The Faerie Queene

The television weatherman brought his wife to the catch-up meeting with Robin. Once ensconced in the agency’s inner office, the couple proved hard to shift. The wife had arrived with a new theory to present to Robin, triggered by the most recent anonymous postcard to arrive by post at the television studio. It was the fifth card to feature a painting, and the third to have been bought at the National Portrait Gallery shop, and this had caused the weatherman’s thoughts to turn to an ex-girlfriend, who’d been to art school. He didn’t know where the woman was now, but surely it was worth looking for her?

Robin thought it was highly unlikely that an ex-girlfriend would choose anonymous postcards to reconnect with a lost love, given the existence of social media and, indeed, the publicly available contact details for the weatherman, but she agreed diplomatically that this was worth looking into, and took down as many details of this long-vanished love interest as the weatherman could remember. Robin then ran through all the measures the agency was so far taking to trace the sender of the cards, and reassured husband and wife that they were continuing to watch the house at night, in the hopes that Postcard would show themselves.

The weatherman was a small man with reddish-brown hair, dark eyes and a possibly deceptive air of apology. His wife, a thin woman several inches taller than her husband, seemed frightened by the late-night hand deliveries, and slightly annoyed by her husband’s half-laughing assertions that you didn’t expect this sort of thing when you were a weatherman, because, after all, he was hardly the film star type, and who knew what this woman was capable of?

“Or man,” his wife reminded him. “We don’t know it’s a woman, do we?”

“No, that’s true,” said her husband, the smile fading slowly from his face.

When at last the couple had left, walking out past Pat, who was stoically typing away at her desk, Robin returned to the inner office and re-examined the most recent postcard. The painting on the front featured the portrait of a nineteenth-century man in a high cravat. James Duffield Harding. Robin had never heard of him. She flipped the card over. The printed message read:

HE ALWAYS REMINDS ME OF YOU.

She turned the card over again. The mousy man in side-whiskers did resemble the weatherman.

A yawn caught her by surprise. She’d spent most of the day clearing paperwork, authorizing payment of bills and tweaking the rota for the coming fortnight to accommodate Morris’s request for Saturday afternoon off, so that he could go and watch his three-year-old daughter perform in a ballet show. Checking her watch, Robin saw that it was already five o’clock. Fighting the low mood that had been held at bay by hard work, she tidied away the Postcard file, and switched her mobile ringer back on. Within seconds, it had rung: Strike.

“Hello,” said Robin, trying not to sound peeved, because as the hours had rolled by it had become clear to her that Strike had indeed forgotten her birthday yet again.

“Happy birthday,” he said, over the sound of what Robin could tell was a train.

“Thanks.”

“I’ve got something for you, but I won’t be back for an hour, I’ve only just got on the train back from Amersham.”

Have you hell got something, thought Robin. You forgot. You’re just going to grab flowers on the way back to the office.

Robin was sure Ilsa must have tipped Strike off, because Ilsa had called her just before the client had arrived, to tell Robin that she might be unavoidably late for drinks. She’d also asked, with unconvincing casualness, what Strike had bought her, and Robin had answered truthfully, “Nothing.”

“That’s nice, thanks,” Robin said now, “but I’m just leaving. Going out for a drink tonight.”

“Oh,” said Strike. “Right. Sorry—couldn’t be helped, you know, with coming out here to meet Gupta.”

“No,” said Robin, “well, you can leave them here in the office—”

“Yeah,” said Strike, and Robin noted that he didn’t dispute the word “them.” It was definitely going to be flowers.

“Anyway,” said Strike, “big news. George Layborn’s got hold of a copy of the Bamborough file.”

“Oh, that’s great!” said Robin, enthusiastic in spite of herself.

“Yeah, isn’t it? He’s going to bring it over tomorrow morning.”

“How was Gupta?” asked Robin, sitting down on her side of the partners’ desk which had replaced Strike’s old single one.

