boot black hair, Pat had, as was her invariable practice, an e-cigarette clamped firmly between her teeth.
‘Happy birthday,’ she croaked, in the baritone that often led to her being misidentified as Strike on the phone.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Yeah. Thanks.’
He hadn’t forgotten his birthday, he’d just hoped the rest of the agency would. He didn’t want an early morning tea party, with candles and present opening, and he didn’t particularly want to remind Robin that he was forty-two. However, a large envelope and a sizeable cube-shaped present wrapped in blue were sitting on Pat’s desk, and, glancing towards the kitchen area, he saw an old cake tin decorated with pictures of Princess Diana that definitely didn’t belong to the office.
‘A woman called Decima Mullins called,’ said Pat. ‘She wants to know when you’ll be getting a contract to her.’
‘When I’ve decided whether we’re taking her case,’ said Strike, heading towards the kettle.
‘And Mr A left a message last night. He wants an update.’
‘Fuck’s sake.’
The glass door opened again. Strike turned and saw Robin.
‘Morning,’ she said, smiling.
‘You look remarkably good, for someone who’s just got off their sickbed.’
‘Yes, well, that’s blusher and concealer for you,’ said Robin, with unfeigned cheerfulness. She felt significantly better than she had at the weekend, and much happier for being back in the office. ‘Happy birthday, by the way.’
She headed a little awkwardly towards Strike to give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek, which he accepted gladly.
‘And I got you this,’ said Robin, pulling a weighty wrapped package out of her tote bag, which made the operation site twinge, and handing it to him. ‘That one,’ she said, indicating the large present on Pat’s desk, ‘is from all of us. You can open mine now. It isn’t very imaginative.’
She didn’t say that she’d had to ask Murphy to buy it while she was temporarily housebound, which was why it was fairly impersonal. Strike unwrapped the box and found a bottle of what had once been his favourite whisky. Robin wasn’t to know it now reminded him of his dead ex-fiancée, so he said,