Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

As luck would have it, the agency had a case that required Strike and Robin to make a stop in Nottingham to investigate a person of interest, so they set out in Strike’s BMW on a Thursday morning, late in January, planning to spend the day on their investigation, and then to head on to Masham the following morning. 

The client, whom they had nicknamed “The Sheriff,” was convinced that the manager of one of his business’s branch locations was trying to start a competing business, and he wanted proof. The manager in question was the client’s nephew, which made the case all the more delicate, and Strike and Robin wanted to observe how the nephew, whom they had nicknamed “Mr. Hood,” operated in the field. So, Mr. and Mrs. Theodore Hall had booked several appointments to look at homes in the West Bridgford area of Nottingham, to be used as a retreat from their hectic lives in London, and as a convenient base for Mr. Hall’s frequent work in Nottingham. 

Robin was wearing a dark wig, chunky jewelry, and simple, flowing clothes that made her seem older than she really was. Strike had opted for his suit, a clean shave, and his hair was cropped so close to his head that the curl was almost nonexistent. They exuded a sense of middle-age and wealth, with just a hint of artiness.

Mr. Hood showed them three contemporary homes, all boxy and shiny and made of glass and metal. Mr. and Mrs. Hall seemed less-than-impressed with the offerings.

“It’s lovely, but it feels so sanitary, ’ said Mrs. Hall.

“Yes,” said Mr. Hall. “We were looking for something, oh, I don’t know, gritty .” Mr. Hall gestured vaguely. “But safe, ” he added.

Mr. Hood nodded, and then suggested that they might be interested in a property that was not part of the firm’s official listings. An old warehouse in an up-and-coming part of town, that was in the process of renovation and still had several units available. And with that, Robin and Strike were able to gather all the evidence they needed before dinner.

***

Since Robin and Strike had finished their work so early, they could have driven to Masham for a late arrival Thursday evening. But Robin, who was still not entirely sure how this weekend might play out, told Strike she’d rather they had a night to themselves as planned, rather than rush north.

Their holiday in Cornwall had been perfect. Everything from the AirBnB, which gave them a sort of autonomy and refuge, to the open delight and acceptance of all of Strike’s family towards their relationship, had left Robin with such a warm feeling, that she was actively looking forward to the following Christmas. Strike also had been pleased, and the experience had so warmed relations between him and his sister that he had voluntarily agreed to spend the entire Sunday after their trip to Masham at his sister’s house, enduring Adam’s birthday party.

Robin’s mother had been eager for details about her holiday, and about Cormoran’s family, and Robin felt that Linda had quite warmed to Cormoran simply from hearing the accounts of daily life in St. Mawes. Robin felt a bit guilty that she had purposely sent Linda snapshots of her and Cormoran doing very benign and family-oriented things over the holiday, including one that captured Strike and Jack playing soldier together. She felt that this was somehow manipulative, although in truth, their week had been lovely and filled with domestic activities. Now that things were out in the open, Robin found it easier to talk to her mother, although she still held back certain feelings or emotions. As happy as she was, she somehow did not want to talk to her mother in depth about the relationship.  

In the meantime, Linda had phoned to ask what kind of food they would like during their visit and whether Cormoran had any dietary restrictions, a question that made Robin choke on her tea. Her brother, Martin, had texted to inform her that their mother was undergoing some level of anxiety trying to decide if she should prepare Stephen’s bedroom for Strike, or if Strike was planning to stay with Robin. Via Martin, Robin had relayed that only one bedroom would be necessary, and told Martin that if there was any problem with that, she didn’t want to hear about  it. 

Then there had been the text exchange with Martin where he had informed her that there was quite a lot of discussion at home about whether or not Robin knew and if Robin couldn’t guess what that was then he wasn’t going to tell her. Robin knew they were referring to Matthew and Sarah’s baby, whom, she presumed, had been born several months earlier. She was almost proud of her mother for refraining from bringing it up to her. She had written back to Martin to let him know that she knew the essentials, but not the final outcome, and he had texted her back an image of a creepy little boy with a gas mask from an episode of Doctor Who .

