Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

PART 1

Chapter 1: It all began with a bang.

Not for the first time, Cormoran Strike found himself in a Viking military vehicle, chatting with Richard Anstis, Brian Topley and Wren Adams, himself the sergeant and higher ranked of them all, as they rode in the back, through the Afghan roads. Then he felt the hunch of death, heard his mother’s clear voice in his ears:

“Bomb!”

Strike shoot to his feet, grabbing Anstis as he was showing baby pictures of the newborn that awaited him at home, and while he shouted at the driver to brake, at the top of his lungs, he threw Anstis and himself to the far back, grabbing him with one hand, and the submachine gun he’d been equipped with, with the other.

It was the desert, hot and warm, yet this was different. It was more cloudy, with an aura of a dream, a mist in the air, and Strike could now do nothing but stare at the blood pouring from below his right knee, the rest of his leg gone, as he lied on the ground, weapon gone. He looked in the far distance, and saw a tall, beautiful, strawberry blonde woman with blue-grey eyes, curvaceous body, and clothes that belonged to the big city and not to here, the arid middle of nowhere. She was staring at him, standing between bleeding bits of bodies, by the remains in flames of the Viking, as if nothing was going on.

Strike tried to speak, but he felt weak and faint, unable to speak. Then the woman was grabbed from behind and a blade pressed against her throat. She could only scream.

“Help me!”

Suddenly Strike jerked awake, breathing heavy as he sat up in bed, drenched in sweat by the recurrent nightmare. Now, he was not in the arid Afghanistan, but in a very different environment. Here was the Herberts’ neat and tidy guest room, the comfortable double bed with the duvet, the heating on, the pristine soft beige walls, the rain ricocheting against the window, and the door in front of him, ajar. A little girl peeked, holding the edge of the door with chubby fingers, her mother’s blue-green eyes with her father’s almond shape eyeing Strike with shyness, excitement and curiosity. She moved closer, grinning with mischief, her perfect white teeth inside a pink-lipped mouth, her clear, round and chubby face a welcome good morning.

“Evie, what’re you up to, you sneaky girl?” Strike inquired with a smirk. Evelyn giggled, and jumped to his bed, hugging him, never minding his sweat, and kissing his cheek.

“Good morning Uncle Corm,” said Evelyn with her perky soft voice. Strike, who had never been good with children, had to admit he had a soft spot with Evelyn Herbert, who seemed to have a crush on him, or so her parents joked. She enjoyed his company and he enjoyed hers, and she didn’t make him play dolls and things that were embarrassing to him, happy instead with having him read to her for hours, even in Latin.

“Good morning Evie,” Strike hugged her tight, like every morning, and kissed the top of her hear, full of short, wavy hair, so blonde it was nearly white, like her parents’. She was already dressed for the day, with a little dress, a jumper, thick winter leotards and thick socks to walk around the house, which wasn’t surprising. Evie’s father liked to go on morning runs or bicycling, and if she woke up early, she got to join him, and even go buy the paper together.

“Daddy made pancakes!” she added excitedly, watching him for a reaction. When his stomach grumbled in automatic, she giggled and jumped off the bed, yelling “race you!”

“You better run, young girl!” it was for nothing, really, but they did the same routine nearly every morning, for the five weeks he’d been staying with the Herberts in their house in Melody Road, Wandsworth. Strike took a deep breath, moved the duvet, and chilled with the temperature difference before putting on his prosthetic lower right leg, his long pyjama trousers which he didn’t sleep with, because then he’d have to remove them to comfortably put on his prosthesis, and it got annoying, and his slippers. He put on his dressing gown, which was draped over the corner armchair, and moved to the adjacent bathroom to wash his face, pee, have some mouthwash as he liked to do even before breakfast, and try to make his perpetually messy, short and thick dark curls a bit decent. He’d been growing a thick beard, because it was warm in winter and he was a Southerner who hated being cold, and so he forewent shaving and walked outside.

It was a short walk down the corridor to the kitchen-dining room, already buzzing with life. The two grey cats, Ossie and Ricky, were perched on kitchen cabinets as if afraid to join in the fun, Nick Herbert, fully dressed as Strike had imagined, made breakfast, and his wife, in her pyjamas, dressing gown, with her glasses on and a mug of tea in front, sat at the dining table breastfeeding their ten month old Leo, while reading the newspaper her husband had brought. Evie, full of energy as always, jumped up and down to the chant of ‘pancakes’, making her parents snigger at times.

“Morning,” said Strike, adverting his eyes for the half breast of his oldest best friend, exposed by her son’s lazy sucking.

“Good morning Corm,” Ilsa said cheerfully looking up at him. Her long blonde hair was braided, and as usual, she was one of the most beautiful women Strike had ever seen. He’d never felt himself attracted to her that way, as they were pretty much siblings raised close, but he had eyes in his face.

“Morning Oggy!” Nick grinned, and set two full plates on the table, his daughter bringing a third, before Nick retrieved a forth, along with tea for Nick and Strike and juice for Evelyn. “Come on Evelyn, sweetie, sit with me, let’s eat.”

“Thanks Nick, I’m starved and this looks amazing,” said Strike gratefully, sitting with them next to his female best friend, the others in front, because it was Nick’s turn to get Evelyn, easily distractable, to focus and eat her breakfast. “I thought you worked today?”

“Yes, I have A&E shift, but I don’t have to go just yet. Get the whole New Year’s Eve madness, but at least I had Christmas.”

“But Daddy! Why d’you have to go?” Evelyn pouted, and Strike could see in Nick’s blue eyes for his daughter, he was being tempted to calling in sick, and it wasn’t a first. “I want you to come to the party…” she said sadly.

“Uncle Corm will party with you, Daddy has to make sure everyone makes it back home safe from their own parties tonight,” said Nick calmly. “People get sick every day of the year honey, even on holidays, and we need every doctor we can get.”

Nick Herbert was a GP, and he worked at Chelsea & Westminster Hospital, which received an impressive intake of people with ethylic comas on New Year’s Eve, and sometimes, it fell on Nick to deal with it, as he had night A&E shifts a few times a month, dividing holidays, which, as he and Ilsa liked to see from a positive point of view, made the annual decisions of whether to celebrate this and that in London, with his side of the family, or in St Mawes, with hers, much easier. This year, however, was an exception, because it was Strike’s sister’s first holiday since she’d divorced earlier in the year, with her boyfriend and two sons, and their uncle, aunt and younger brother were coming from St Mawes, so they would be joining them in Bromley, at Lucy’s house. Nick’s parents would celebrate with the rest of his extended family, and they would be getting the peace and quiet of Bromley instead of the loud, fireworks-filled Hackney or Wandsworth, having in count Strike, Evelyn and Leo absolutely despised fireworks. It was the first thing Strike and his godchildren could agree on.

