“You’ve been tired of watching me

forgot to have a good time…”

… and claiming that he hadn’t spiked the punch. Yet Gloria had vomited… At the very moment Robin drew breath into her lungs to call to Strike, and tell him her new idea, two hands closed on her waist.

Twice in Robin’s life, a man had attacked her from behind: without conscious thought, she simultaneously stamped down hard with her high heel on the foot of the man behind her, threw back her head, smashing it into his face, grabbed a knife in the sink and spun around as the grip at her waist disappeared.

“FUCK!” bellowed Morris.

She hadn’t heard him coming up the stairs over the noise of water splashing into the sink and her own singing. Morris was now doubled up, hands clamped over his nose.

“FUCK!” he shouted again, taking his hands away from his face, to reveal that his nose was bleeding. He hopped backward, the imprint of her stiletto imprinted in his shoe, and collapsed onto the sofa.

“What’s going on?” said Strike, emerging at speed from the inner office and looking from Morris on the sofa to Robin, who was still holding the knife. She turned off the taps, breathing hard.

“He grabbed me,” she said, as Barclay emerged from the inner room behind Strike. “I didn’t hear him coming.”

“It—was—a—fucking—joke,” said Morris, examining the blood smeared on his hands. “I only meant to make you jump—fuck’s sake—”

But adrenaline and whisky had suddenly unleashed an anger in Robin such as she hadn’t felt since the night she’d left Matthew. Light-headed, she advanced on Morris.

“Would you sneak up on Strike and grab him round the waist? D’you creep up on Barclay and hug him? D’you send either of them pictures of your dick?”

There was a silence.

“You bitch,” said Morris, the back of his hand pressed to his nostrils. “You said you wouldn’t—”

“He did what?” said Strike.

“Sent me a dick pic,” snapped the furious Robin, and turning back to Morris, she said, “I’m not some sixteen-year-old work experience girl who’s scared of telling you to stop. I don’t want your hands on me, OK? I don’t want you kissing me—”

“He sent you—?” began Strike.

“I didn’t tell you because you were so stressed,” said Robin. “Joan was dying, you were up and down to Cornwall, you didn’t need the grief, but I’m done. I’m not working with him any more. I want him gone.”

“Christ’s sake,” said Morris again, dabbing at his nose, “it was a joke—”

“Ye need tae learn tae read the fuckin’ room, mate,” said Barclay, who was standing against the wall, arms folded, and seemed to be enjoying himself.

“You can’t fucking fire me over—”

“You’re a subcontractor,” said Strike. “We’re not renewing your contract. Your non-disclosure agreement remains in operation. One word of anything you’ve found out working here, and I’ll make sure you never get another detective job. Now get the fuck out of this office.”

Wild-eyed, Morris stood up, still bleeding from his left nostril.

“Fine. You want to keep her on because you’ve got a hard-on for her, fine.”

Strike took a step forwards; Morris nearly fell over the sofa, backing away.

“Fine,” he said again.

He turned and walked straight out of the office, slamming the glass door behind him. While the door vibrated, and Morris’s footsteps clanged away down the metal stairs, Barclay pushed himself off the wall, plucked the knife Robin was still holding out of her hand and went to drop it into the sink with the dirty crockery.

“Never liked that tosser,” he said.

Strike and Robin looked at each other, then at the worn carpet, where a couple of drops of Morris’s blood still glistened.

“One all, then,” said Strike, clapping his hands together. “What say, first to break Barclay’s nose wins the night?”

PART SIX

So past the twelue Months forth, and their dew places found.

Edmund Spenser

The Faerie Queene

60

Fortune, the foe of famous cheuisaunce

Seldome (said Guyon) yields to vertue aide,

But in her way throwes mischiefe and mischaunce,

Whereby her course is stopt, and passage staid.

Edmund Spenser

The Faerie Queene

What would have happened had Sam Barclay not opened the door that evening and switched on the light was a question that preoccupied both detective partners over the weekend, each of them re-running the conversation in their head, wondering what the other was thinking, and whether too much had been said, or given away.