“Interesting, especially about Margot herself,” said Strike, who became muffled as, Robin guessed, the train went through a tunnel. Robin pressed the mobile closer to her ear and said,

“In what way?”

“Dunno,” said Strike distantly. “From the old photo, I wouldn’t have guessed an ardent feminist. She sounds much more of a personality than I’d imagined, which is stupid, really—why shouldn’t she have a personality, and a strong one?”

But Robin knew, somehow, what he meant. The hazy picture of Margot Bamborough, frozen in blurry time with her seventies middle parting, her wide, rounded lapels, her knitted tank top, seemed to belong to a long-gone, two-dimensional world of faded color.

“Tell you the rest tomorrow,” said Strike, because their connection was breaking up. “Reception’s not great here. I can hardly hear you.”

“OK, fine,” said Robin loudly. “Speak tomorrow.”

She opened the door into the outer office again. Pat was just turning off Robin’s old PC, electronic cigarette sticking out of her mouth.

“Was that Strike?” she asked, crow-like, with her jet-black hair and her croak, the fake cigarette waggling.

“Yep,” said Robin, reaching for her coat and bag. “He’s on his way back from Amersham. Lock up as usual though, Pat, he can let himself in if he needs to.”

“Has he remembered your birthday yet?” asked Pat, who seemed to have taken sadistic satisfaction in news of Strike’s forgetfulness that morning.

“Yes,” said Robin, and out of loyalty to Strike she added, “he’s got a present for me. I’ll get it tomorrow.”

Pat had bought Robin a new purse. “That old one was coming apart at the seams,” she said, when Robin unwrapped it. Robin, touched in spite of the fact that she might not have chosen bright red, had expressed warm thanks and at once transferred her money and cards across into the new one.

“Good thing about having one in a nice bright color, you can always find it in your bag,” Pat had said complacently. “What’s that Scottish nutter got you?”

Barclay had left a small wrapped package with Pat to give to Robin that morning.

“Cards,” said Robin, smiling as she unwrapped the package. “Sam was telling me all about these, look, when we were out on surveillance the other night. Cards showing Al-Qaeda’s most wanted. They gave packs out to the American troops during the Iraq War.”

“What’s he given you those for?” said Pat. “What are you supposed to do with them?”

“Well, because I was interested, when he told me,” said Robin, amused by Pat’s disdain. “I can play poker with them. They’ve got all the right numbers and everything, look.”

“Bridge,” Pat had said. “That’s a proper game. I like a nice game of bridge.”

As both women pulled on their coats, Pat asked,

“Going anywhere nice tonight?”

“For a drink with a couple of friends,” said Robin. “But I’ve got a Selfridges voucher burning a hole in my pocket. Think I might treat myself first.”

“Lovely,” croaked Pat. “What d’you fancy?”

Before Robin could answer, the glass door behind her opened and Saul Morris entered, handsome, smiling and a little breathless, his black hair sleek, his blue eyes bright. With some misgiving, she saw the wrapped present and card clutched in his hand.

“Happy birthday!” he said. “Hoped I’d catch you.”

And before Robin could prevent it, he’d bent down and kissed her on the cheek; no air kiss, this, but proper contact of lips and skin. She took half a step backward.

“Got you a little something,” he said, apparently sensing nothing amiss, but holding out to her the gift and card. “It’s nothing really. And how’s Moneypenny?” he said, turning to Pat, who had already removed her electronic cigarette to smile at him, displaying teeth the color of old ivory.

“Moneypenny,” repeated Pat, beaming. “Get on with you.”

Robin tore the paper from her gift. Inside was a box of Fortnum & Mason salted caramel truffles.

“Oh, very nice,” said Pat approvingly.

Chocolates, it seemed, were a far more appropriate gift for a young woman than a pack of cards with Al-Qaeda members on them.

“Remembered you like a bit of salted caramel,” said Morris, looking proud of himself.