“Don’t worry sweetheart, we’ll see Daddy tomorrow and we’ll have him for a whole week all to ourselves,” Ilsa reminded their daughter, who cheered up.

“Yay!”

Nick chuckled at their daughter’s antics.

“All right, but let’s eat now, Evie. We have to focus, remember? Then, we’ll spend the whole week partying with everyone.”

Strike had to admit the day’s incoming party cheered him up considerably. After thirteen years on-and-off dating and a two-year long engagement, his relationship with his most serious girlfriend, Charlotte Campbell, had come to an end earlier in the month. Kicked out of the flat she, a rich socialite, had paid and they’d shared, Strike had had no other choice but to retreat to the Herberts, because his office was freezing cold and the festivities weren’t a good moment to begin renting.

The Herberts’ house wasn’t so bad, anyway. Nick was his best friend since they were teenagers, their friendship two decades old now, and his friendship to Ilsa was over three decades now. Nick even liked him a little further because if it wasn’t for Strike, he wouldn’t have known who he fondly called the love of his life, and so grateful the couple were that Strike had been the best man at their wedding, the godfather of his children, and Evelyn received the same middle name as Strike, Blue. At the house, it was like a frat house with two kids, and it was enjoyable, actually.

“Be very careful, all right?” Ilsa murmured serious a couple hours later, as her husband kissed her and Leo goodbye. She always got tense and anxious whenever he had night shifts on international party nights, afraid he’d had a car accident or someone would try to stab him, as everyone was insanely crazy and drunk and high on nights like that. She knew it well, she was a crime lawyer, and on January her firm would be full of cases related to that, but now she was on holiday.

“I know, I love you,” said Nick with a soft smile.

“I love you too.”

“And you!” Nick threw his daughter to the air, making her laugh, before wrapping her in his arms. “Be a good girl and help Mummy with your brother, okay Princess?”

“’kay Daddy,” Evelyn kissed his clean-shaven cheek soundly, and he kissed her chubby pink cheek too. “Love you.”

“Love you too beautiful, I’ll miss you,” Nick squeezed her and let her go, grabbing his coat and briefcase. He was a little nervous about leaving his wife with two little children, one of them a newborn.

“Don’t worry Nick,” said Strike, walking him to the door. “I’ll look after the family.”

“Thanks mate, I can always count on you. Have fun tonight for me, uh?”

“Will do, you be careful,” Strike saw him out to the car, Evelyn waving her father goodbye from her place between Strike’s legs, and then they closed the door, keeping the freezing cold outside.

In a matter of hours, Strike saw himself absently watching the Disney film Frozen, a favourite of Evelyn’s, sitting on the sofa while his god daughter sang and danced to ‘Let it go’ and he cradled Leo, who had been crying up until his warm arms curled around him, his blonde hair now pointing all directions, his face asleep. It had taken his best friends four years and two miscarriages to finally carry a successful pregnancy to term, and once Evelyn had happened, Leo had come as the happiest accident, before they’d begun planning, as they’d been dreading another miscarriage.

Now, the happy mother was showering and getting fancy for the night, and had shyly asked Strike to look after the kids for her, which he’d done happily. It was the least he could do with all the hospitality his friends always offered him with open arms.

The recurrent dream he had had, wasn’t about to leave his brain, but Evelyn’s off-tune singing distracted him. The lyrics ‘The wind is howling like this swirling storm inside… Couldn't keep it in, heaven knows I've tried. Don't let them in, don't let them see, be the good girl you always have to be, conceal, don't feel, don't let them know… Well, now they know… Let it go, let it go, can't hold it back any more… Let it go, let it go, turn away and slam the door. I don't care what they're going to say, let the storm rage on… The cold never bothered me anyway’ seemed to speak wonders to him today, making his mind drift to his ex, Charlotte. Charlotte Campbell had been, of all his girlfriends, which admittedly weren’t a long list, the craziest, the snobbiest, the most insane, the most absolutely gorgeous, and the greatest liar, manipulator and toxic person, the only one not one of his friends or relatives had been able to stand, so much was the hatred towards her that Nick and Ilsa, who loved Strike with all their souls and never meddled with his life, had begged him not to bring her to their house, not to let her close to their children, and not to marry her. And still, Strike had wanted to be her husband, had been head over heels in love with her, still was, and missed her deeply, in an odd way. She was, he told himself, like alcohol to an alcoholic. Something that could be such a relief, such a distraction from darkness, such a welcome joy, but that then could equally bring you to root in hell, wasted in the toxic poison, alone and distanced from everyone he loved.

This wasn’t even their first break-up, but it was the final one, each one having only broken things further until they had completely screwed it up. The final straw, Strike realized ironically watching his youngest godson sleep nuzzled against his chest, had been a baby.

Strike had never wanted to be a father. One, because there were certain poisons in his family he didn’t want more people to inherit, two, because he had never been too good with children, not even when he was a child and preferred adult company, and three, because he’d had such a role of caretaker his whole life, that he longed for independence, for not having to take care of a helpless kid… even if he married a helpless, needy, insane Charlotte. He also found himself frequently annoyed by children, but after learning everybody found themselves annoyed by then now and then, he felt that wasn’t a reason not to have them. He did like kids, after all, he just was terrible with them, and frequently annoyed by their existence. Children seemed to have bullied him his whole childhood, and to still despise him, generally, which didn’t help. But Charlotte hadn’t wanted them either, and had absolutely hated them to the point of being cruel to his nephews at times, if he and their mother weren’t looking… but they’d tell him later. And then, on Valentine’s Day, as Strike found himself surprisingly overjoyed by the call that had announced he had a new godson, his whole attention that day drifting to that happy event, Charlotte had suddenly blurted out she was pregnant, two months, she said. She didn’t seem pregnant, didn’t behave pregnant, didn’t show him the stick, and didn’t go to a single appointment, so he only had her word for it, and he believed her.

It was a massive shock, but Charlotte had seemed happy, saying that kid, being his, would be her most favourite one, wanting to have it, so Strike had undergone eight weeks of therapy and several months of self-talking until he reached the point where he embraced fatherhood and became happy and excited about it, even when Charlotte didn’t really seem more pregnant, and still, didn’t provide any evidence, when she was reaching supposedly half her pregnancy. Only then, with him truly excited, with him thinking she was right, this was a child they’d love, and he was going to teach him Latin, have fun like with Evelyn, read to him or her, and make him or her a mini detective and then, perhaps, make his business a family one, she had suddenly announced a miscarriage, providing zero evidence that the pregnancy had ever happened. And Strike had felt surprisingly shattered.

