‘I know. I wanted to talk over the silver vault case in person. I’ve just had Decima Mullins on the phone again.’
‘Hang on,’ said Robin, eyes on the door of Balenciaga, ‘Mrs A’s on the move.’
The brunette, who was wearing a long black coat of faux-fur and very high-heeled boots, had emerged from the shop carrying a large shopping bag, and now sauntered on up the street. Robin and Strike set off on the opposite pavement, keeping pace with her, though twenty yards behind.
‘What did you tell Decima?’ asked Robin.
‘The truth,’ said Strike, ‘leaving out the plainclothes bloke, obviously. I said the circumstantial evidence points strongly towards it being Jason Knowles, but that there’s no absolute confirmation yet that it’s him.’
‘And what did she say?’ said Robin.
‘She begged me to try and prove who Wright was,’ said Strike. ‘So, what d’you think?’
‘I thought you didn’t want the job?’
‘I’m not going to lie,’ said Strike. ‘I’m getting interested in that body.’
But this, of course, wasn’t the whole truth.
Since realising how little Murphy wanted them to investigate the corpse in the vault, Strike had come to see how many opportunities this case offered with regard to the furtherance of his plans regarding Robin. Given the sensitivity around the undercover NCA agent, Strike had a perfect excuse to insist he and Robin did the bulk of this case together, excluding the subcontractors. The need for confidentiality would justify regular closed meetings between the two of them and, as a bonus, they might need to visit the home towns of the other candidates for William Wright, so as to rule them out. That would mean long car trips, plenty of joint interviews and debriefs and, with luck, overnight stays. He even had an excellent excuse to bring up Charlotte’s suicide note again, when outlining why Sacha Legard and Valentine Longcaster might not be keen on talking to him.
Strike didn’t doubt that some would call him cynical, but that didn’t trouble him in the slightest. After all, he fully intended to give Decima Mullins value for money, and if they managed to prove that Fleetwood hadn’t been the man in the vault, their client would have the resolution she needed.
The brunette on the other side of the road entered a jewellers. Strike and Robin turned automatically to look into a window opposite, watching the reflected shopfront.
‘But,’ said Strike, ‘if investigating is going to cause trouble between you and Murphy, we’ll pass.’
Caught off-guard, Robin looked up at him.
‘I – even if it did, that’s not a good reason not to take it,’ she said, without thinking.
‘Well, that’d be my view in your position, but some might say that’s why I’m still single. You haven’t asked me how my date with Bijou went,’ he added, looking down at her.
‘Oh God, I’m sorry about that,’ said Robin, blushing. ‘I never – I forgot to tell Ryan you’d stopped seeing her, I – you didn’t have to—’
‘Doesn’t bother me,’ said Strike. ‘She makes a far better imaginary girlfriend than she did a real one. Not,’ he added, ‘that she was ever a girlfriend.’
‘What would you call her, then?’ said Robin, thoroughly taken aback by the turn the conversation had taken. Strike’s usual form was resolute tight-lipped-ness about his private life.
‘A misguided exercise in distraction and instant gratification that’s cured me of the practice. That was quick,’ Strike added, as Mr A’s ex-wife emerged from the jewellers opposite.
‘Nothing she fancied,’ said Robin, as they turned to walk after her. ‘I think she’s Christmas shopping.’
‘Christ, don’t remind me,’ groaned Strike. ‘I fucking hate it. I’d pay a grand for someone to do it for me.’
‘Where are you spending Christmas?’ Robin asked. For the first time in six years, both partners would be free over the holidays.
‘Lucy’s,’ said Strike. ‘I couldn’t get out of it, not right after Ted dying. I’ve got to go to the Christmas Eve party with all the neighbours, too. I’d rather eat my own fucking feet. What are you up to?’
‘Ryan and I are going to Mum and Dad’s. I’m dreading that too, to be honest,’ said Robin.
‘Really?’ said Strike. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ sighed Robin. ‘It’s just families, isn’t it? The house is going to be packed…’
But there was so much she couldn’t say. There would be two pregnant women in the house, her sister-in-law, Jenny, and her brother Martin’s girlfriend; none of the family knew about Robin’s recent hospitalisation, but she didn’t doubt there’d be a lot of baby and pregnancy talk, and she was afraid Murphy might use that as an excuse to start talking about egg freezing again.
‘… I’d like to stay in London and do my own thing, but it feels as though you’re not allowed to do that unless you’ve got kids.’
‘You’re not allowed even then,’ said Strike. ‘Joan would have been mortally offended if Lucy and Greg hadn’t turned up every year with her great-nephews.’
Ahead, their target threw back her mane of professionally blow-dried hair as she walked.
