Chapter Text
I saw't not, thought it not, it harm'd not me:
I slept the next night well, was free and merry.
- Othello, Othello, Act 3, Scene 3
When Robin opened the door, the first thing that Strike registered was that she had been crying. She was never a graceful crier – her eyes swelled up, red and puffy, and her breath came in snotty sniffles (this was in contrast to Charlotte, whose tears had always been calculated, weaponised, and left her looking no less devastatingly beautiful). The second thing he registered was that her mouth was popping open in shock to see him there.
‘Cormoran? B-but – you’re early!’
Totally thrown, Strike glanced at his watch. ‘You said six?’
‘I said six, thinking that you’re always late, so you’d probably show up at six-thirty, which was when I told the others to arrive, and now you’re here at – five fifty-five!’
The moment stretched, her managing to glare, smile, and sniffle all at once, him feeling at an utter loss for what to say. ‘Er – Robin, are you all right?’
Her eyes widened in sudden embarrassment, and she turned away, blinking frantically and wiping tears away with the sleeve of her floaty blue blouse. Suddenly gripped with consternation, Strike stepped through the doorway and reached an arm towards her. ‘Is it Matthew? Has he been haranguing you over the phone again? I swear, I’ll tell that tosser where he can – ’
‘Cormoran, no, I’m – look, you big oaf, I’ve been in the kitchen cutting up onions!’ She was laughing properly now, and he realised that he had taken her elbow with his right hand. Her fingers – slender, pale, tipped with delicately lilac-coloured nails – were near enough to his face that he could suddenly smell the raw onion on them. He released her arm as quickly as he’d gripped it, and tried to salvage the moment by thrusting the bottle of champagne he’d brought at her.
‘Well – you’re meant to give crying women alcohol, right? Even if it’s just onion tears? Happy housewarming, Robin.’
She grinned at the label – he’d brought her Blanc de Blancs.
Her new flat was somehow both more modern and more homey than her old one on Albury Street. He vaguely thought that the label “open-plan” might apply here – the big central space of the flat encompassed a lounge area as well as a dining table and chairs, and was separated from the kitchen space only by an island counter topped by black granite. Strike noted the sleek-looking projector affixed to a bracket on the ceiling, pointed at a white wall which had been left pointedly bare of décor. No TV needed here, then; the large windows at the end of the room, however, were partly shrouded by heavy black curtains, which he surmised were necessary to create the home cinema conditions. Beyond the curtains, he thought he could see sliding doors and a tiny balcony, and fixed it in his mind for when would inevitably want a smoke later. There were a number of other doors leading from this central space; from one of them, there issued the soft sound of shower water.
Robin had crossed back to the kitchen, where a couple of pans and pots were bubbling and spitting away. She turned to the hob to continue tossing onions and spices, and Strike was glad of the excuse to avoid her still-puffy eyes. He cast around for something to do.
‘Mind if I put my beer in the fridge? And, look, tell me where to find the glasses and I’ll pour you some bubbles, if you want them?’ She answered in the affirmative, and after a moment’s hesitation – new kitchen – pointed out the appropriate cupboard. He fetched down a few champagne flutes and poured one full for her, making sure to hold the glass at an angle to avoid overflow. She took it with murmured thanks, and clinked it against his still-warm bottle of Doom Bar. After a moment’s thought, Strike shoved it into the freezer, in the hope that it would reach a reasonable temperature before the other guests arrived.
The half hour passed companionably. They swapped new theories on cases as Robin finished up with the cooking, and Strike automatically moved to start washing up the pots and pans. The food plated, Robin ducked into the bathroom to touch up her makeup – smeared somewhat thanks to the onion – and Strike took the opportunity to slip out for a cigarette. The balcony was north-facing, and he leaned on the left-side railing and admired the rippled pink clouds as he smoked. The sliding door opened behind him, and Robin leaned through it to inform him that his beer was adequately chilled. ‘Oh, gorgeous sunset tonight – though really, every sunset is beautiful in this city. There have to be some perks to living with London’s air pollution, right?’ He agreed, and turned to follow her back into the living area.