Charlotte had then turned a nightmare, saying she had PTSD and sobbing her eyes out imitating behaviour they’d seen on Ilsa years before the two times she’d miscarried, but in Charlotte’s case, it had been attention seeking, and she’d gotten it. Strike had been all about her, stopping his work for months to be there for her, even as his newly made agency began to crumble. And then, in November, Strike had consulted with Ilsa, and asked him, not without a few glasses of wine, to talk to him about her miscarriages and pregnancies, until he’d realized what his friends hadn’t wanted to say; that it was all fake. Charlotte’s version was the film version… it had nothing to do with real life. Many things just didn’t fit, and Nick, his doctor friend, only corroborated it. He thought Charlotte had some sort of psychotic disorder. But Strike had exploded and, just days later, ended everything with Charlotte. He couldn’t possibly forgive something like that. Now, her number was blocked and deleted though he knew it by memory, and he hoped to move on.

“Uncle Corm,” Evelyn brought him out of his thoughts, her little hands on his knees. “Who are we partying with tonight?”

“Uhm…” Strike cleared his throat. “Well, your grandparents are coming, Grandpa David and Grandma Joyce, and your Aunt Meredith, Uncle Fabian, and your cousin, Gideon,” Gideon was the only nephew Nick and Ilsa had, the year-old son of Ilsa’s big sister, who lived in London too. “And we’re going to be at my sister Lucy’s house, remember Aunt Lucy?”

“Yes, she’s got blue eyes like me!”

“That’s right, good memory. Well, so Lucy will be there, and she’s got a boyfriend called Wyatt. And she also has two sons you know, but might not remember, Jack, who’s four, almost your age, and Adam, who’s third birthday just passed I believe, he’s your age.”

“I’m three,” she lifted her three fingers.

“Yes, I think he’s your same age,” he wasn’t good at remembering his nephews’ birthdays, in all honesty, even when he and Lucy, three years apart, were quite close. “And aside from them, Uncle Ted, Aunt Joan and Lucy and I’s little brother Harry will be there too.”

“Don’t remember Uncle Harry,” Evelyn frowned, thoughtful.

“Sure you do, he was here last summer. A tall, slim teenager, with my hair but less curly and in nice waves, and blue eyes. Got a bit of stubble.”

“Ah yes!” Evelyn nodded, smiling. “I know!”

“Good, now keep enjoying that film, okay? Let’s try to be quiet so Leo doesn’t wake up.” Although if he doesn’t wake up now, Strike thought dryly, he was going to be up like an owl all night. He was like Ilsa during her Law school years.

At last, Ilsa appeared at the door, beautiful with her soft make-up, her hair loose in waves, and a velvet deep blue, long dress, heels not on quite yet. Her glasses were gone, substituted by contacts.

“Mummy, you’re so pretty like Elsa!” exclaimed Evelyn, amazed, running to her. Ilsa smiled and picked her up, kissing her cheek.

“Thanks sweetheart!”

“Where are your glasses?” asked Evelyn.

“Took them off, I’m wearing contacts. They’re a transparent thing you put in the eyes and then it works like glasses, to see well. Cormoran, thanks for looking after them, mind helping me at the kitchen when you’re ready?”

“No problem,” Strike got up, putting Leo in the little cradling swing in the sitting room. “I’ll shower quickly and put on my suit, and be right back.”

“Thanks Corm.”

“And you look beautiful, hope you’ve sent Nick a pic,” he added with a smirk as he passed her, earning a little elbow.

Strike returned twenty minutes later, jacket draped over his arm, neck shaven, and a jumper over his shirt and tie.

“Uncle Corm, you’re the handsomest,” said Evelyn with a grin as he came into the kitchen while she helped her mother fill Tupperwares with the food Ilsa, Strike and Nick had prepared to bring tonight. Ilsa was now selecting wine while soothing Leo, who was whimpering a little in the wrap carrier Ilsa had put on to hold him while busying her hands on the food.

“Thanks Evie,” Strike half smiled. “Right, what can I do Ilsa?”

“If you can put this chicken and the pie in the Tupperwares and put them in the boot of my car in the garage, I can go get the kids ready.”

“You’ve got it. Off you go Evie, head upstairs with Mummy to get ready, I’ll deal with this.”

When half an hour later they were in the car, cats fed and locked in the kitchen, all doors and windows locked twice, security alarms on, and Evelyn in a pretty blue dress and Leo with a cute new jumper and a bib that had a bow-tie printed, Strike was immensely grateful for three things. One, that Evelyn behaved in a car, two, that Ilsa drove a comfortable Volkswagen, and three, that Ilsa was a hell of a driver, because he’d been struggling with getting back in vehicles for the over year and a half that had passed since the explosion that had taken his leg.

“Okay, so we’re ready to go,” said Ilsa, adjusting the rear view mirror to try and include her children in the photograph. “I trust you remember where your sister lives?” she added teasing Strike in the copilot seat, as she fiddled with her GPS.

“Last time I went by train, so…” Strike shrugged.

Ilsa smirked, rolling eyes, and began to drive the half an hour drive to Gilbert Road in Bromley North, with Evelyn humming Frozen songs in the back, sitting next to her brother in her car seat.

“So,” said Ilsa after a while of silence, once she exited Wandsworth, “any news from that tosser of Greg?”

“Hopefully no,” said Strike, adjusting his tie. “Lucy said something of him threatening with suing because the boys don’t want to see him and he says it’s Lucy’s doing, that she’s brainwashing them.”

“Better that than admit he put his hands on his then three year old son, uh?” Ilsa sighed, shaking her head in disapproval. “Yes, I heard something of that. Lucy cited his violence as grounds for divorce, and she’s asked me some advice with this… I’m just hoping he doesn’t try anything over the holidays, now that the boys are finally looking calm. They were so tense, poor things. And Wyatt treats them right, does he?”

“Yes, I think so. Told Jack to call me if he sniffed anything bad,” said Strike. “But Wyatt was in the Army Medical Corps, then he was a paramedic, now he’s a writer, he knows and respects Lucy’s gift… he seems like a nice guy, right?”

“You’d feel it if he wasn’t, wouldn’t you?”

“Well it doesn’t really work like that, you know that,” said Strike. “If it was so easy, I would’ve known Greg wasn’t a good guy from day one. Hell, Luce would’ve known, if she wasn’t so stubborn to pretend to be normal when we aren’t. Calling what Jack sees invisible friends… my arse.”

Ilsa chuckled, shaking her head.

