Robin texted Strike back.
It does look like WW was hiding or on the run from someone/something.
Yeah. I’m going to call Wardle about that couple who took stuff from Wright’s flat, btw. We can’t sit on that.
Robin relaxed somewhat. She wouldn’t have to tell Murphy and, hopefully, her boyfriend would never hear where Wardle had got the information.
Strike, meanwhile, was interested in Robin’s willingness to engage in a text conversation with him. This seemed to suggest she wasn’t with Murphy right now. He sent another text.
I’ve emailed that Osgood bloke. No response yet.
Robin responded:
No. Well, he didn’t seem very fond of unsolicited emails
Strike typed true, then sent a further text.
Been wondering why a man would be carrying around a blood sample.
That must have been a lie?
I’d have thought so. Also been wondering whether the getaway car containing the Murdoch silver also contained a curly-haired man and a long-haired woman.
Yes
Wouldn’t mind pictures of the body. See whether there were defensive wounds.
Don’t want much, do you?
Might get lucky on some of it. Kim says she’s got an in.
A shard of red-hot resentment pierced Robin.
For God’s sake, calm down. You need information, said a rational voice in her head, but it was no match for the angry self that wanted to type, why don’t you just team up with bloody Kim on the case instead, if she’s got so many ins?
She lifted her glass to her lips, only to find it empty. Looking up, she realised that a group of women close by were throwing her unfriendly glances for hogging a table and texting, when she was neither drinking nor eating. Robin gathered up her things and left the pub.
The night was freezing, the stars overhead glinting, remote and unfriendly. Once inside the Land Rover, Robin locked the door and turned back to her phone. While she’d been walking to the car, Strike had texted again.
What do you think of her, incidentally?
Robin stared at these words for a few seconds, before typing back,
Who, Kim?
Yes
Unbeknownst to Robin, Strike was consciously trying to disarm what he feared might be a ticking bomb. He couldn’t be sure that Robin had seen the SO SEXY text, and maybe it was vanity to imagine that she’d have been remotely concerned, but he didn’t like the idea of what Kim might be saying behind his back, and after their evening at the Dorchester, he wouldn’t put it past her to be hinting at a mutual attraction that didn’t exist.
Back in the Land Rover, Robin was afraid of taking too long to answer.
She’s good at the job.
Strike pondered this answer, scowling slightly. Was this diplomacy, or had Robin not noticed a trace of flirtatiousness in Kim’s manner towards him? Or didn’t she care?
What do you think of her personally?
Robin, who was now wondering whether she was being asked to give her seal of approval for Strike’s affair, hesitated. She feared responding negatively, because she didn’t want Strike to realise… what? Then she saw the three dots that meant Strike was typing again, and waited.
Because she’s starting to piss me off
Suddenly the stars dimly visible through Robin’s misty windscreen were winking benignly. She could be generous, now.
She’s good at the job, though.
It’s just me who thinks she’s bloody full of herself then, is it?
No, thought Robin, feeling even more relieved than she had when Strike had said he’d tell Wardle about the couple who seemed to have stolen items from Wright’s flat, it isn’t. She considered telling Strike about Midge’s question of that morning, but something held her back. The thought of Murphy was somehow tangled in with her reasons for not opening a conversation about Strike being fancied by Kim: better, perhaps, not to go there at all.
She’s quite pleased with herself, but you can’t say she hasn’t anything to back it up. It was good work, getting that picture at the Dorchester. Have you shown it to Mr A, by the way?
Yeah. He’s pleased. Just hope there’s no fallout.
What do you mean?
I ran into someone at that dinner who knows me: cousin of Dominic Culpepper’s. If A uses that picture to try and wreck Culpepper’s marriage, it won’t take Culpepper long to work out who was keeping watch over his wife and Mrs A that night.
The smile now faded off Robin’s face. So whichever ex-girlfriend Strike had run into at the gala dinner was Dominic Culpepper’s cousin? That didn’t fit any of the former girlfriends she knew about. Exactly how many exes did Cormoran Strike have?
Oblivious to the new hole he’d inadvertently dug for himself, Strike was typing again.
I’ve been going through the footage from Ramsay Silver’s interior camera this afternoon.
Anything interesting?
A couple of bits I wouldn’t mind discussing. Have you had any luck on Tyler Powell?
I tried calling his grandmother this afternoon. No answer. I think I’ve also found his parents, but no landline for them. The whole family’s in Ironbridge. Odd that the grandmother called the helpline, not his mum or dad.
Robin’s fingers were becoming increasingly numb in the cold, but she typed on.
How did Dev get on at that Ipswich compound, by the way?
No dice. There was a kind of watchman who didn’t seem to buy his story.
Strike, I’m going to have go to, I’ve got to drive home and I’m freezing.
No problem. We’re both free Weds afternoon, we could review the Ramsay camera footage then?
Great, texted Robin.
Nine miles away in the Flying Horse, Strike replaced his phone in his pocket and contemplated the bottles behind the bar, feeling morose. He needed to start his bloody Christmas shopping. His sister, Lucy, kept sending him anxious texts about the sale of Ted and Joan’s house. There was bound to be a house out there, somewhere, that Robin and Murphy would like.
Nevertheless, he thought, getting to his feet, he’d secured another afternoon alone with Robin. Given her house-hunting activities, every conversation from now on had to be considered in the light of an opportunity.
20
The when, and where, and how, belong
To me—’Tis sad work, but I deal in such.
‘Why have we got a fish tank?’
It was nine o’clock on Wednesday morning and Strike had just entered the office to find his office manager shovelling gravel into the bottom of an aquarium standing on a side table beside the sofa, where previously there had been a fake pot plant.
‘Because nobody told me Tilly’s nan was getting her one,’ said Pat sourly, over the clatter of gravel.