‘Yeah,’ said Strike. ‘Sacha’s Rupert Fleetwood’s cousin, and Valentine’s Decima’s brother, who was one of Charlotte’s best friends.’
Immediately, both Strike and Robin thought about the last time Strike’s late fiancée had been mentioned between them, which had been over a month previously, on the day Strike had told Robin that Charlotte had been certain he was in love with his detective partner. In spite of the morphine, Robin now felt a strange mixture of anticipation and panic. Strike had opened his mouth to speak again when Robin suddenly said,
‘Strike, I’m really sorry, I’m going to have to go.’
Without waiting for his response, she hung up.
Robin had just seen visitors passing the glass panel in the door of her room, and sure enough – here was her boyfriend, tall, handsome, wearing a look of extreme anxiety and holding a bunch of red roses, several magazines and a large box of Maltesers.
‘Christ, Robin,’ muttered Murphy, taking in the drip and the hospital gown.
‘It’s fine,’ said Robin. ‘I’m fine.’
Murphy set down his gifts and bent to hug her, very gently.
‘I’m fine,’ Robin repeated, although even the simple act of raising her arms to hug him back caused her some pain.
Murphy dragged a chair to her bedside.
‘Tell me what the doctor said.’
To Robin’s alarm, a hard ball seemed suddenly to have lodged itself in her throat. She hadn’t cried since being admitted to hospital, and she didn’t want to cry now, but having to say out loud the things the surgeon had just told her was going to make what had happened real, rather than a strange interlude she could half-convince herself was a nightmare.
She managed to tell Murphy the substance of what she’d been told without shedding any tears, hating how dirty and ashamed it made her feel, to talk about the infection she hadn’t realised was quietly destroying her fallopian tubes. By the time she’d finished talking, he had his face in his hands.
‘Fuck,’ he muttered. ‘It must’ve… a condom must’ve split.’
‘Yes,’ said Robin. ‘Or come off. Or something.’
He looked up at her.
‘You think it happened that night we rowed.’
‘It
‘You still think I was drunk?’ he asked, in a low voice.
‘No, of course I don’t,’ said Robin quickly. ‘I know it was an accident.’
Murphy had arrived late at Robin’s flat on the night in question, on edge, his manner brusque. He’d been dealing (and was still dealing) with a dreadful case at work. A six-year-old boy had been shot dead and his nine-year-old brother blinded when caught in the crossfire of what was believed to be a gang shooting in East London. The Met had no leads and the press were being highly critical of the way the investigation was being conducted.
Murphy hadn’t been rough during sex on the night in question so much as clumsy. When he’d withdrawn from her she’d asked whether the condom was intact, because she’d had misgivings, and he’d said, ‘yeah, ’s fine – I’m checking – ’s fine’ in a voice that was definitely slurred. When she’d asked, tentatively, whether he’d been drinking, Murphy, a recovered alcoholic, had blown up as Robin had never known him to do before. If his voice wasn’t razor sharp, he shouted, pulling his clothes back on, it was because he was fucking exhausted. What was she playing at, asking him if he was back on the booze; was a man not allowed to be tired? He’d then walked out.
Forty-five minutes later, he’d returned, full of contrition, and made an abject apology. Her question, he’d said, had reminded him of his ex-wife, who’d apparently refused to believe he was capable of sobriety even when he was on the wagon. His explanation had been perfectly cogent, there’d been no smell of alcohol on him, and Robin had felt ashamed. Her boyfriend had been nothing but understanding and supportive after she’d ended the undercover job that had left her physically drained and emotionally spent, and she felt immensely guilty that she’d failed to extend similar consideration to him when he was going through work difficulties of his own.
Robin had now had twenty-four hours alone in hospital to reflect on the fact that she ought to have gone to get the morning-after pill following that night, but she’d assumed her worries about the condom had been as baseless as her suspicion that Murphy had been drinking. In any case, she’d needed to be up early for a surveillance job. Thank God her mother would never need to know that she’d prioritised an investigation over her own health… thank God nobody would ever need to know…
‘I thought the thing was intact,’ muttered Murphy. ‘I swear I did.’
