She, too, was suddenly angry. Exhausted though she was, she’d chatted through a lengthy lunch, laughed at all his father’s jokes, answered all his mother’s questions and stacked the dishwasher single-handedly, so Murphy’s parents could have him to themselves over coffee. She’d forfeited her Saturday at a moment’s notice to keep him happy. She’d made every effort to act as though she wanted Liverpool to win the game.
But the real problem, she was sure, wasn’t that she’d remained on her hard seat in the background, but that instead of taking out knitting – especially of a baby’s sweater – she’d taken out a notebook and phone. Possibly Murphy thought her perusal of the internet had, in fact, been surreptitious texting of Strike, of which he’d accused her on Christmas Eve.
‘I need fresh air,’ said Murphy. He turned, and the front door slammed, leaving Robin standing in shock.
With stony-faced efficiency, Robin began her search, firstly of the kitchen cupboards. She found no alcohol there, nor in the tiny airing cupboard with the boiler, nor under the sofa or hidden behind Murphy’s sparse collection of books. The bathroom was alcohol free; she even sniffed his shampoo and aftershave to make sure. This left the bedroom.
There were no bottles under the bed or in the bedside cabinets. Once again she rifled through Murphy’s clothes, taking out the box of charging leads and change, feeling all round the top shelf where he’d hidden the vodka before, but there were no bottles there now, nor was there anything in his gym bag except trainers and a tracksuit.
There was, however, a briefcase at the very back of the wardrobe. Delving into it, her fingers closed over what felt like a small cardboard bag.
She lifted it out and saw that it bore the imprimatur of a high street jewellers. She looked inside to see a small black velvet box, also clearly brand new, with a receipt coiled beside it. With a shock far worse than that she’d felt at seeing the door slam, Robin was suddenly sure what she’d see if she opened the box.
Sure enough, when she lifted the lid, she saw a small diamond solitaire winking up at her, set on a white gold or platinum band.
A wave of sweat passed down her body.
She lifted out the receipt, not to see the price, but the date. He’d bought it days before she’d discovered the vodka, before they’d agreed to let the new house go.
Robin replaced the ring and receipt carefully back in their bag and returned it to the old briefcase, then closed the wardrobe door and set about gathering her things. If Murphy really hadn’t run off to the pub or the off licence, he’d probably be back soon, full of contrition, wondering whether this time he’d blown everything.
So flustered was Robin when she left the flat that she forgot all about Green Jacket. However, she arrived safely at the Land Rover and set off, even more frightened than she’d been on arrival: not of sudden physical attack, but of the silver-coloured band hidden in the depths of Murphy’s wardrobe: a tiny, sparkling shackle.
100
Robert Browning
At half past eight on Monday morning, Strike set off for a journey to the West Country in his BMW. He hadn’t needed to set off so early, but he didn’t want to run into Robin at the office, nor had he replied to the email she’d sent him about what he considered Rupert Fleetwood’s very flimsy family connection to Belgium. Convinced that Murphy had proposed and been accepted, and that Robin’s uncancellable lunch on Saturday had been with her future in-laws, Strike required longer than forty-eight hours to build himself up to the congratulatory expression and tone he’d need when they next spoke.
At a quarter to nine Strike received a call from Midge.
‘I’ve got the address of Branfoot’s flat,’ she said triumphantly.
‘Fantastic,’ said Strike, his mood very slightly improved by this news, because scaring off Branfoot and his henchmen was one of his top priorities. ‘Where is it?’