“Remember you used to call them the friendly neighbours when we were little?”

“Yes,” Strike nodded. “Then I saw you grandmother at her funeral and we stopped fooling around.”

“Oh we were so mortified,” Ilsa remembered. “Good thing she passed to the other side. You know, you and Nick would make a good team, he tries to keep them alive and you deal with them if they’re gone.”

“Nope, just because I am a medium it doesn’t mean I’m going to work as such. I’m a private investigator, I do enough helping the dead find justice and you know what? They pay like shit,” Ilsa sniggered. “Speaking of paranormal things though… I’ve been having the weirdest recurrent dream.”

“About death?”

“I thought so at first, now I think she’s still alive.”

“She?”

“It’s a woman, young, strawberry blonde hair, blue grey eyes… tall, curvaceous, quite beautiful actually. It’s always the same, the IED explosion, and between the pieces of it all and the chaos… she stands as if oblivious to everything else, asking me to help her, before someone…” mindful of Evelyn, he simply gestured as if slicing his throat, which Ilsa saw.

“Wait, so this time you may be able to prevent a death instead of dealing with the post death chaos?” Ilsa frowned.

“Perhaps, don’t know. I’ve never seen that woman in my life, I’m pretty sure.”

“But when was the last time you got to prevent something from happening?”

“The IED, but even then, I had seconds to react, lost half a leg. If this is happening, and it’s been going for many nights now… means she’s still alive, she still needs me.”

“And her time is running.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps you could ask help to… you know… the dead. They can go anywhere, right? Perhaps they can tell you where to find her.”

“Perhaps. Anyway, today’s holiday, tomorrow office.”

“Tomorrow? Not gonna get drunk?”

“Of course I’m gonna get drunk, but y’know, later I can still work some. The more alcohol the easier those little shits become to be seen.”

Ilsa smiled in amusement, her eyes on the road. At least now it was party night, and nothing was gonna stop them.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: What lies beyond.

Lucy’s house was buzzing with energy. She had light brown hair, because her father was blonde and her mother had had the hair as dark as Strike, Harry and Lucy’s own boys. Her eyes, however, were blue, like her father’s, while Strike’s were dark green, like their mother’s, and Harry’s were dark blue. Strike was actually the younger copy of their Uncle Ted, with the thick dark curls and the dark eyes, the big, broad size, round jaws and surly looks, even if both were soft inside, while Lucy looked surprisingly like Aunt Joan, even though they weren’t biologically related, and was also short and a bit rounder. Meanwhile, Harry, their fourteen-year-old brother, was some kind of odd mix, tall, but quite slim and narrow.

The other big difference between the three was that Harry and Lucy both called Ted and Joan Dad and Mum, with Lucy only calling Ted by name when her biological father was present, to avoid confusion. Strike understood it coming from Harry; he’d been almost three years old when their mother, Leda Strike, had been murdered, and he barely remembered her, and his father had been arrested for her murder and was doing life in prison since, and he was three when Ted and Joan adopted him. But Lucy had moved with Ted and Joan when she was twelve, and had never been officially adopted because both her mother and father lived, yet had begun, behind Leda’s back, to call them a second father and mother, considering them surrogate parents, only months after moving permanently with Ted and Joan, and even though her mother had died when she wasn’t eighteen yet, she still had a living father, a living step-mother, and two living younger half siblings on her father’s side. Strike, who like Harry only had Ted and Joan and still didn’t call them Mum or Dad, even when he didn’t call his own father a Dad and when his mother was long dead, always got furiously offended Lucy had ‘substituted’ their mother like that, but now in the holidays he made an effort to chill out.

Still, he found himself quickly in the garden, smoking with his coat on, while the last things were prepared and moved to the dining table for the night.

“Uncle Corm,” he was surprised by the company of his eldest nephew, Jack, who was only four, but tall like a six year old, like Strike had been, with Leda’s softly wavy dark hair, and his own mother’s deep blue eyes. He worshipped Strike, always sought his company, but because it was freezing outside, Strike found himself throwing the fag to the ground and stepping on it quickly before taking Jack, in spite of his heaviness and his leg, in his arms to keep him warm.

“What’s up?” Strike asked, glancing at the boy.

“Why does Mummy say I’ve invisible friends?”

“Because the others can’t see your friends, Jack.”

“Why not?” he asked, confused. “They’re right there,” he pointed to the far of the garden, and Strike turned, his heart dropping to his feet seeing a bunch of children running around. Dead children, “you can see them right?”

“Jack, buddy…” Strike took a deep breath to steady himself and turned to Jack. “I am going to tell you something very serious and very important, and you have to promise me you will not tell anybody, not your Mum, not your best friends, nobody, or I will get very angry at you. Are we clear?” Jack nodded, serious. “Jack, there are some people in our family, like you or me, but not all of us, who have the ability to see people who… died. You know, like Grandma Leda, you know what dying means, right?”

“The heart doesn’t beat and they go to sleep forever, to heaven.”

“Yes, and then we are never supposed to see them again, ever, until we go to heaven too,” Strike stuck with the 4 year-old version. “Except that some people like us, with the ability I’m telling you about, we can see them, but it’s just us. Most people in the world Jack, they can’t, and so they call us crazy, they insult us, they mess with us, which is why is super important that we don’t go around telling people about our friends, that only us can see.”

“So my friends are dead?”

“Unfortunately yes, Jack.”

Jack pouted.

“And how do I know? They look just like me.”

“Sometimes, they may look injured… others, it just doesn’t make sense to have them here. For example, why would a bunch of children just appear in your house? Odd, isn’t it?” he nodded. “Means they’re probably not real. Or an adult you don’t know in your classroom, things like that. You’ll learn to identify things better when you’re older, but in the meantime, you have to keep it our little secret, never talk with strangers, or with someone who you’re getting a bad feeling about, and… learn to say goodbye to your dead friends.”

“But they’re my friends, I don’t want them to go!”

“Don’t you want them to go heaven?” Strike asked softly, and Jack shrugged. “These kids are dead, Jack. They’re here because they don’t know the way to heaven, and their parents are gone, their siblings, their other friends, pets they had. They’re all waiting in heaven. Don’t you want to help me to help them get there?”

After a moment of thought Jack nodded.

“I’ll miss them though.”

“I know… I went through the same when I was little, but then I made living friends, and so will you. You have to focus on the world of the living while you’re alive Jack, or it’ll pass you by. Come,” glancing at the glass door to make sure Lucy wasn’t looking, or anybody else for that matter, Strike took Jack to the kids, that began to say hi and wave at them. “Hello, hello,” Strike set Jack on the ground, keeping a hand on his shoulder, “are you Jack’s friends?”

