‘I haven’t forgotten him,’ said Strike, ‘but I’ll tell you one thing: it makes no sense for Todd to have written a CV for Fleetwood, who’d have known perfectly well how to write one – and given his expensive private education, I’d be stunned if he couldn’t learn enough about silver to pass that interview without needing Todd at all. On the other hand, I find it very credible that Powell would’ve been happy for someone else to take charge of that part of the job, and the same might apply to Semple. We don’t know what his reading, writing or concentration were like, post-injury, and he’d probably never written a CV in his life. Men in the Special Forces don’t need them.’
‘I’m
‘No idea,’ said Strike.
‘He’s another one who seems to have acted really inconsistently,’ said Robin. ‘Albie really did make him sound like a good person, you know. He
‘Yeah,’ said Strike. ‘I could use an early night.’
‘I’ll just wash up,’ said Robin, freeing herself from the throw she’d wrapped around herself.
‘I’ll do it, you cooked. It’s a pan and two plates,’ said Strike, rising with difficulty out of his chair, with the help of his stick. ‘Go to bed. I’ll take care of it.’
When Robin had gone upstairs, Strike limped back to the kitchen, feeling thoroughly miserable. It wasn’t much comfort to think he’d done the right and decent thing in not forcing his own emotional crisis on Robin when she was clearly in the middle of a serious one of her own, but his last glimmer of hope had now fizzled into darkness, leaving him full of self-recrimination. He had nobody but himself to blame for the fact that he’d been forced, in what was likely to be the most auspicious setting for romance he and Robin would ever visit together, to listen to her outline her plans to preserve her eggs for Murphy.
A framed affirmation stood on the sill over the sink where he washed up the dinner things. It read:
Strike cast this a dark look as he dried his hands, then hobbled off across the hall towards his bedroom.
The injury to Strike’s face looked even worse the following morning, the swelling slightly diminished but livid blue bruises dappling his skin. His face continued to ache and he chose not to shave, for fear of reopening the gash left by the spade.
Before heading back to the ferry, he and Robin walked a little way along La Coupée, which lay just beyond the Old Forge: a high, narrow isthmus connecting the main island from Little Sark. While a windswept Robin was looking down at the turbulent grey sea, Strike, who’d just checked his phone, said,
‘We might be lucky to get back today.’
‘Why?’
‘Storm Doris just hit the UK,’ said Strike. ‘Ninety mile an hour winds. They’ve grounded a ton of flights.’
Sure enough, when they arrived at the airport on Guernsey it was to find their flight had been delayed and rumours flying between tetchy passengers that it would be cancelled. Robin caught herself hoping it would; that she and Strike could just retire to a Guernsey hotel and that she’d be able to enjoy another evening away from London with a clear conscience. However, an hour after the scheduled departure time they were allowed to board.
The descent into Gatwick was nerve-racking, and at one point Robin instinctively grabbed Strike’s forearm as the plane zig-zagged on its approach to the runway, buffeted by gale-force winds. However, they landed without mishap to a round of applause from the passengers, excluding Strike, for whom the forearm-grabbing had been bittersweet, and who’d happily have endured a far rougher descent for prolonged physical contact.