Stephen and Jenny were planning on visiting Saturday with Annabel, and Jonathan had mentioned that he might try to stop by as well. Robin had not planned much of anything; she assumed her family would take charge in some way, and her main hope was that the weekend was not too stressful and that everyone would learn to interact tolerably well with each other.

Chapter Text

Robin and Strike drove up to the Ellacott home just before noon on Friday. Robin had called ahead to let her mother know their estimated arrival time, and Linda had promised to have some lunch prepared. There was just enough space to park on the street right out front, and Robin maneuvered expertly into the spot and they spent some time rummaging in the boot, moving aside their bags with disguises and work gear. Cormoran pulled out both Robin’s bag and his own, and in a show of chivalry, carried both, following Robin up the walkway.

The door opened, and Linda Ellacott appeared, wearing an apron, a tea towel in her hand. “You made good time!” she exclaimed, pulling Robin into a hug. She ushered them both inside, and Robin told Strike to just set their bags by the stairs, to deal with later.

Strike deposited the bags down in a corner of the hallway, and looked around. The Ellacott home was larger than Uncle Ted’s but not by much. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting - something more posh or upper middle-class, perhaps. Whereas the Nancarrow house had been decorated in the height of 1970s fashion and rarely updated, it seemed that the Ellacotts had kept up with the times; the appliances in the kitchen seemed relatively recent. Strike had caught a glimpse of the sitting room, which held several crammed bookshelves, and seemed comfortably cluttered.

The Ellacott’s old Labrador, Rowntree, was curled up and asleep when they entered the kitchen. Sensing movement, he rose, stiffly, and plodded over to greet Robin, who had bent on one knee to give him a warm hug. He accepted it calmly, and then padded over to Strike, sniffing both his feet, and lingering, as if puzzled, on his prosthetic leg. Strike watched, amused. “You can tell something’s not right there, can’t you?” he said, bending down to let Rowntree sniff at his fingers. 

“We took him to the vet last week,” Linda said, pulling plates with a cheery strawberry blossom pattern on them from one of the cabinets. “Apparently, he can’t see. Mr. Herriot threw cotton balls at his face and he didn’t flinch at all!” 

“Oh no!” said Robin. “Is there anything to be done?” 

Linda shook her head. “Cataracts. Not worth operating at this point. He can smell and hear and sense things. He’s just getting old and we have to remember that we have to use sound or proximity to get his attention, and not depend on waving a hand. That type of thing.”

As if he understood what had been said, Rowntree gave another deep sniff of Strike’s prosthetic leg, and then with a puzzled huff, padded stiffly back to his cushion.

“Your father’s got a meeting, he’ll be back around three,” said Linda, gesturing to both of them to sit at the kitchen table. ”I’ve just pulled together some sandwiches for lunch,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind egg and cress?” The latter was addressed to Strike.

Strike laughed. “I’ll eat just about anything, and probably twice the amount you think I will.”

This seemed to make Linda happy, and he saw her add extra egg to his sandwich. He winked at Robin, who tapped his foot affectionately under the table. 

“So you had a stop to make before you came here?” Linda asked as she reached into a cabinet and pulled out a large bag of crisps that appeared half-empty. She tsked and muttered, “Martin,” and shook crisps onto the sides of the three plates.

Robin and Strike told her about their case, and their disguises. Linda seemed genuinely surprised that their work involved camouflaging their looks on occasion, and that their target was not a murderer. Strike shot Robin a glance, and she shrugged. So it was that Strike explained to Linda that the majority of their work involved watching people carrying out fairly benign tasks, and that without cheating spouses they would likely not have enough cases to keep the business running. 

“I suppose everyone only focuses on the glamorous ones,” said Linda, dropping into her seat to join them at the table. Strike immediately began to devour his sandwich. 

“This is delicious,” he said, once he’d swallowed a large mouthful. “Thanks.” Strike was puzzled by Robin’s silence. She did not seem unhappy, but she seemed unwilling to volunteer information about the agency to her mother. He knew on some level that her parents had disapproved of her choice of career, and even of him. He couldn’t really say he blamed them, remembering, with a touch of embarrassment, but not regret, how he had crashed Robin’s wedding. He recalled, vividly, Linda’s accusations that he had broken Robin’s heart when he sacked her, and he now wondered if Linda, as a mother, had somehow realized more than either he or Robin had realized at the time.