“Yes,” a little girl with a nasty cut in her head and purple lips nodded, grinning. Strike felt his stomach knot. He never dealt with children. They never sought him.

“Let’s play a game, okay?” said Strike, and the kids nodded. He could begin to see an intense light at the far end of the garden, that wasn’t there before. A light so bright that it grew and grew, beginning to be blinding, and so warm it suddenly seemed like summer. “Do you all see that light?” he pointed to it, and they all nodded. “Does somebody not see it? Okay… let’s make a race. The last one to get there loses, okay? Now three, two… one!” all the kids, including Jack, ran to it laughing, and they all disappeared into it, except for Jack, that went through and nearly crashed with the garden fence. The light disappeared, the coldness returned, and Jack turned around with tears in his eyes and a little pout. Strike felt even sadder, and dropped to his knees, opening his arms so Jack ran into them and began to cry into his chest. Strike understood him, he’d been there. When you’re little and weird and all your best friends who don’t insult you and don’t think you’re weird are dead, and you have to help them go. Leda had done this for him too, when he wasn’t much younger than Jack. “I’m so sorry, Jack,” Strike kissed the top of his head.

“I-I have n-no m-more friends…!” he sobbed sadly.

“I know,” Strike sighed, rubbing his back. “But hey, you’ve got me, Adam, Mummy, Wyatt, all your uncles and aunts, grandpas and grandmas and hey, Evelyn! She’s your friend! Hey…” he separated, rubbing the tears off the whimpering child’s cheeks with his calloused thumbs. “I promise you Jack, those kids are now back home, and when you’re an old man, and eventually you get to go to the light, you’ll see them again, and you’ll play together again. But Evelyn, Adam… they’re here now, they want to play with you, and they’re friends you can keep, like Ilsa was my friend since we were babies, and we’re still friends. Those friendships are hard to build, but the most worth it, you know? And you’re the coolest boy, you’re going to make plenty of friends with time and some effort.”

Jack sniffled and nodded, breathing deep to calm himself.

“Dad didn’t like my friends, he shouted at me for them… but you won’t, right?”

“Of course I won’t, you’re my best boy. Between you and me Jack, your father’s a prick,” Jack snorted a laugh, rubbing his eyes. “Some people will insult you because they don’t understand, but that doesn’t mean you’re weird, or doing something wrong. What we did now didn’t feel wrong, right?”

“Felt good, bringing them home.”

“Exactly. So let’s not tell people who won’t understand, and we can keep enjoying doing good things with nobody meddling and insulting us, okay?”

“Okay. Gonna play with Evie and Adam now.”

“Good idea.”

Jack ran back into the house and Strike walked slowly behind, taking deep breaths to recover from what had just happened, not wanting to think why that little girl had had such a slice on her head, or why she’d gotten lost and separated from her family, or why all those kids had found Jack. He knew the dead felt a pull towards them, realized when they were seen and heard… but it was too soon for that many to be seeking Jack’s help. He was only four.

He had to blink tears off his own eyes, and at last he came in, taking a deep breath like a diver about to get into the water. Inside, the hustle and bustle wasn’t relenting much. They were going to be ten adults, Harry, and five children, so now they were trying to get the five children to eat first. At least one of them was Leo, who had breastfeed and fallen asleep in the bouncer Ilsa had brought and, with Lucy’s blessing, installed in the large dining room, and the other was Gideon, who was still breastfeeding too, and had fallen asleep in the guest room, which Lucy had prepared for the kids, so his parents now took turns to hold the baby monitor and keep an eye on their son. That left Evie, Adam and Jack to be fed, so Lucy sat between her sons and Ilsa with her daughter, keeping them eating. Wyatt, Meredith and Fabian joined them, helping out.

“Not bringing Milady Berserko?” Harry asked his brother, a soda in hand, as they sat on the sofa to watch how the last TV of the year was going. The four elderlies were catching up in the kitchen, the four best friends for many decades.

“We broke up, this time’s final,” said Strike, and Harry’s teasing smirk faded automatically.

“Shit Corm, I’m sorry, what happened?”

“It’s fine… what d’you think? She’s insane, everybody’s said it all the time for years.” Strike realized for the first time that his relationship to Charlotte had been nearly as long as Harry’s life, as Harry had been only a year when the relationship had begun.

“I know but knowing you, something must’ve triggered it, for it to sound so final,” Harry sipped off his soda. “What was it?”

“Well…” Strike sighed, shrugging. “She faked a pregnancy, then a miscarriage. All of it was fake.”

“Was it?” Harry’s eyes widened. “How are you so sure?”

“Because I spoke with Ilsa and Nick. Ilsa had two miscarriages, before getting pregnant with Evie.”

“Shit…”

“They’d given up and then in came Evelyn… they know the real thing pretty well. They hadn’t taken it kindly, when Charlotte began saying… obviously seeing her play pretend with something so serious that had hurt them so much, wasn’t easy. So eventually I asked them, how were they so sure she was lying, and they told me how it should’ve been if she’d been pregnant, and what miscarriages actually are like… and I realized Charlotte had sold me the Hollywood version. None of it was real, and it was the last straw. She knew I didn’t want a child and she faked a pregnancy to tie me, make sure we’d set a wedding date… and then when it became too hard to fake, she faked a miscarriage to get all my attention in her, get me to take a leave off work and all… just when I had begun wanting that baby, Harry. Eight weeks of therapy and…” Strike shook his head and took a large gulp of his beer. “She fucking played me.”

“I’m so sorry, brother,” Harry patted his shoulder. “In the positive side, now you can focus on women who deserve you. That nutter was always too little for you, Corm.”

“Thanks, Harry, I appreciate it,” Strike nodded. “Hey, on a separate thought… I wanted to talk to you because Lucy… well, you know she doesn’t like what we can do.”

“Mean speaking with Casper? Gotcha.”

“I’ve been dreaming of a woman who asks me to help her before someone slits her throat, for weeks, always the same dream every night. Have you had that?”

“No. Is she someone you know?”

“No, so it makes me anxious I don’t know how to help her.”

“Then the spirits will work to help you,” Harry pointed out. “They always do, don’t they?”

As the clock began to tick, all the kids were knocked out of play before the adults even sat on the sofa for drinks and countdown. Adam and Jack fell asleep in their room, Gideon and Leo were in the guest room, and Evelyn had somehow managed to fall asleep curled in her mother’s lap with a blanket, not bugging even with the adult talk and noise. The three piece sitting room accommodated everyone. The four elderly adults occupied one sofa, Fabian, Mer, Lucy and Wyatt another, and Strike, Ilsa and Harry the other, all a little tipsy and with drinks.

