‘What?’ said Robin faintly.
‘I didn’t want to tell you—’
Strike felt almost drunk with the release of tension, and his mouth appeared to be acting independently of his brain. He’d only known this sensation a couple of times before in his entire life: arriving through flooded countryside at the old house in St Mawes, in time to reach his aunt’s deathbed; finding Charlotte alive, at last, in hospital, forty-eight hours after he’d found her torn-up dress.
‘—until I was sure.’
‘About what?’
‘Bijou Watkins had Honbold’s baby early,’ said Strike, ‘and he thought it might be mine. I did a DNA test, she’s just forwarded me the results, and it’s nothing to do with me. Jesus fucking Christ,’ said Strike, running a hand over his face before reading out Bijou’s text. ‘“I’ve only just seen this, sorry for the delay” – fuck’s sake – but she knew all along it wasn’t mine, so I assume she wasn’t shitting herself about the results.’
He glanced sideways at Robin, whose gaze was fixed on Plug’s tail-lights.
‘I know I should’ve told you,’ said Strike. ‘I just – after all the other Culpepper shit – I wanted to know for certain what I was dealing with.’
Almost against her will, the vice-like grip of anger and anguish that had been with Robin ever since Ilsa had told her about Bijou’s baby was loosening.
‘When did you take the test?’
‘Thursday. Met her at the Savoy. Cheek swab. Handed it all back to her and if I never see her again, it’ll be too fucking soon.’
He glanced at Robin’s profile.
‘You can say it.’
‘What?’
‘I’m a stupid, reckless fucker who’d have deserved it, if it had been mine.’
‘I wasn’t going—’
‘I’ll say it, then. I’m a stupid, reckless fucker and I’d’ve deserved—’
‘Accidents happen,’ said Robin, who wanted to know how much Strike would tell her.
‘It wouldn’t have been an accident, not from her end. Ilsa told me she’s adept at waste-bin salvage.
‘So you can celebrate every time you find out you’re not a father?’
‘There won’t be another time, I can promise you that,’ said Strike. ‘No more women who’re walking red flags. I had no excuse for not seeing trouble when it’s right in front of me, I had sixteen years’ fucking experience.’
‘So, then,’ said Robin, ‘why disregard the red flag?’
‘Because sometimes,’ said Strike, all caution gone, ‘if you can’t get what you want, you take what you can get.’
Confusion and trepidation flooded Robin. What did he mean? What, or who, did he want? Was there yet another woman she didn’t know about, for whom he yearned? Was he talking about the dead Charlotte, now forever beyond hope of reform or reunion? Or was he hinting…? But she couldn’t make herself ask. She was scared of taking a step that might put her in possession of information that would have ramifications way beyond deciding whether she and Murphy should put in a higher bid on a house.
Beside her, Strike was thinking,
Neither spoke. They drove on in silence.
79
Robert Browning
Over an hour later, Plug’s white van indicated left and turned up the road that led to the compound on waste ground, north of Ipswich.
‘What’s the plan?’ said Robin, peering through the darkness ahead, Plug’s tail-lights the only things clearly visible.
‘If at all possible, gain admittance by trying to look as if we’ve got our own dangerous dog in the back,’ said Strike. ‘This is where a Land Rover comes in handy.’
‘OK,’ said Robin, ‘but – shit – I don’t think this is going to work, Strike, I think they’re taking names…’
A bearded man holding a flashlight was standing at the end of the dirt track that led to the compound. Plug wound down his window; he and the sentinel exchanged a few brief words, and the latter waved him on. Robin glanced in her rear-view mirror and saw another van creeping closer, this one blue.
‘Worth a try,’ said Strike. ‘Keep going.’
The burly man was looking past the Land Rover to the blue van. He grinned, waved, indicated casually that the Land Rover should proceed, and strolled past it, presumably to speak to a friend.
‘Good job,’ said Strike, as Robin accelerated up the track.
The sound of distant, low-pitched shouts grew louder as they approached a patch of rough ground on which many cars and vans were parked. Over to the left they could see a crowd of men in silhouette, all surrounding something unseen that was illuminated by the headlights of three parked vans.
Robin parked. Twenty yards away, Plug had got out of his van, barely discernible in the darkness. Outbuildings surrounded them, and wire pens behind which enormous barking dogs scrambled.
‘After I get out, turn the car round,’ said Strike.