But today, with Charlotte dead, and with Robin perhaps destined for another engagement ring, Strike had things to say. Perhaps it was the delusion of the middle-aged male to think it would make any difference, but there came a time when a man needed to take charge of his own fate. So he inhaled nicotine, then said,
‘Last year, Charlotte begged me to get back together. I told her nothing on earth would make me help raise Jago Ross’s kids. This was after we – the agency – found out Jago was knocking his older daughters around. And she said I needn’t worry: it’d be shared custody now. In other words, she’d palm the kids off on him, if I was happy to come back.
‘I’d just handed her all the evidence a judge would need to keep those kids safe, and she told me she’d shunt them off on that bastard, thinking I’d say, “Great. Fuck ’em. Let’s go and get a drink.”’
Strike exhaled nicotine vapour. Robin hadn’t noticed she was holding her breath.
‘Always a bit of delusion in love, isn’t there?’ said Strike, watching the vapour rise to the ceiling. ‘You fill in the blanks with your own imagination. Paint them exactly the way you want them to be. But I’m a detective… some fucking detective. If I’d stuck to hard facts – if I’d done that, even in the first twenty-four hours I knew her – I’d have walked and never looked back.’
‘You were nineteen,’ said Robin. ‘Exactly the same age Will was, when he heard Jonathan Wace speak for the first time.’
‘Ha! You think I was in a cult, do you?’
‘No, but I’m saying… we’ve got to forgive who we were, when we didn’t know any better. I did the same thing, with Matthew. I did exactly that. Painted in the gaps the way I’d have liked them to be. Believed in Higher-Level Truths to explain away the bullshit. “He doesn’t really mean it.” “He isn’t really like that.” And, oh my God, the evidence was staring me in the face, and I bloody married him – and regretted it within an hour of him putting the ring on my finger.’
Hearing this, Strike remembered how he’d burst into her and Matthew’s wedding, at the very moment Robin had been about to say ‘I do’. He also remembered the hug he and Robin had shared, after he’d walked out of the reception, and she’d run out of her first dance to follow him, and he knew, now, there was no turning back.
‘So what did Amelia want?’ said Robin, bold enough to ask, now that Strike had told her this much. ‘Was she – she wasn’t blaming you, was she?’
‘No,’ said Strike. ‘She was carrying out her sister’s last wishes. Charlotte left a suicide note, with instructions to pass on a message to me.’
He smiled at Robin’s fearful expression.
‘It’s all right. Amelia burned it. Doesn’t matter – I could’ve written it myself – I told Amelia exactly what Charlotte wrote.’
Robin worried it might be indecent to ask, but Strike didn’t wait for the question.
‘She said that even though I was a bastard to her, she still loved me. That I’d know one day what I’d given up, that I’d never be happy, deep down, without her. That—’
Strike and Robin had once before sat in this office, after dark and full of whisky, and he’d come dangerously close to crossing the line between friend and lover. He’d felt then the fatalistic daring of the trapeze artist, preparing to swing out into the spotlight with only black air beneath him, and he felt the same now.
‘—she knew I was in love with you.’
A stab of cold shock, an electric charge to the brain: Robin couldn’t quite believe what she’d just heard. The passing seconds seemed to slow. She waited for Strike to say ‘which was her spite, obviously,’ or, ‘because she never understood that a man and a woman could just be friends’, or to make a joke. Yet he said nothing to defuse the grenade he’d just thrown, but simply looked at her.
Then Robin heard the outer door open, and Pat’s indistinct baritone, greeting someone with enthusiasm.
‘That’ll be Ryan,’ Robin said.
‘Right,’ said Strike.
Robin got to her feet in a state of confusion and shock, still clutching the cricketer’s folder in her hands, and opened the dividing door.
‘Sorry,’ said Murphy, who looked harried. ‘Did you get my text? I was late leaving and traffic’s bloody gridlocked.’
‘It’s fine,’ said Robin. ‘I was late back myself.’
‘Hi,’ said Murphy to Strike, who’d followed Robin into the outer office. ‘Congratulations.’
‘What for?’ said Strike.
‘The church case,’ said Murphy, with a half-laugh. ‘What, you’ve already moved on to some other world-shattering—?’
‘Oh that,’ said Strike. ‘Yeah. Well, it was mostly Robin.’
Robin took down her jacket.
‘Well – see you Monday,’ she said to Pat and Strike, unable to meet the latter’s eyes.
‘You taking that with you?’ Murphy asked Robin, looking at the folder in her hands.
‘Oh – no – sorry,’ said the flustered Robin. ‘This belongs here.’
She set the folder down beside Pat.
‘Bye,’ she said, and left.
Strike watched the glass door close, and listened to the pair’s footsteps dying away on the metal stairs.
‘They make a good couple,’ said Pat complacently.
‘We’ll see,’ said Strike.
Ignoring the office manager’s swift, penetrating look, he added,
‘I’ll be in the Flying Horse if you want me.’
Picking up his jacket and the folder Robin had left, he departed. Time would tell whether he’d just done something foolish or not, but Cormoran Strike had at last decided to practise what he’d preached to Charlotte, all those years ago. Happiness is a choice that requires an effort at times, and it was well past time for him to make the effort.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My deepest gratitude as ever to my wonderful editor (and fellow cult aficionado) David Shelley. I promised you a cult book, and here, at last, we are.
A very big thank you to Nithya Rae for her superb copyediting, especially for catching date and numerical slip-ups.
To my fabulous agent, Neil Blair, who was one of this book’s early readers, thank you for all your hard work on my behalf, and for being such a good friend.
Thank you as always to Nicky Stonehill, Rebecca Salt and Mark Hutchinson, who provide endless support, wise guidance and many laughs.
My gratitude to Di Brooks, Simon Brown, Danny Cameron, Angela Milne, Ross Milne, Fiona Shapcott and Kaisa Tiensuu: I say it every time, but without you, there could be no books at all.
Lastly, to Neil Murray, who really didn’t fancy a book about a cult, but who likes The Running Grave the best of the series: see? I always know best – except on the many occasions when you do x
Discover Your Next Great Read
Get sneak peeks, book recommendations, and news about your favorite authors.
CREDITS
‘Hymns and Arias’ (here) Copyright © 1971 Max Boyce
All Rights Reserved
Reprinted by Permission of Max Boyce
‘Heaven’ (here and here) Words and Music by Patrick Dahlheimer, Chad Gracey, Ed Kowalczyk and Chad Taylor. © 2003 Loco De Amor Music. All rights reserved. Used by kind permission of Carlin Music Delaware LLC, Clearwater Yard, 35 Inverness Street, London, NW1 7HB.