“What a pity poor Nick had to work,” Joan commented, smiling softly at Ilsa, who nodded, smiling sadly.

“At least we get the mini Nicks,” Ilsa joked in reference to her very own children.

“It’s so nice to be nearly all of us here together,” said Lucy happily. “The boys have been dying for tonight, can’t believe they fell asleep so easily after the naps they had.”

“They got so overexcited, right?” Joyce Waterstone chuckled. “Well take advantage now, when they get to Harry’s age they won’t let you sleep going out to party all night.”

“Oh, I’m hoping to get mini Harrys, hanging here with the old people,” Lucy teased her brother with a smile.

“Hey, my friends are all partying in Falmouth and I’m a family guy,” Harry shrugged.

“Aw, how sweet! Smart of you Harry, take advantage before everyone goes off on their own traditions,” Meredith told him. “And how’s the agency going, Corm?”

Strike’s Private Investigations Agency had only opened last June.

“It’s uh…” Strike shrugged. “Could be worse. But it’s only just opened, it’ll pick up next year.”

“That’s the attitude Corm, you’ll see,” Wyatt nodded, positive. “Next year is going to be the best one for everyone, I bet, Charlotte and Greg gone, everyone healthy, everyone happily employed… no reason why next year shouldn’t be perfect.”

“Oh, God hears you Wyatt,” said Joan, nodding.

“I’ll settle with good health and my husband not getting the worst night shifts,” said Ilsa.

“I’ll settle with a girlfriend,” said Harry, making them laugh.

“I’ll settle with my agency picking up,” added Strike.

“Well if we’re going to throw wishes into the air…” Lucy shrugged. “I guess I’ll settle with good health… and my ex-husband getting forbidden by the judge from seeing the boys.”

“Oh I’ll join that,” Wyatt nodded.

“I want good health, healthy economics, and no flu or colds for the rest of the summer,” said Fabian, and Meredith chuckled.

“That’s a good one honey. I think I’ll join that one. Ted?”

“I’ll settle with everyone getting whatever good stuff they want most.”

“Of course he had to be the moral one,” Harry smirked.

“I like that too,” Joan nodded, grinning. “All my men and my ladies happy.”

“And no floods,” added David.

“And no tragedies,” finished Joyce. “Yes, this is going to be a good year.”

Shortly after New Year’s Eve, Harry warned Strike not to go into the dining room because Lucy and Wyatt were heavily making out, David was putting Evelyn in the guest room, Ilsa was on the phone with Nick, and the others stayed in the sitting room. Strike was grabbing a fourth beer in the kitchen, happy he didn’t have to drive, when the doorbell rang, so he went to open.

“You waiting for someone Luce?” he bellowed into the house as he went to the corridor.

“No,” Lucy appeared, curious.

“Then stay back,” Strike walked to the door and as he looked into the peephole, his blood boiled. “Greg, go home. You’re not welcomed here.”

“Greg?” Lucy hissed, and Wyatt came too, looking ready to punch someone, his lips swollen from kissing Lucy so much.

“I’ll go guard the boys,” said Wyatt, storming upstairs.

“THEY’RE MY CHILDREN!” Greg bellowed loudly, and in the background, the TV was turned on as the guests picked on the sound. “I DEMAND TO SEE THEM, OR I’LL BRING THE POLICE HERE!”

“What is going on?” Ilsa appeared, with the others, and they stood at the end of the corridor, watching the door with mistrust.

“Greg,” Lucy had gone pale, and Greg was now hammering the door. “Wyatt went to the kids, make sure they’re okay no matter what. Corm, I’ll call the police…”

“No need, we’ll deal with the bastard,” Ted came ahead.

“Stay back Ted, I’ve got this,” Strike opened the door and Greg punched it open, and launched at Strike.

“KNIFE!” Strike heard a female warning in his ear, and he moved his hand right on time to grab Greg’s wrist hard. Greg was in his early thirties, and as a quantity surveyor, he was fit and strong, but Strike was a veteran and he’d been boxing through his teens and the army. He quickly squeezed Greg’s wrist up in the air so hard he shouted and the knife dropped, while his free hand quickly hammered one, two, three punches on Greg’s face, his nose cracking and his face covered in blood, the back of his head hitting the wall by the door.

Strike had spoken calmly and collectedly to his uncle, but he was furious, seeing red, remembering the bruises he’d seen on his sister before finally convincing her to leave him. He now seized Greg grabbing two fistfuls of the collar of his shirt, and in spite of his lack of half a leg, having strong arms and torso as often happened when one compensated the loss of lower limbs, Strike lifted Greg up in the air until his feet dangled, slamming the back of his head and back against the brick wall as he pinned him there, his nose flaring as he hissed like a bull. Meanwhile, Greg could only grab onto Strike’s wrists, trying to breathe, coughing blood, groaning in pain.

Greg was wearing a nice suit, smelled of alcohol, and had evidently been partying. His brown hair was cropped short, his grey eyes half closed in pain.

“You fuckin’ scum,” Greg mumbled, “I will sue you, you’re never leaving pri— OUCH!” Strike had moved his right hand, able to hold him with just the left, and sunk his fist on Greg’s stomach.

“Cormoran!” Lucy became altered. “Stop this, please! Don’t get in his level.”

“I’m not, I don’t hit children, not so funny when you go against men your size, uh?” Strike snarled at Greg. “Give me one reason not to kill you right here right now. One, and you can go.”

“I’ll sue you! All of you!”

“Wrong answer,” Strike drew his right fist back, and slammed it against Greg’s cheek, this time feeling it break beneath his hand, which made Greg howl and cry out in pain.

“Cormoran! Dad, do something!” Lucy urged Ted.

“Corm!” Joan called his attention. “Let him go, sweetie.”

But Strike was enjoying seeing Greg squirm, trying to scape, bleeding, too much.

“Corm, let him go,” said Ted softly placing a hand on his shoulder. “I want to punch him too, but it’s not worth scaring the boys. Imagine…”

“Right,” Strike nodded, and moved his right hand to squeeze Greg’s throat, making him gasp for air. “Leave my sister alone. Leave Adam and Jack alone. Never, ever, dare to come near this house, our family, our friends… or I will personally,” he squeezed his throat a little harder, growling. “Grab my gun and hunt you down. Trust me Greg, when I’m done with you, nobody will ever find you. And when I start with you, you’ll be begging I was done. So get out. No more threats, no more lawsuits, no more games, if I find out you’re bothering my people again, you’ll wish you were dead, and if I’m dead, my friends will carry on. Have I made myself understood?!” Greg began to get blue, and Strike shook him. “Didn’t you hear me?!”

