Lying in his brand-new pyjamas, with the end of his stump creamed and his prosthetic leg propped up against the wall, Strike barely had time to reflect that Robin’s sofa-bed was surprisingly comfortable before falling into a deep sleep.
Getting ready for bed barely twelve feet away, Robin could hear Strike snoring even over the rap being played upstairs, which amused and slightly reassured her. She’d been savouring the pleasures of living alone since moving into Blackhorse Road, enjoying the independence and the peace, but tonight, after the bombing of the office, it was consoling to have Strike there, even if he was already fast asleep and rumbling like a tractor. Her last conscious thought before drifting off to sleep herself was of Ryan Murphy. Even though a date with him hadn’t yet happened, and might never happen, the possibility had somehow redressed an imbalance between her and Strike. She was no longer a lovesick fool committed to celibacy in the hope that Strike might one day want what he so clearly didn’t want. Soon she’d sunk into a dreamworld where she was once again on the verge of marrying Matthew, who was explaining to her in the vestibule of the church, as to a child, that if she’d only asked him he could have told her who Anomie was, and that her failure to see what was so patently obvious to everyone else proved she wasn’t fit for the job that had so nearly separated them for ever.
76
What inn is this
Where for the night
Peculiar traveller comes?
When she entered the sitting room the following morning at seven, Robin found Strike already dressed, the sofa-bed returned to its usual state and Strike’s bedding neatly folded. She made both of them tea and toast, and as they consumed it at the table where they’d eaten dinner Strike said,
‘Let’s head straight for the Upcotts’ and find out what Inigo’s been sharing with Kea. Then, depending on what he tells us, we’ll go to King’s Lynn.’
‘OK,’ said Robin, though she looked unhappy.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Just wondering what’s Katya going to say when she realises Inigo’s been in communication with Kea all this time.’
‘I’d imagine she’ll be seriously pissed off,’ said Strike, with a slight shrug. ‘Not our problem.’
‘I know, but I can’t help feeling sorry for her. I think their kids might be happier if they split up, though…’
Strike’s phone buzzed. He picked it up, read the text that had just arrived and his expression became immediately furious.
‘What’s happened?’ asked Robin.
‘Fucking Nutley!’
‘What’s he done?’
‘He’s fucking resigned, is what he’s done!’
‘What?’ said Robin. ‘Why?’
‘Because,’ said Strike, who was rapidly scrolling down through the paragraph of self-exculpation Nutley had sent, ‘his wife doesn’t want him working for us now we’ve been bombed. “I know this leaves you shorthanded and once this terrorist situation’s cleared up, I’d be happy—” Oh, would you be fucking happy, you useless piece of shit?’
‘Listen,’ said Robin, as the consequences of one fewer subcontractor passed rapidly through her mind. ‘You should do Inigo alone. I’ll take over on Ashcroft as planned and—’
‘We’re sticking together,’ said Strike. ‘It was both our names on the fucking bomb, both our pictures on the fucking news story and I’m taking these Halvening fuckers seriously, even if you aren’t.’
‘Of course I’m taking them seriously, what are you—?’
‘Then don’t suggest wandering off on your own,’ said Strike angrily, getting up from the table and, forgetting all his resolutions of the previous day, heading downstairs for a proper smoke on the street.
He knew perfectly well he’d just been unwarrantedly aggressive to Robin, but the thought merely increased his bad temper as he smoked two cigarettes back to back while texting the news of Nutley’s resignation to Barclay, Midge and Dev. He found himself completely in sympathy with Barclay, who texted back: Cowardly fucking cunt.
Having returned to Robin’s sitting room, Strike found the breakfast things cleared away and Robin ready to leave. As he’d expected, her manner was frosty again.
‘Sorry I snapped,’ said Strike before she could say anything. ‘I’m just worried.’
‘So am I, funnily enough,’ said Robin coolly, ‘but when you say “wandering off”, as though I’m some airhead who—’
‘I didn’t mean that. I don’t think you’re an airhead, but – fuck’s sake, Robin, that bomb was the real fucking deal, not just something to put the frighteners on us. Plus, we know they’ve got a particular thing about women getting above themselves.’
‘So, what – you’re going to tail me until they’ve rounded up The Halvening?’
‘No – I don’t know. Let’s just go and talk to Inigo. Proving Kea’s Anomie would solve our manpower problems, at least.’
They took Strike’s BMW, Robin at the wheel, and spent most of the twenty-minute drive in silence. Robin couldn’t help but remember that the last time they’d visited the Upcotts’ she’d been angry at Strike, too: that had been right after she’d found out he was dating Madeline. She wondered what the aftermath of Strike’s lie about room service had been. He didn’t appear to have spoken to Madeline since, unless the loud snores she’d heard last night had been faked and he’d been texting from beneath the bed covers. Nor had she forgotten Charlotte. Investigating Jago Ross had been the thing that brought the agency to breaking point, a fact Strike seemed curiously averse to acknowledging.
But, unbeknownst to Robin, Strike’s thoughts were running parallel with hers. Unless he could find a replacement for Nutley immediately, they didn’t have the capacity to cover all current cases and there was no doubt that Ross would be the easiest to drop. Even if his own future as an investigator were for ever scuppered by being associated with such a high-profile divorce, everyone else would still have jobs. Perhaps, he thought, it was his duty to withdraw surveillance from Ross, whatever the consequences.
He was at this depressing point in his ruminations when his phone buzzed again. Looking down, he saw a text from Madeline.
Please call me when you can. I think we need a proper talk
Strike put the phone back in his pocket without responding. He knew exactly where this was heading: the same way all his relationships went, to the place where expectation met resistance and imploded.
All right, he thought as he scowled out of the window, I shouldn’t have lied about where I was spending the night, but if I’d told you the truth there’d have been a scene anyway. Was it a crime to have tried to avoid conflict, to have striven to save both of them grief?
He’d tried, hadn’t he? He’d turned up when he was supposed to, given her flowers when it was appropriate, listened to her work worries and had what he believed to have been mutually exciting sex: what else did she want? Honesty, he heard Madeline say, as women always said, but honesty would have meant admitting that he’d started the relationship because he’d wanted a distraction from complicated feelings for another woman, and Madeline’s response would surely be that he’d used her. So what? People use each other all the time, Strike told an imaginary Madeline, taking deep pulls on the e-cigarette he’d refilled for use in the car. Ward off loneliness. Try and find what they’re lacking. Show the world they’ve snagged a prize. And he remembered Madeline trying to take a picture of the two of them for her Instagram page, and the row on the night of her launch, and could already hear himself saying, I think we want different things. He ought to get it printed on cards, ready to hand out at the start of relationships, so nobody could say they hadn’t been warned…