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.’
Ever since the call had ended, Robin had been trying to argue herself out of an increase in anxiety. She loved Murphy, didn’t she? Yes, she really thought – knew – she did. And most women would be delighted to know that the man they loved, and who loved them, wanted to make this kind of commitment, wouldn’t they? And didn’t it make sense to find a better place together, without rowdy neighbours?
But when Robin thought about cohabitation, the image that presented itself was of the third and last home she’d shared with her ex-husband. Robin knew it had been a lovely house, in an eighteenth-century terrace that had been built for shipwrights and sea captains, but she couldn’t picture it in any detail now. What she mostly remembered was the leaden feeling of constriction and misery in which she’d spent too many of the days she’d lived there.
Murphy’s unexpected suggestion that they move in together had come just an hour after Robin had opened a letter from her GP, which had been lying on her doormat when she’d got home, late, after hours of surveillance. The doctor wanted her to make an appointment for a check-up after her recent hospitalisation. She hadn’t told Murphy about this. She didn’t want to go; she didn’t see what the point was. She had all the information she needed already, and she felt well, and the operation site had healed, so what could the GP do or say that was of any benefit to her? Before Strike had called, thoughts of egg freezing had been tangling themselves in her complicated feelings about house-hunting, and she had a sense, not for the first time, that she wasn’t like other women, that she wanted different things, and was prepared to bear different hardships, and she couldn’t help remembering Strike’s words:
As Robin got out of the Land Rover on Great Queen Street an hour and a half later, a corpulent, balding passer-by said cheerfully,
‘Don’t see many of that age still on the roads!’
‘No,’ Robin agreed. ‘It’s on its last legs.’
She watched the man turn into the huge Art Deco building of pale grey stone beside which she’d parked. She’d never seen Freemasons’ Hall before. Had she thought about it, she might have expected those entering to require, if not a secret password, then at least a membership card, but a sign beside the glass doors proclaimed that there was a café inside, a museum open to the public, and guided tours.
Strike was standing on the corner ahead, collar turned up against the chilly day, vaping while staring up at the building’s front, and Robin walked towards him feeling far better for having something to think about other than her personal predicaments, and much more cheerful for seeing her work partner.
‘Impressive building,’ said Robin, when she reached him.
‘It is,’ agreed Strike.
From this angle, Freemasons’ Hall looked as though it had been constructed like a isosceles triangle, except that at the point where the two long sides converged it had been squared off, presenting a relatively narrow but very tall and grand frontage comprising columns, a square clock and a tower.
‘“