Troubled Blood

“I know. You don’t get fish and chips like this in London,” said Robin.

For a few minutes they ate in silence. The greaseproof paper in which the trays of chips were wrapped was printed with old pages of the Mirror newspaper. Paul Quits the Beatles. There were cartoons too, of the dirty postcard type: a busty blonde in bed with her elderly boss was saying “Business must be booming. You’ve never given me so much overtime.” It reminded her of Gemma the PA, who’d perhaps already called the fake number Robin had given her, and realized that it wasn’t only her ex, “Andy,” who wasn’t all he appeared to be. But Robin had a recording on her phone of everything Gemma knew about Shifty’s insider trading and Pat, at that moment, was transcribing it into a document shorn of anything that might identify the informant. Shifty, Robin hoped, would soon be jobless and, with any luck, in court.

A long stretch of fairground rides on the other side of the road hid the sea from her sight. The seats of the distant Ferris wheel were enclosed in casings shaped like pastel-colored hot-air balloons. Nearby stood a gigantic climbing frame for adults, with ropes and swinging tires, a hundred feet up in the air. Watching the harnessed people navigating the obstacles, Robin felt a strange mixture of contentment and melancholy: the possibility of an unknown development in the Bamborough case, the delicious chips and peas, the companionship of Strike and the sunshine were all cheering, but she was also remembering chasing along the out-of-sight beach as a small child, trying to outrun her brother Stephen to reach the donkeys and have first pick. Why did the memory of innocence sting so much, as you got older? Why did the memory of the child who’d thought she was invulnerable, who’d never known cruelty, give her more pain than pleasure?

Her childhood had been happy, unlike Strike’s; it ought not to hurt. Over the space of summer weekends spread years apart, Robin and her brothers had competed to ride the black donkey called Noddy, who was doubtless long gone. Was it mortality, then, which turned cheerful memories bittersweet? Maybe, Robin thought, she’d bring Annabel here when she was old enough, and treat her to her first donkey ride. It was a nice idea, but she doubted Stephen and Jenny would see Skegness as a desirable weekend destination. Annabel’s great-aunt had moved away from Boston: there was no longer any family connection to the area. Times changed, and so did childhoods.

“You all right?” said Strike, watching Robin’s face.

“Fine,” she said. “Just thinking… I’m going to be thirty in a few weeks.”

Strike snorted.

“Well, you’re getting no sympathy from me,” he said. “I’ll be forty the month after.”

He snapped open his can of Coke and drank. Robin watched a family pass, all four eating ice creams, accompanied by a waddling dachshund that was nosing the Union Jack carrier bag which swung from the father’s hand.

“D’you think Scotland’s going to leave?”

“Go for independence? Maybe,” said Strike. “The polls are close. Barclay thinks it could happen. He was telling me about some old mates of his at home. They sound just like Polworth. Same hate figures, same promises everything’ll be rainbows and unicorns if only they cut themselves free of London. Anyone pointing out pitfalls or difficulties is scaremongering. Experts don’t know anything. Facts lie. ‘Things can’t be any worse than they are.’”

Strike put several chips in his mouth, chewed, swallowed, then said, “But life’s taught me things can always get worse than they are. I thought I had it hard, then they wheeled a bloke onto the ward who’d had both his legs and his genitals blown off.”

He’d never before talked to Robin about the aftermath of his life-changing injury. Indeed, he rarely mentioned his missing leg. A barrier had definitely fallen, Robin thought, since their whisky-fueled talk in the dark office.

“Everyone wants a single, simple solution,” he said, now finishing his last few chips. “One weird trick to lose belly fat. I’ve never clicked on it, but I understand the appeal.”

“Well, reinvention’s such an inviting idea, isn’t it?” said Robin, her eyes on the fake hot-air balloons, circling on their prescribed course. “Look at Douthwaite, changing his name and finding a new woman every few years. Reinventing a whole country would feel amazing. Being part of that.”