Strike, normally not one to pay mind to awkward silences, decided to keep talking, focusing primarily on Robin’s successes. Soon, Robin did join in, answering her mother’s questions, and laughing, along with Strike at some of the ridiculousness of the stories. She blushed a bit when relaying how they had managed to figure out what Shifty’s Boss had been doing. 

“I suppose I’ve lived a boring life. I never realized how much trouble I could be getting into,” said Linda, with a chuckle.

“Count yourself lucky,” said Strike, who was wondering if Linda had anything planned for dessert. “Most of our clients aren’t happy people. But, it’s not all adulterers or cheaters. We’ve had a few people who were adopted and trying to search for their birth parents, things like that. Sometimes people just need to track down other people for legal reasons. Inheritances, things like that. A few lawyers have us on retainer now, along with a couple journalists.”

“Until Robin started working for you,” said Linda, “I wasn’t entirely convinced that private investigators were real. I thought they were a sort of fictional invention.” 

“So did I,” said Robin. “I mean, when I was at school I knew I wanted to do something to do with psychology and investigations, but I assumed it would be with police or maybe intelligence services.”

Linda looked at Robin, and then down at her plate. “You know, we never really thought you were serious about that. I suppose we assumed you would end up being a therapist of some kind.” Linda reached out and briefly squeezed her daughter’s hand, and Strike saw a look of understanding pass between them. 

Robin said, “I didn’t really have anything real to base it on when I was at uni. It just sounded so interesting, and I always loved solving mysteries. But when the temp agency sent me to Cormoran’s office, I couldn’t believe it was real either. It was like, everything that I had stopped hoping for at uni came rushing back to me.”

“Luckiest day of my life,” said Strike with emotion, momentarily forgetting Linda was at the table with them. “I knew almost immediately that you had skill with observation and analysis.” Then, remembering where he was, he coughed and tried to lighten his words. “But I do sometimes wonder at your judgment. A grungy detective agency with one case and a fat one-legged bastard of a boss who was sleeping in the office? That was your dream?”

But Robin’s eyes were glistening. “I could tell you were good,” she said. “Your files were so organized! And I didn’t know you had one leg right away, not that it matters.” She laughed as she brushed at her eyes with her hand. “When you invited me to go look at the scene of Lula Landry’s death - I just knew that was what I wanted to do.”

Strike reached for her hand and drew it to his lips, placing a kiss tenderly on the back, and squeezed as he let their hands fall back to the table. Linda cleared her throat, and both Strike and Robin jumped. 

“Robin - “ said Linda, and then stopped. “Why didn’t you - ? We only wanted…” She also had tears in her eyes. “I wish you would talk to me about these things.”

Nodding, Robin looked down, playing absently with the frayed edge of the tablecloth. “I just thought everyone disapproved. Matt made me feel so guilty for enjoying my job.”

“I won’t lie,” said Linda. “The danger in the work worries me. You’ve been injured. But, Stephen nearly lost a finger last week at work, so I suppose there’s danger everywhere. And over Christmas, your father nearly lost an eyeball when he was trying to open the packaging on a new pair of gloves.”

They all laughed at this. 

“Besides,” said Linda, “We all know that Matthew was a self-righteous bastard.”

Strike, who had just taken a sip of his tea, coughed, and Robin let out a rather unflattering snort.

“What?” asked Linda. 

“I thought - “ said Robin. “Well, everyone seemed to be on his side, and to believe everything he was saying. I thought I was the black sheep. I know you all thought that Cormoran and I - “ she blushed, and looked away. “Well, we weren’t then.”

“Yes, but you never contradicted anything,” said Linda. “And as your mother, I can tell certain things about you. I could tell you had feelings for him even before your wedding.” 

“Mum!” said Robin. Strike smirked and sat up straighter in his chair. 