“Y-yes!” Greg gasped. “Understood! I-I’ll leave, forever… please…” Strike loosened his hold so he could breath properly, and Greg coughed for air, dripping blood over his shirt. His left eye was beginning to close from the swelling. “Please… I’m s-sorry… I won’t bother again…”

“You better. Ted open the door, please,” Ted held the door open and Strike lifted Greg from his shirt in one hand, and threw him outside the house like a sack of potatoes. Ted locked the door after himself, and Lucy began crying in earnest. “Luce… come here…” Strike brought her to his arms.

“Why y’all,” Lucy sobbed out, punching his hard chest, “have to,” she punctuated each word slamming her hands angrily on his chest, “be so violent! I hate you!” but then she crumbled in his arms, holding onto him, crying.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Strike held her tight, kissing the top of her head. A trot down the stairs and Wyatt appeared, pale.

“The children are all right… Lucy, what happened? Did he hurt you?!”

“No, Cormoran gave him a piece of his own medicine,” said Ted, calming Wyatt down. “She’s just sick of the whole situation, that’s all, let’s give her space.”

Wyatt looked like seeing his girlfriend so upset shattered his soul in pieces, but he sighed and nodded, following Ted and the others into the house and leaving Lucy and Strike alone. Strike sighed deeply, holding Lucy a little tighter. He was sorry for many things, but punching Greg until his hand lost feeling wasn’t one of them. Greg had had it coming, and being the one to hit him had felt like an honour. He was however sorry for many other things. For not protecting Lucy properly when Harry’s father had been violent towards her, forcing her to run to St Mawes, for joining the army right after Leda’s death and spending ten years gone not paying enough attention to his sister, for not having done something to stop Lucy from marrying Greg, for not having seen the problem and protected her and the boys before any harm was actually done. Above all, he was sorry that, hadn’t his leg been blown up the year before, he might have never realized what Greg was doing, and Greg might’ve killed someone by then.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: The shadows.

It had taken an hour to fully calm Lucy down, and after a bit longer, Ilsa, Strike, Evelyn and Leo had finally left. Now Evelyn slept in her chair where her grandfather had accommodated her, and Leo next to her, where his grandmother had tucked him. Ilsa drove into the dark, at minimum speed to make sure she could dodge any drunk driver, and Strike tried not to hiss as he covered his right hand and wrist in the ice bags Lucy and Wyatt had given him.

“What were you thinking, Cormoran?” Ilsa admonished softly. “Say he appears dead for whatever reason, you’ll be the number one suspect. Say you end up in prison, that he tells the police… what will Lucy do then, uh? How can you help them then, if you’re in prison?”

“You’d get me out.”

“I can’t do magic.”

“Look, I know it was irresponsible,” Strike puffed. “But you didn’t see Lucy’s bruises, Ilsa. Last time, when I had to kick the bastard out of the house in crutches, because he nearly killed Lucy, and you didn’t hear how Jack called me on the phone, how terrified he was… you didn’t see the bruises he had either. Can you blame me, for wanting to kill the bloody bastard? Good riddance!”

“I know, Corm—,”

“You don’t fucking—,”

“But I do,” Ilsa cut him more sternly. “I’m a criminal lawyer, what do you think I see weekly at court, Cormoran? Things like this and worse. Listen to me, for once in your bloody life, you have to control yourself, you have to, because those boys need you and your sister needs you, you just saw how she is deep inside, what she’s repressing trying to keep it together and be strong for her sons… she’s shattered. Imagine what you’ll do to her ending up in prison. Won’t look like nothing outside, but inside… you’d better have shot her, I’d do less harm.”

Strike took a deep breath, nodding. He knew she was right.

“I know… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap.”

“I know. You’ve just had a hard month, got a lot of anger pent-up inside. Just deep breaths, okay?” the rain was drumming against the windows again. “Deep breaths… we’re going to go to sleep now, relax… and tomorrow it’ll be a new day, a new year, new start.”

“It’s five in the morning Ilsa, technically it is 2017 already.”

“Well it doesn’t count until you wake up.”

He smiled fondly at her, nodding.

“I had to teach Jack to help his first ghosts cross to the other side tonight.”

“Really? When?”

“Before dinner. He had these… like twelve children, Ilsa, about his age, in the garden,” explained Strike, and Ilsa tensed. “I’ve never seen so many ghost children. And they looked… well, some looked all right, but others were covered in blood. I don’t even know how they found Jack, but Jack didn’t want to let them go, said he has no more friends… in school it’s like it was for me, people call him names. I only had you and Dave, remember? And he’s got no one, he felt so alone… he cried when we had to help them cross. He understood, he knows they have to go on, to their families, but… broke his heart. And honestly, seeing those kids… mine broke a little too. As used as I am to death, as much as I’ve seen in the army… I’ve never seen something like this, tonight.”

“Oh Corm… I’m sorry, I don’t know how… It’d kill me, for sure,” Ilsa squeezed his hand gently. “Is there anything I…?”

“No, just a good sleep will help. I just worry for Jack, that’s all. Harry and Lucy, they can’t see them, it’s weaker in them. Lucy gets the odd dreams and visions… Harry also hears them sometimes, but Jack and I can see them, sometimes, aside from all else. Like Mum… and it drove her to LSD and alcohol and brought me to the army and Jack… he’s so sensitive…”

“He’ll be all right. He has a good mentor, like you had Leda, despite her faults.”

“I hope so,” Strike nodded.

They fell in silence for a moment, and then Ilsa spoke.

“Corm… you’ve told me there’s a light, right? And it’s bright and warm, and when we die, we go there. D’you know what’s in the other side?”

“No, I can’t come,” said Strike. “Y’know I’m not religious, so I don’t like calling it heaven, only with Jack ‘cause it’s easier for him that way for now… but I know whatever it is, it’s good. Feels warm, feels… peaceful. When I’ve been close, I could feel like there was no pain, like it was a healing energy that filled my chest and was utterly comforting. And I hear voices, all mixed together, like whispers… I think the people in that side try to call the lost souls that remain here.”

“And what do you think happens if… if there’s no one to call them?” Ilsa asked. “Say their families are alive…”

“There’ll be someone,” Strike nodded. “I don’t know, angels perhaps. There’s always someone.”

“D’you think there was someone there for my children too?”

Strike looked at her and saw her hands tense at the wheel, her eyes full of tears, fixed on the road. She was talking of the two kids she should’ve had before Evelyn. Another girl and another boy, they were supposed to be named Eowyn and Noah. Their remains were buried under a young tree planted in their garden.