“Yeah,” said Strike. “Of course, people think if they subsume themselves in something bigger, and that changes, they’ll change too.”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to be better, or different, is there?” asked Robin. “Nothing wrong with wanting to improve things?”

“Not at all,” said Strike. “But people who fundamentally change are rare, in my experience, because it’s bloody hard work compared to going on a march or waving a flag. Have we met a single person on this case who’s radically different to the person they were forty years ago?”

“I don’t know… I think I’ve changed,” said Robin, then felt embarrassed to have said it out loud.

Strike looked at her without smiling for the space it took him to chew and swallow a chip, then said, “Yeah. But you’re exceptional, aren’t you?”

And before Robin had time for anything other than a slight blush, Strike said, “Are you not finishing those chips?”

“Help yourself,” said Robin, shoving the tray toward him. She pulled her phone out of her pocket. “I’ll look up that one weird tip to lose belly fat.”

Strike smirked. After wiping her hands on her paper napkin, Robin checked her emails.

“Have you seen this from Vanessa Ekwensi? She’s copied you in.”

“What?”

“She might know someone who could replace Morris… woman called Michelle Greenstreet… she wants to leave the police. She’s been in eight years,” said Robin, scrolling slowly down the email, “not enjoying response policing… she’s in Manchester… wants to relocate to London, very keen on the detective side…”

“Sounds promising,” said Strike. “Let’s schedule an interview. She’s already cleared the first hurdle with flying colors.”

“What hurdle?” said Robin, looking up.

“Doubt she’s ever sent a dick pic.”

He patted his pockets, pulled out his packet of Benson & Hedges but found it empty.

“I need more fags, let’s—”

“Wait,” said Robin, who was still staring down at her mobile. “Oh my God. Cormoran—Gloria Conti’s emailed me.”

“You’re kidding,” said Strike. Having partly risen, he now let himself fall back onto the bench.

“‘Dear Miss Ellacott,’” Robin read aloud, “‘I’m sorry I haven’t answered your emails. I wasn’t aware you were trying to contact me and have only just found out. If convenient, I’d be available to talk to you tomorrow evening at 7pm. Yours sincerely…’ and she’s given her phone number,” said Robin, looking up at Strike, astonished. “How can she only just have found out? It’s been months of me emailing her without any response… unless Anna’s prompted her?”

“Could be,” said Strike. “Which doesn’t suggest someone who wants the investigation over.”

“Of course she doesn’t,” said Robin. “But for sanity’s sake, you’d have to draw the line somewhere.”

“So what does that make us?”

Robin smiled and shook her head.

“Dedicated?”

“Conti: last person to see Margot alive. Closest person to Margot at the practice…”

“I’m thanking her,” said Robin, who was typing fast onto her mobile, “and agreeing to the call tomorrow.”

“We could do it from the office, together,” said Strike. “Maybe FaceTime her, if she’s agreeable?”

“I’ll ask,” said Robin, still typing.

They set off a few minutes later in search of cigarettes, Robin reflecting on how casually she’d just agreed to go into work on a Saturday evening, so she could conduct Gloria’s interview with Strike. There was no angry Matthew at home any more, furious about her committing herself to long hours, suspicious about what she and Strike were up to, alone in the office in the evening. And she thought back to Matthew’s refusal to look her in the eye across the table at the mediation. He’d changed his partner, and his firm; he’d soon be a father. His life had changed, but had he?

They turned the corner to find themselves facing what Strike mentally categorized as “acres of tat.” As far as the eye could see were racks of merchandise laid out on the pavement: beach balls, keyrings, cheap jewelry, sunglasses, buckets of candyfloss, fudge and plush toys.

“Look at that,” said Robin suddenly, pointing to her right. A bright yellow sign read: Your Life Within Your Hands. On the dark glass of the door below was written: Palm Reader. Clairvoyant, along with a circular chart, all twelve signs of the zodiac represented by the glyphs around a central sun.

“What?” said Strike.

“Well, you’ve had your chart done. Maybe I’d like mine.”

“Fuck’s sake,” muttered Strike, and they walked on, Robin smiling to herself.