‘So,’ said Strike. ‘Do we take the case? It’s your call.’
‘Well… from all you’ve said, if we don’t do it, she’ll just hire someone else.’
‘I agree. And we won’t string her along.’
‘No,’ agreed Robin, ‘and I must admit, I’m getting interested in that body, too.’
‘But as I say, if it’ll cause you trouble—’
‘Call her back, and tell her we’ll do it,’ said Robin.
‘You sure?’
‘Definitely,’ said Robin.
‘I’ll ring her now,’ said Strike, drawing out his mobile.
Robin listened to Strike’s side of the call, feeling particularly warm towards him, appreciative of his consideration with regard to Murphy, and grateful that he’d passed off her lie about Bijou Watkins as a joke.
‘Right, I’ll get that contract to you,’ Strike was saying. ‘Right… yeah… no problem at all. Our pleasure.’
He hung up.
‘Very grateful,’ he said. ‘More tears.’
The two partners walked on in silence, Strike thoroughly satisfied with his last ten minutes’ work. He’d just made an excellent start in establishing that he was no longer interested in casual affairs by saying what he had about Bijou Watkins, and Robin had agreed to the investigation, in spite of her boyfriend’s clear disapproval. No matter the risks, no matter the possible fallout, he now intended to seize the first auspicious moment to tell her what he felt, and if no such opportunity arose naturally, he’d engineer one.
‘Where are you?’ were Strike’s opening words on the second of December, when Robin answered his call.
‘On the A40,’ said Robin, who was having to speak loudly because she was in her decrepit Land Rover, which didn’t have Bluetooth. ‘Mrs A’s staying near Stroud. I’m taking over from Midge.’
‘Kim’ll do Stroud,’ said Strike. ‘I’ve just got off a call from the owner of Ramsay Silver. I didn’t expect him to be so keen to talk to us; he nearly bit my hand off. He wants to know if we can go along there today at one.’
‘OK, great,’ said Robin, who was considerably more interested in seeing the site of William Wright’s murder than she was in staring at a deserted croquet lawn from behind a hedge. ‘I’ll come back.’
‘Meet you outside Freemasons’ Hall at half twelve.’
So Robin turned London-wards again. The chilly day was overcast, but from time to time the sun slid out from behind clouds, revealing the dirt on the windscreen she’d been first too busy, and then too recently operated on, to clean. The ancient Land Rover had developed a mysterious rattle in the past few days, which Robin hadn’t yet managed to trace to its source. Its MOT was imminent and she had a strong feeling that this time it might not scrape through.
The prospect of visiting Ramsay Silver had raised her mood, which happened to require some lifting, because, prior to Strike’s call, she’d been brooding about a couple of recent conversations she’d had with Murphy. Her boyfriend hadn’t said so explicitly, but Robin could tell he was angry about the agency taking the silver vault case, even though she’d claimed they were trying to find Rupert Fleetwood, rather than identify the body. Then, the previous evening, Murphy had been complaining over the phone about his own unsatisfactory neighbour, whose slamming doors and shouting matches with her teenage children were a constant bar to relaxation, when he’d suddenly said,
‘You know, if we bought a place together, we could get away from all these wankers.’
At these words, Robin had felt something very like panic. However, feeling guilty about the way she’d lied about the silver vault case, she felt she owed him.
‘Yes, I suppose we could,’ she said.
‘Don’t be too enthusiastic.’
She’d laughed nervously.
‘No, it’s definitely an idea.’
