Or what? Was he trying to tell her indirectly that he did have deeper feelings for her than he’d ever admitted before? Was he pushing to see what she felt in turn? Or was it safe to play this game, now she was with Murphy? Was his aim to undermine her relationship, because it suited him better to keep her single, meaning the threat of her leaving the agency receded?
With mounting annoyance, Robin asked herself why, if Strike had something to say, it had to be couched in these plausibly deniable terms, out of the mouth of a dead woman. What was she supposed to say, in a crowded pub, in the middle of a job: ‘was Charlotte right?
She thought of Murphy, who didn’t play games, who said outright what he felt for her, who had no problem talking about a future with her, and didn’t bail on relationships at the first hint of trouble; who wasn’t, in short, an infuriating sod who messed with your feelings to further a confused, but probably self-interested, agenda. It was pointless, not to mention masochistic, to dwell on how she’d felt when she’d hugged Strike on her wedding day, or when they’d looked into each other’s eyes on the pavement outside the Ritz and she’d known he was about to kiss her, or when she’d groped for his hand in the bed they’d shared, after she’d fled Chapman Farm…
There was a loud knock on the door of the cubicle in which Robin was sitting, and she jumped.
‘Is anyone in there?’ said an angry voice.
‘Yes,’ said Robin, and she hastily pulled up her pants and flushed the toilet.
Back at the table, Strike was still eating chips when Robin’s mobile, which she’d left lying face up on the table, received a text. Being good at reading things upside down, Strike didn’t need to touch the phone to see:
We could probably afford something like this www.rightmove.c…
‘How’s your fish?’ said Robin, sitting back down opposite him. She glanced at her phone, then put it back in her bag without answering the text.
‘Pretty good,’ said Strike.
This indication that Murphy and Robin appeared to be thinking of moving in together had come as a significant blow to Strike. Furthermore, he sensed, from Robin’s tone, that continuing to milk Charlotte’s suicide note would be inadvisable just now. Reluctant to abandon the field completely, however, he said,
‘You’ve told Murphy we’re taking Decima’s case?’
‘Yes,’ said Robin.
‘How’d he take it?’
‘Fine,’ said Robin shortly.
Strike retreated, but only to marginally safer ground:
‘I’ll email Sacha Legard to see if he’s prepared to meet one or other of us.’
Whether because the conversation had veered back within orbit of Charlotte’s suicide note or not, Robin now glanced at her watch.
‘I’d better get going. I’m supposed to be in Camberwell in forty minutes.’
‘OK,’ said Strike, as she gathered up her things, ‘but let’s try and get out to St George’s Avenue and talk to Wright’s housemates soon. Probably have to be both of us or it’ll take all day to find the right house, given we haven’t got the number.’
‘Fine,’ said Robin again, now brisk. ‘Let me know when.’
Strike returned to the office in a far worse mood than he’d left it. It might be the height of hypocrisy for him to feel aggrieved that Robin (as he saw it) had hidden the fact that she was house-hunting with Murphy – how much had he concealed about his own private life, throughout their friendship? – but this in no way lessened his resentment.