Strike registered faintly that the sounds of the shower had abated, and presently a man emerged from the master bedroom, dark hair still damp, doing up the final buttons of his teal shirt. He was slim and fit, about Robin’s height, with a face that was charmingly expressive if not classically handsome. He moved towards Strike with his hand outstretched.
‘Rowan Abbasi,’ he introduced himself with an easy, lopsided smile. ‘Good to meet the legend, after a week of hearsay!’
Robin rolled smiling eyes and punched him lightly on the arm. Strike was surprised to see such easy camaraderie between them after only a week of living together; as if reading his mind, Robin explained, ‘Rowan’s been working from home for the last week, so we’ve had dinner together most nights. Tonight is virtually the first time I’ve had the run of the kitchen – I’m usually just perched at the counter with a glass of wine, helping him run lines while he cooks. It makes a nice change…’ She trailed off, and Strike guessed – accurately – that Matthew had harboured certain unspoken expectations of who should be doing the cooking in their marriage.
‘Well, don’t get too used to it,’ Rowan teased, ‘I’ll be back in rehearsals soon enough, and then it’ll be anyone’s guess when we’ll see each other.’ He scooped up the flute of champagne Robin had just passed him, and raised it in a toast to her and Strike. ‘Here’s to acting and private investigation – we went in expecting glamour, and found only lives of drudgery!’
‘Speak for yourself,’ came Robin’s retort, ‘I happen to like the drudgery!’
‘And I wouldn’t know what to do with glamour if it bit me on the nose,’ Strike added.
The buzzer’s tone presaged Ilsa and Nick’s arrival, and Rowan excused himself to let them in. In a kitchen that seemed suddenly much emptier without the actor’s presence, Strike found himself clearing his throat and searching for small talk. ‘Seems like a pretty ideal flatmate, then?’
Robin smiled, hands busy with collecting cutlery from a drawer. ‘He’s great. Something about him reminds me of Martin, actually… though they’re very different people, obviously.’ Strike considered, and decided he could see the similarities in the two men’s manners. A tenseness in his chest, of which he hadn’t even been aware, suddenly eased; after all her experiences with the worst specimens of the male species, he was glad that Robin now found herself living with a man who felt like a brother to her. He made a mental note to thank Ilsa again for putting them in contact, and then the woman herself was breezing into the flat, Nick in tow.
‘Robin, Rowan, how are you? The flat’s looking so lovely! Hello to you too, Corm,’ she added, planting a kiss on his cheek and then continuing on to the hostess, enquiring about whether she’d managed to repair the vase they’d chipped during the move. Strike felt a slight flare of envy that Ilsa and Nick had been the ones to help Robin move her things into the flat and turn it into her home, while he’d been busy shadowing a client’s latest errant boyfriend. Fat lot of use you’d have been anyway, with your one-and-a-half legs and total lack of interior design skills. Not that Robin needed any decorating advice – she’d managed to turn their office from shabby to quietly tasteful, so that Strike always felt her presence there now, whether she was in or not.
Nick clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder as a greeting, and Robin came over to take the wine he proffered, leaving Rowan and Ilsa to finish up the final stages of setting the table.
‘Robin, Oggy – all right, you two? This is a cosy little gathering!’
‘Mmm, and Vanessa’s coming too, so we’ll have a full table – I don’t think it’d seat more than six, realistically.’
‘She’s not bringing Oliver, then?’ Strike remembered the lanky forensic pathologist, with his disapproving manner, and felt that he would put a certain damper on what would otherwise be very congenial company.
‘No, that finished a couple of weeks ago. Actually, I gather there’s already somebody new on the scene… But that’s too new for a group dinner party invite, I’m afraid. Oh, there’s the buzzer again, that must be her.’