“Maybe you should try that talking thing with your family, Ellacott,” he said. “Obviously I’m not the only one who keeps things bottled up inside.” Robin rolled her eyes.

“How would you know that?” asked Robin, addressing her mother. “How? When I didn’t even know.” 

“Remember that day at Betty’s? After we went for your dress fitting?”

Robin closed her eyes, as if trying to remember the conversation. Then she sighed. “Yes, I remember.” 

“Well, it was a case of ‘the lady doth protest too much’,” said Linda. “We used to talk about things like that - but suddenly you didn’t want to talk about anything.” She turned to address Strike. “That was when I offered her the Land Rover for her and Matt and her response was that it would be really helpful for you to use.” 

Strike grinned cheekily at Robin. “And you said you couldn’t pinpoint how early it started.”

“Shut up, Mr. Vashti-dress-giver,” said Robin. 

“And then he showed up at your wedding,” continued Linda. “Trying to act like it was purely professional…”

“All right!” said Robin, laughing lightly. “We get it, Mum. You knew.” 

“Well,” said Linda, standing, and reaching for Strike’s and Robin’s plates. “It’s water under the bridge. We’re here now. You’re obviously happy, and therefore, your father and I are happy for you. Now, who wants biscuits?”

Chapter Text

Strike had not felt such a sense of camaraderie since his time in the army as he did when he headed to the Bay Horse in Masham with Robin’s hand in his and all of her brothers and her father surrounding them. Stephen, Martin, and Jonathan were all around the same height as Strike, and as they walked, they poked fun at each other and pushed each other in a way that reminded Strike of rollicking puppies. Stephen seemed to be especially full of energy - he had confided to Strike that evenings out had been few and far-between in the last year. 

It was late afternoon. The plan was to have a few drinks before the grand dinner that Linda was preparing for the family. Even the usually sedate Michael Ellacott had not seemed to need much persuasion to head out and enjoy a change of scenery, and Linda seemed eager to have some time to herself. Jenny had retired upstairs to share a nap with Annabel. Despite the odd hour, the Bay Horse was full up inside, and so Strike followed the Ellacotts to the green at the rear of the pub, where a large number of wooden tables were set up. It was unseasonably warm, and so they settled, Strike happy for the option of enjoying a cigarette while they drank.

Stephen offered to get the first round, and Jonathan accompanied him to help. Strike had been enjoying talking with Robin’s father, who seemed quiet at first, but who was well-read and interested in current affairs, and had served in the Army Reserve. He had shown quite an interest in Strike’s experiences in the SIB.

Overall, Strike was feeling fairly pleased with himself, and with Robin, and with the world. That is, until Stephen and Jonathan returned, deposited the pint glasses on the table with a definite thud, and Jonathan said, “Twat!”

He had been opposite Martin as he made that declaration, and Martin had dismissed his younger brother’s outcry with a shrug and reached for a beer. “Not you,” said Jonathan sheepishly. He turned to Robin. “Er - “

Stephen was not so hesitant. “That twat - sorry Dad - Matthew - is inside with his drunken father.”

On alert now, Strike turned to observe Robin. She also reached for a pint, flipped her hair over her shoulder, and said, “So what?”

All four of the Ellacott men exchanged glances. 

“I know about Sarah and the baby,” said Robin, sounding exasperated. “Is there more?”

Her brothers all looked disappointed. “Nope, that’s it. They’re in there as well,” said Stephen. He was still standing, as if he had been prepared for a fight, and was still hoping that someone might yell Now! Robin tugged at his arm and rolled her eyes. “Sit down,” she said. 

With a sigh, Stephen sat with a thud on the bench. Strike put his arm around Robin’s shoulder and she nestled into him for a moment, reaching her arm around his waist and holding on to him while she sipped her beer and joked with her brothers. 

When everyone had finished their first round, Strike offered to get the next, and Robin jumped up to join him. 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” asked Jonathan, nodding towards the pub, and then shooting a nervous glance at both Strike and Robin, as if remembering Strike’s drunken outbursts at the Valentine’s Day dinner in London a year earlier.

