‘Well, I trust you,’ she said slowly, ‘but I don’t love the idea of some woman trying to lure you away…’
She’d said the right thing; Murphy looked happier at that. His fingers tightened on hers.
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thank you,’ said Robin, returning the pressure.
‘D’you only love me for my intel?’
‘No,’ said Robin. ‘I also like the chips… and quite a lot of other stuff.’
He pulled her into a hug, and this time, Robin didn’t fend him off. The realisation that she wanted the information, even if it meant Murphy having to buy drinks for a woman who clearly fancied him, was slightly disconcerting, but given how many other things she had to worry about at the moment, there was no need to start analysing that, as well.
Strike called a team meeting on Wednesday morning, because the ex-wife of the cricketer Pat preferred to call ‘Mr A’ had boarded a plane to the Canary Islands. Plug was at his mother’s house in Camberwell, over which Midge was keeping watch. Strike was keen to brainstorm, with particular emphasis on getting rid of Mr A as soon as possible.
He arrived at the glass door of the office at nine o’clock to find it unlocked and office manager Pat Chauncey already at her desk. Sixty-eight years old, simian of face and with unconvincingly boot black hair, Pat had, as was her invariable practice, an e-cigarette clamped firmly between her teeth.
‘Happy birthday,’ she croaked, in the baritone that often led to her being misidentified as Strike on the phone.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Yeah. Thanks.’
He hadn’t forgotten his birthday, he’d just hoped the rest of the agency would. He didn’t want an early morning tea party, with candles and present opening, and he didn’t particularly want to remind Robin that he was forty-two. However, a large envelope and a sizeable cube-shaped present wrapped in blue were sitting on Pat’s desk, and, glancing towards the kitchen area, he saw an old cake tin decorated with pictures of Princess Diana that definitely didn’t belong to the office.
‘A woman called Decima Mullins called,’ said Pat. ‘She wants to know when you’ll be getting a contract to her.’
‘When I’ve decided whether we’re taking her case,’ said Strike, heading towards the kettle.
‘And Mr A left a message last night. He wants an update.’
‘Fuck’s sake.’
The glass door opened again. Strike turned and saw Robin.
‘Morning,’ she said, smiling.
‘You look remarkably good, for someone who’s just got off their sickbed.’
‘Yes, well, that’s blusher and concealer for you,’ said Robin, with unfeigned cheerfulness. She felt significantly better than she had at the weekend, and much happier for being back in the office. ‘Happy birthday, by the way.’
She headed a little awkwardly towards Strike to give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek, which he accepted gladly.
‘And I got you this,’ said Robin, pulling a weighty wrapped package out of her tote bag, which made the operation site twinge, and handing it to him. ‘That one,’ she said, indicating the large present on Pat’s desk, ‘is from all of us. You can open mine now. It isn’t very imaginative.’
She didn’t say that she’d had to ask Murphy to buy it while she was temporarily housebound, which was why it was fairly impersonal. Strike unwrapped the box and found a bottle of what had once been his favourite whisky. Robin wasn’t to know it now reminded him of his dead ex-fiancée, so he said,
‘Fantastic, thanks very much.’
‘So why are we having a team meeting?’
‘Opportunity,’ said Strike. ‘Mrs A’s away. Midge is on Plug, but she’s going to dial in – and Two-Times—’
‘You’re kidding me,’ said Robin, freezing in the act of hanging up her jacket. ‘Two-Times is back?’
‘Morning,’ said Kim, entering the office before Strike could answer. ‘Happy birthday, Cormoran!’
‘Cheers,’ said Strike, now heading for the cupboard where they kept the fold-up plastic chairs. ‘I haven’t agreed to take Two-Times on yet,’ he told Robin over his shoulder. ‘Until we’ve made a firm decision on Decima Mullins, I don’t know whether we’ll have room for him.’
‘I should have something soon, on how certain they are that body was Knowles,’ Kim informed Strike confidently. ‘I’ve tapped a couple of contacts. People are being weirdly cagey about it, though. The lead investigator, Malcolm Truman, has been suspended.’
‘Has he?’ said Robin. ‘Why?’
The glass door opened again.
‘Morning,’ said Glaswegian Barclay. Tall, beaky-nosed and prematurely grey-haired, he, like Strike, was ex-military. ‘Oh yeah,’ he added, spotting the package on Pat’s desk. ‘Happy birthday.’
‘Cheers,’ said Strike again.
‘Told Robin about Two-Times yet?’ asked Barclay.
‘Who’s Two-Times?’ said Kim.