Strike had been right: the combination of dinner companions made for excellent conversation, and after they’d finished the delicious food, the group drifted over to continue chatting from the comfort of the lounge area (Strike noticed, with a certain amount of resigned jealousy, that the sofa accepted his bulk without so much as a whisper, let alone a fart). He tuned back in to the conversation just in time to catch the end of Vanessa’s story: ‘You’d think that she’d have remembered the name of the officer who put her abusive husband in handcuffs, but nope! A card turns up at the station a week later, addressed to “Sergeant Detective Ikea”…’
Robin’s peal of laughter – was she tipsy? – drew his gaze to where she sat, curled up cat-like on a leather armchair mere feet away from him. ‘That’s as bad as some of the names on the mail for Cormoran – I’ve started keeping a record of the particularly outstanding ones! “Cumberbatch Strick” is my favourite so far.’
Rowan chimed in. ‘You could always just bite the bullet and change your name to Cameron? That’s what I did – got sick of white people stumbling over “Roshan”, and having it misspelt on the playbills.’
‘But you kept Abbasi?’
Rowan shrugged. ‘Can’t make it too easy for the colonisers, can you? And Abbasi’s a good surname for an actor – so many casting lists are arranged in alphabetical order.’ Nick laughed, and Rowan shook his head, a hint of a self-aware smile playing around his lips. ‘You have no idea how much cold calculation goes into showbiz, mate…’
Ilsa and Nick left first, the older woman whispering something into Robin’s ear which had her giggling and exhorting the pair ‘out then, out, good luck!’ Strike was surprised when Rowan bowed out not much later, pleading an early breakfast engagement with a director friend. Somehow, the image in his mind of a professional actor had contained more…
‘Debauchery?’ suggested Vanessa, smirking. ‘Need to take things more seriously than that if you want to make it in the West End! You heard him about cold calculation, I’m sure that when he does dabble in excess, it’s for the purposes of schmoozing with industry heavyweights.’
Robin opened her mouth with an air of indignation that Strike found quite touching, ready to leap to her new flatmate’s defence; then he watched as she considered Vanessa’s words, and realised that from the highly pragmatic police officer, they had probably been meant as praise. Vanessa yawned. ‘I might head home soon myself, I’ve a date in the morning too. Wouldn’t mind the loo first though – Robin, you do realise that you never gave us a tour of the flat? Which of those two doors is the bathroom?’
Robin, flushing slightly – from the wine or embarrassment at being thought a neglectful host? – scrambled to her feet. As she moved, Strike realised for the first time that her legs, crossed at the ankles, had been resting lightly against his prosthetic foot. Had she been aware of that? Had he shifted up against her without noticing, and she’d been too polite to bring his attention to it by moving away? She made so many small, wordless, daily allowances for his disability…
‘Oh, sorry! It’s the second one, the first is a little study, barely bigger than a closet but quite sweet really – I’ll show you if you like, give you a belated tour?’
Standing up, Robin was keenly aware of how her new home had shifted into soft focus since she’d settled into the leather armchair. Ilsa, who hadn’t been drinking, had slyly topped up her wine glass whenever it emptied, and even after her fizzing hostly stress had dissipated, Robin had welcomed the added confidence the alcohol had provided. She felt comfortable with these people she’d known barely more than a year, more so than with any of the old crowd of “friends” Matthew and she had kept since university, but there had still been something keeping her nerves humming. Perhaps it was the novelty of being at a purely social event with her boss-turned-partner, neither of them accompanied by a significant other… She felt keenly the lack of proscribed boundaries that came with their working relationship; even in the pub after a day’s work, they had a rhythm together which didn’t apply in others’ company. In the Tottenham, it was perfectly acceptable to maintain eye contact with Strike throughout a conversation, or to slip into their easy banter and in-jokes, but with friends, especially Strike’s old school friends… Well, what was appropriate, and what wasn’t?
Distracted by these thoughts jangling through her mind, she realised that she was babbling about the flat’s layout. ‘It’s quite convenient, the study and bathroom being on the other side of the kitchen to the bedrooms, because I can use it for typing up reports, and Rowan for rehearsing lines, without disturbing the other person if they’re sleeping odd hours, and same goes for the noise of the shower and toilet. Oh, erm, speaking of which – here you go, Vanessa.’ The other woman slipped past her into the bathroom, throwing her a knowing smile which only served to disconcert Robin further. Then she found herself standing outside the closed bathroom door with Strike, who had drifted along in the women’s wake for the “belated tour”.