“Oh please,” said Robin, with a laugh. “If they’re still in there, what are they going to do? Throw their baby at me? I’ve taken self-defense classes, I think I can handle it. I have to use the loo anyway. Come on.”

“I’ll come too, then,” said Michael, standing stiffly, and shaking out his legs one at a time. 

Strike headed to the bar counter to order the beer while Robin and her father made a detour at the toilets. It was possible to enter the pub and approach the bar without actually looking at the main floor of the pub, and although Strike had to admit that he was a tiny bit curious to see the Cunliffe family, he wasn’t so eager that he felt like turning around. Still, the hairs on the back of his neck tingled a little, as though he could feel eyes upon him. It was the sound of a baby crying out that caused him to turn and look.

Robin and her father were both approaching the bar, and Strike saw Matthew, Sarah, and an older man who must be Matthew’s father, sitting at a table near the front door. The pram was in the corner, and Sarah, who was holding a small infant, looked extremely tired and unhappy and was hissing something at Matthew. Robin decided to ignore the spectacle, and sidled next to Strike at the bar, pulling the full pint glasses towards her. Following his daughter’s lead, Michael reached for a pint as well, just as Strike felt a tap on his shoulder. 

Turning around, he saw Matthew’s father glaring at him, with Matthew standing, as if frozen, halfway between their table and the bar. He was staring at his father with a distressed look, and Strike almost almost felt sorry for him. 

“Bugger,” muttered Robin, putting the pints back on the bar and directing her attention to Matthew’s father. Strike stifled a grin. 

“How - how dare you!” Matthew’s father was obviously at least one pint past his limit, and he prodded Strike in the chest with his finger as he spoke. 

“Buy a pint?” Strike asked, trying to lighten the situation.

Matthew’s father looked confused. “No I won’t buy you a pint!”

“I didn’t ask you to buy me a pint,” said Strike, in a measured tone. “You seem to have a problem with me buying one though - you said ‘how dare you.’”

“How dare you come here!” He stamped his foot. “Upsetting my - upsetting my daughter-in-law!”

Sarah was bouncing the baby in the background. She stopped when she heard Geoffrey's words, and the baby let out a wail. 

Strike glanced at Robin. He was at a loss. He didn’t want to get into a fight and cause more negative attention to be focused on Robin and her family. But he also didn’t want this tosser to get away with making accusations that were incorrect. Robin also seemed unsure of how to proceed. Luckily for both of them, Michael Ellacott decided to take things into his own hands.

“Now Geoffrey,” he said, stepping forward. “We’re just here trying to have a relaxing afternoon. Why don’t you go sit down and leave us be. Matt - “ Michael looked over Geoffrey’s shoulder to Matthew, “Maybe it’s time you took your father home.”

“Yeah,” said Matthew, unfreezing, and taking a few steps closer, so that he was within reach of his father. “Dad, it’s not a big deal, come on.” Still, Strike didn’t miss the look of disgust that Matthew shot in his direction. 

“Should’ve expected it - yer mum was a famous tease, weren’t she? No wonder -” Geoffrey was pointing at Strike, his finger prodding at Strike’s chest again. “I heard she was a page three girl…”

Strike felt his right arm pull back reflexively, but Robin reached out and linked her arm through his before he could move forward with the force of a punch. Looking across at her, Strike was surprised and warmed to see that she had a serene, amused look on her face. He was relieved that he hadn’t accidentally made contact with her face as he had the previous year at the American Bar, when Carl Oakden had infuriated him so much that he’d lost control.

But Michael Ellacott, who was still standing close to Matthew’s father, did not look so calm. He removed his spectacles and pinched his nose for a moment, and then replaced them and took another step closer to Geoffrey.

“Is the brilliant Michael Ellacott going to speak? Going to defend your slag daughter and this berk?”

“Oh,” said Robin’s dad. “I could say plenty, but since your maths isn’t good enough to calculate the time passed between your son’s marriage and the birth of your grandson, I don’t think you’d understand.”

