Murphy had arrived late at Robin’s flat on the night in question, on edge, his manner brusque. He’d been dealing (and was still dealing) with a dreadful case at work. A six-year-old boy had been shot dead and his nine-year-old brother blinded when caught in the crossfire of what was believed to be a gang shooting in East London. The Met had no leads and the press were being highly critical of the way the investigation was being conducted.
Murphy hadn’t been rough during sex on the night in question so much as clumsy. When he’d withdrawn from her she’d asked whether the condom was intact, because she’d had misgivings, and he’d said, ‘yeah, ’s fine – I’m checking – ’s fine’ in a voice that was definitely slurred. When she’d asked, tentatively, whether he’d been drinking, Murphy, a recovered alcoholic, had blown up as Robin had never known him to do before. If his voice wasn’t razor sharp, he shouted, pulling his clothes back on, it was because he was fucking exhausted. What was she playing at, asking him if he was back on the booze; was a man not allowed to be tired? He’d then walked out.
Forty-five minutes later, he’d returned, full of contrition, and made an abject apology. Her question, he’d said, had reminded him of his ex-wife, who’d apparently refused to believe he was capable of sobriety even when he was on the wagon. His explanation had been perfectly cogent, there’d been no smell of alcohol on him, and Robin had felt ashamed. Her boyfriend had been nothing but understanding and supportive after she’d ended the undercover job that had left her physically drained and emotionally spent, and she felt immensely guilty that she’d failed to extend similar consideration to him when he was going through work difficulties of his own.
Robin had now had twenty-four hours alone in hospital to reflect on the fact that she ought to have gone to get the morning-after pill following that night, but she’d assumed her worries about the condom had been as baseless as her suspicion that Murphy had been drinking. In any case, she’d needed to be up early for a surveillance job. Thank God her mother would never need to know that she’d prioritised an investigation over her own health… thank God nobody would ever need to know…
‘I thought the thing was intact,’ muttered Murphy. ‘I swear I did.’
‘I know,’ said Robin, reaching for his hand. ‘This is on both of us. I should have gone for the morning-after pill, it was really stupid not to. But I’m going to restart the pill, because as I – as I say, the surgeon said there’s a high chance…’
Her voice broke. Murphy made to hug her again, but Robin held him off.
‘Sorry – I’m just sore…’
He passed her some tissues, then clasped her hand again.
‘Thank you for my flowers, they’re lovely,’ said Robin, blowing her nose.
‘When will they let you come home?’
‘Tomorrow,’ said Robin.
‘Shit, that quickly?’
‘What, you wanted a longer break from me?’ said Robin, forcing herself to smile.
‘No, but I’m supposed to be – I could see if I can get time off—’
‘Ryan, it’s fine, I’ll get a taxi back. It was keyhole surgery, it’s not a big deal. I haven’t even got an overnight bag to carry.’
‘But you’ll need help at home – let me call your parents—’
‘
‘OK,’ he said uneasily, ‘but I still think—’
‘I’ll order takeaways and lie on the sofa and watch TV,’ said Robin. ‘I don’t need anyone else – apart from you,’ she added, ‘obviously.’
6
Albert Pike
As it was Saturday, Denmark Street was full of shoppers when Strike arrived back there that afternoon. As he limped past the familiar guitar shops and record stores, even more tired, sore and depressed than when he’d left them that morning, the opening chords of ‘House of the Rising Sun’ issued from an open door. In spite of his low mood, this caused Strike a brief moment of amusement: the owner of that particular shop had once told him he slapped an extra hundred quid on the price of any guitar bought by someone who played the riff in front of him.