For a long moment, the silence stretched between them, and then Strike moved to the study door. ‘Mind if I - ?’
‘Not at all! Look, I know I said I share it with Rowan, but I always pack away all my work things into this locked filing cabinet, of course I don’t leave anything out. And anyway, you know how I’m trying to digitise everything these days, there’s not much paperwork for him to see…’ She followed him into the tiny room.
‘Calm down Ellacott, I wasn’t trying to suggest that you were breaching our confidentiality policies.’ The smile he threw back at her, gently teasing, gave her the confidence to reach for that rhythm they’d perfected in the Tottenham.
‘That’s only because I haven’t finished writing those policies yet!’ His rough laugh seemed to fill the whole room, and hung in the air between them. He turned, suddenly, and bent down to check the lock on the filing cabinet. ‘Well? Does it meet with your approval?’
Strike admitted that it did, and Robin felt it was time to back out of the room. Vanessa still wasn’t finished in the bathroom. ‘Er, there’s not much more to the flat, really. You saw Rowan disappear into his bedroom – it’s the master one, with an ensuite – and mine is on the other side of the kitchen, here.’ She found herself opening the door to her room, praying that she’d left it neat and tidy, as Strike’s flat always was on the rare occasions she had reason to enter it. It was, but as soon as her partner stepped through the threshold, she felt an acute sense of embarrassment pierce the wine fug.
She hadn’t had a bedroom to herself since she was a teenager, and in the absence of Matthew and his disdain for anything “girly”, she’d finally felt safe to indulge in a few feminine touches. The curtains were a gauzy amber, the dresser (courtesy of Rowan) was one of the old-fashioned theatrical types with light bulbs around the mirror frame, and the bedhead was festooned with fairy lights which glowed from within paper lanterns. The effect of the room, which Robin had until now found warm and comforting, suddenly seemed horribly soft and silly in comparison to Strike’s military-style spartan rooms.
But when Cormoran turned to her, she thought she saw something like wistfulness flit across his face. ‘This is… nice,’ he muttered, not meeting her eyes. ‘You’ve got, ah, loads of space. Is the furniture yours?’
‘No, most of it’s Rowan’s or his ex’s – I bought him out of a lot of the stuff. Except the bed, obviously, which I actually found on Gumtree – second-hand, but it’s really sturdy, and I treated myself to a new mattress, which is unbelievably comfortable…’ She found herself walking over to the bed and patting it, as if to demonstrate. The absurdity of this caught up with her and she blinked slowly once, twice. ‘Cormoran, I think I’m going to be a bit hungover in the morning.’
His low chuckle tugged a smile to her lips as well. He crossed to the other side of the bed and bent down to pat it too. ‘Yep, definitely meets my standards of mattress comfort – but you know me, I could sleep on anything.’
A cough from the doorway made Robin start. ‘Well, I’m going to head off then – shall I leave you two to your mattress inspection?’ Vanessa’s eyes twinkled wickedly as she watched the blush spread over her friend’s face and neck.
Strike lurched out of Robin’s room at a pace that almost seemed natural. ‘Mind if I walk you to the station? I’ll exchange a smoke for any dirt you may have on Wardle, never know when I’ll next need leverage…’
Robin saw them to the door of the flat, rattling through her farewells on autopilot. As Strike drew on his coat, Vanessa pulled her in for a close embrace (and a whispered, ‘Cocktails, Tuesday night after work? We need to talk!’), and let herself through the front door. Strike hesitated fractionally before pulling her into an awkward one-armed hug, his cheek grazing hers. ‘Cheers for the dinner, it's been a great night. I’ll see you Monday, yeah?’
‘Of course,’ she agreed, and didn’t see him wince at himself as he turned away and left with Vanessa. Robin, suddenly exhausted, threw the dirty dishes into the dishwasher, and barely managed to remove her slacks and light blouse before falling into bed.
Hours later, her phone’s ping dragged her to the surface of consciousness, where she floated just long enough to see one word through sleep-clogged eyes. Help, she read… Her sleepy brain decided she must be dreaming still, and she slipped back into slumber as the sun’s rays crept through her amber curtains.