Geoffrey Cunliffe seemed to sway slightly, and Matthew reached out and grabbed hold of his arm. “Come on, Dad,” mumbled Matthew. Strike had to give him credit for not joining in the fray. If anything, he looked concerned and slightly embarrassed. Beyond him, Strike could see Sarah hurriedly settling the baby into the pram, anxiously watching the proceedings. 

Matthew tugged on his father’s arm, attempting to drag him away. It looked like he was going to go willingly, but he suddenly stopped and turned, and this time, aimed his vitriol directly at Robin. “You don’t know how to treat a man,” he slurred, drunkenly. 

“And you don’t know how to treat a woman.”  Neither Strike nor Robin had time to respond as Michael Ellacott followed this statement by drawing his arm back and throwing a punch in Geoffrey Cunliffe’s direction. Matthew, watching with a horrified look on his face, pulled his father out of range just in time, and as a result, Geoffrey fell backwards, knocking into his son, and they both tumbled to the floor. 

Chapter Text

“You what?” Linda Ellacott was staring incredulously at her husband, who stood in front of her, a  combination of pride and embarrassment on his face.

“He did,” said Robin. “I was only paying attention to Cormoran - didn’t occur to me that Dad would try to lamp him.” 

“ You can't shake hands with a clenched fist,” mocked Martin in falsetto.

“Keep calm, prove them wrong,” said Jonathan, in an equally affected tone.

Michael waved his hand at them. “He’s had it coming.” He turned to Strike. “I appreciate that you had the thought first, even if she stopped you.”

“Michael!” said Linda, dropping into a chair. 

“Really,” said Robin. “I appreciate the chivalry, but don’t you all think it was really my call to decide if punches should be thrown?”

“True,” said Strike. “And I know you could do it, too.” He addressed Michael specifically. “She can defend herself. One of our subcontractors tried to surprise her from behind earlier this year and she probably broke his nose and toe, and almost stabbed him.”

Robin gave Strike an affectionate look. Then she broke into laughter. “Oh, Mum,” she said. “If you could have seen Geoffrey and Matthew on the floor. No one was hurt, but it was so… undignified. You couldn’t have asked for a better outcome actually.”

“They were on the floor when I came in to see what was taking so long,” said Stephen, who was barely able to speak because he was laughing so hard. “Cormoran put out his hand to help them get up, and Geoffrey waved him away, So instead…” He stopped, and took a deep breath, and then tried to continue. “Instead, Geoff got on all fours and crawled over to the nearest table to pull himself up.”

“The bartender gave us a round on the house,” said Robin. “Apparently they’ve had problems with Geoffrey in the past.”

“A win-win!” said Martin, pumping his fist in the air. 

“I wish I’d seen it,” said Jonathan, sadly. “I wish you’d made a video.” 

“Was the baby cute?” asked Jenny, who was attempting to convince Annabel to eat something brown and unappetizing. 

This made everyone laugh harder. Stephen put his hands on her shoulders, and patted them fondly. 

Strike cleared his throat. “We didn’t really get a look. But it has impressive vocal chords.” 

“I felt a little bit bad for Sarah,” said Robin, holding her thumb and forefinger together to indicate exactly how small her sympathy extended. “She looked tired, and now she has to go home and listen to the baby and Geoffrey rant and rave.” 

Rowntree took this opportunity to raise his head from where it had been resting between his paws, and let out a noise that sounded like a cross between a snort and a sneeze. 

Strike put his arm around Robin, pulled her close, and placed a kiss on top of her head, lingering a moment to inhale the scent of her shampoo, mingled with the fresh tang of the outdoors. In turn, she snaked her arm around his waist, and squeezed. The kitchen was warm, and the roast that Linda was resting on the counter smelled amazing and was making Strike’s mouth water. Looking around the room, at the Ellacott family smiling and poking fun at each other, the word home scrolled through his mind, like a banner. Strike marveled at the twist and turns that had led to his presence in this house, with these people. Certainly none of his youthful predictions of his future would have imagined the sense of well-being he felt today. He had a brief moment of fear, wondering what he did not know about his future 40 years hence, but he quickly pushed any negativity from his mind and instead relaxed, and allowed himself to get lost in the moment.