Sober now, Strike had to be glad he hadn’t done what whisky had been urging him to do. Had he acted on that alcohol-fueled impulse, he might now be in a state of bitter remorse, with no way back to the friendship that was unique in his life. Yet in his free moments, he wondered whether Robin had known how dangerously close he’d come to pushing the conversation into territory that had previously been fenced around with barbed wire, or that, seconds before Barclay flicked the light switch, Strike had been trying to remember when he’d last changed his sheets.

Robin, meanwhile, had woken on Sunday morning with her face aching as though it had been trodden on, a slight hangover, and a volatile mixture of pleasure and anxiety. She went back over everything she’d said to Strike, hoping she hadn’t betrayed any of those feelings she habitually denied, even to herself. The memory of him telling her she was his best friend caused a little spurt of happiness every time she returned to it, but as the day wore on, and her bruising worsened, she wished she’d been brave enough to ask him directly how he now felt about Charlotte Campbell.

An image of Charlotte hung permanently in Robin’s head these days, like a shadowy portrait she’d never wanted hung. The picture had acquired shape and form in the four years since they’d passed on the stairs in the Denmark Street office, because of the many details Ilsa had given her, and the snippets she’d read in the press. Last night, though, that image had become stark and fixed: a darkly romantic vision of a lost and dying love, breathing her final words in Strike’s ear as she lay among trees.

And this was, however you looked at it, an extraordinarily powerful image. Strike had once, when extremely drunk, told Robin that Charlotte was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and as she hovered between life and death, that beautiful woman had chosen to contact Strike, to tell him she loved him still. What did prosaic Robin Ellacott have to offer that was in any way equal to such high-stakes drama, such extremity of emotion? An up-to-date rota, nearly docketed invoices and cups of strong tea? Doubtless because of the pain in her face, Robin’s mood vacillated between diminishing cheerfulness and a tendency to brood. Finally, she gave herself a stern talking to: Strike had given her an unprecedented assurance of affection, and she’d never have to see Saul Morris again, and she should be delighted about both.

Predictably, it was Pat who took the sudden firing of Saul Morris hardest. Strike delivered the news on Monday morning, as he and the secretary narrowly missed colliding in the doorway onto Denmark Street, Strike on his way out, Pat on her way in. Both of them were preparing for the ingestion of nicotine, Pat having just taken out the electronic cigarette she used during work hours, Strike already holding the Benson & Hedges he rarely smoked in the office.

“Morning,” said Strike. “I’ve left a note on your desk, couple of things I’d like you to do while I’m out. Robin’ll be in at ten. Oh—”

He’d taken a couple of steps before turning back.

“—and can you calculate Morris’s pay up to Friday and transfer it into his account right away? He’s not coming back.”

He didn’t wait for a reaction, so it was Robin who took the brunt of their secretary’s disappointment when she arrived at ten to ten. Pat had Radio Two playing, but turned it off the moment the door handle turned.

“Morning. Why—what ’appened to you?” said Pat.

Robin’s face looked worse, two days on, than it had on Saturday. While the swelling had subsided, both eyes were ringed in dark gray tinged with red.

“It was an accident. I bumped into something,” said Robin, stripping off her coat and hanging it on a peg. “So I won’t be on surveillance this week.”

She took a book out of her handbag and crossed to the kettle, holding it. She hadn’t particularly enjoyed the covert staring on the Tube that morning, but wasn’t going to mention Strike’s elbow to Pat, because she tried, wherever possible, not to fuel Pat’s antipathy for her partner.

“Why won’t Saul be coming back?” Pat demanded.

“He didn’t work out,” said Robin, her back to Pat as she took down two mugs.

“What d’you mean?” said Pat indignantly. “He caught that man who was having it away with the nanny. He always kept his paperwork up to date, which is more’n you can say for that Scottish nutter.”