“Ilsa, pull over,” Strike said firmly, and Ilsa nodded, pulling over immediately and keeping the lights so other cars could see them.

She took a deep breath, rubbing her eyes. They’d never talked about it, Strike had been at the army then, even when he’d come running when he’d heard the news, and Ilsa and Nick had been too devastated, twice. One pregnancy had been four months on, the other, five. It had been particularly hard, specially for Ilsa, who’d been surprised twice, once at work and another doing grocery shopping, and found herself in public restrooms, picking the bloody ball that their child was in her hands, catching it before it fell into the toilet. The details of that hadn’t gotten to Strike’s ears until years later, through Lucy.

“I’m sorry… I’m…”

“It’s fine,” Strike reached out to take her hand. “Look, here’s what I know, okay? I never saw Eowyn and Noah. I never felt them, never heard them cry, all the times I’ve been at your house,” Ilsa nodded, crying quietly. “And I’ve been at their grave a bunch of times too, and nothing. And no dreams, no visions, absolutely nothing, just peace, Ilsa. So I can only imagine they are in the light,” he squeezed her hand softly, “and there’s no pain there. No concept of time, so they’re not wondering where you are perpetually. The light is warm, is comforting, is bright… it’s not a scary, lonely place. Perhaps your grandparents are taking care of them, or Nick’s… or that sister Nick was supposed to have and was also lost. Whatever it is, when the time comes for you to go there too, hopefully in a hundred years… you’ll have them back, and they will know you, I know that,” A knot set in his throat, and his eyes filled with tears for the second time that day, because he could feel all the pain emanating from Ilsa, and how upset she was. How, like Lucy, she just pushed it all in every day, tried not to think of her eldest children, to carry on, to be there for her younger ones.

Strike left the car to open Ilsa’s door and bring her in for a tight hug. It was freezing cold, but they hugged until she calmed down, his eyes closed against her hair. Only when the cries subsided, did Strike notice how quiet it had gotten. He couldn’t hear the crickets, the birds, the animals, the trees or the rain. It had even stopped raining. They were at a narrow road, Ilsa having parked on the pavement, that went through some rugby fields in Dulwich, there ought to be more noise, more cars, at least fireworks.

Feeling chills, Strike opened his eyes and froze. The road had lines of tall, robust trees at each side, and tall fences of the fields, but in the total darkness illuminated by the car, he could see white faces and hands of black figures, hundreds, appearing behind the trees. He hadn’t seen things like that many times, and it was never good. The faces had no noses, eyes, nothing, and they were whispering louder each time.

“Ilsa, let’s go,” Strike said, and something in her tone kicked Ilsa into gear, hurrying back in her car.

It wasn’t until they were home, the children in bed and the crib, and Strike had checked every door and window several times, that Ilsa dared to ask, as they lied together in pyjamas on her bed, the cats at the feet of it.

“What did you see? You went pale.”

“I’m not sure, I’ve only seen them very few times, in dark isolated places. Dark figures, like shadows, with white, skeletal hands and faces with no features, like erased. Stuff for the nightmares.”

“Jesus. What are they? Ghosts?”

“I’m not sure,” Strike repeated, but before he could talk more, they heard the front door open, close, lock again, steps, and then Nick appeared at the door, surprised to see them both. “You see him too, right?”

“Yes,” Ilsa chuckled, rushing to kiss her husband. “Hi, what’re you doing here so early?”

“It’s nearly seven,” Nick smiled, kissing her back. “End of night shift. What are you guys up to?” Ilsa and Strike told him what had just happened. “Oh, so we’re up for scary ghost stories? All right, let me get my pyjamas on, and popcorn.”

At last, the three snuggled in the marital bed, Ilsa in the middle, all of them with popcorn bowls.

“The first time I saw them I was like… five, and Mum and I had been walking around the countryside at dusk, in St Mawes. We heard the entire place turn into total quiet, and then they began to appear at the far distance, whispering things. Mum turned a lighter on, shouted at them to go away, and they shrieked, vanished,” said Strike. “She told me they’re creatures of darkness who try to bring vulnerable living souls to their side.”

“They can kill?” Nick scowled. They were used to hearing these things from Strike, and Ilsa and him took him seriously.

“They can create such an amount of bad energy in one spot, that bad stuff happens. Car accidents, bizarre psychotic outbreaks when someone suddenly turns evil and kills… the bizarre stuff you see on TV, no one can explain. When we were in the squats in Brixton, I was eight, and I came this close to one of those. There were some addicts slumped in the dirt, in the dark… saw one of those putting their claws on one of the faces. The figure then sensed me, turned to me, began to come closer… felt the warmth leave the room. Then my Mum appeared out of the blue, holding Lucy in one arm and a lantern in her other hand, and same thing, made the figure go. Then there was Afghanistan,” said Strike. “When I woke up at the field hospital after the explosion… I remember seeing them roaming the tents, then I lost consciousness, but they were right there. All over the place. But there were also figures of light, near every bed, as if keeping us safe. Strangest thing.”

“But the car had the lights on tonight,” Ilsa pointed out. “If they run away from the light… why didn’t they?”

“I think they could hide behind the trees, but they didn’t try to come closer,” said Strike. “I think they feel drawn to misery, because when we’re miserable we left our guard down, the soul is vulnerable. The night with my Mum in Cornwall, we’d been near a spot where later I found out a car accident had ended a whole family, bad energy. The squat in Brixton, full of people in misery, vulnerable, and so was the hospital… And we were too attractive. Two little babies perfectly vulnerable, guards down, you and I feeling upset.”

“I’m never stopping the car anywhere in the middle of the night,” Ilsa decided.

“Yep, me neither,” Nick wrapped an arm around his wife. “D’you think they can come into the home, Oggy?”

“No. Mum was always clear there, they can’t come into homes. Flats, squats, houses… yes. But not consolidated homes.”

“What’s the difference?” inquired Nick.

“A home is full of love,” said Strike simply, with a shrug. “That makes them impenetrable. Too much light, even when it’s dark.”

“That sounds so beautiful, so cheesy, so poetic, that I can’t believe it came from your lips,” said Ilsa teasingly. Nick sniggered and Strike rolled eyes with half a smile.

“Believe me, if I had a choice not to deal with this crap, I’d take it,” Strike got up, holding back a yawn. “Anyway, goodnight lovebirds.”

“Night night Oggy!”

The first day of the new year was a Sunday, and so Strike only went to the office to pick the mail, and spend the day being lazy with the family, recovering from the partying, but on Monday morning he left the Herberts to go to work after a week long holiday he’d granted himself.

Strike owned a little office in the second floor of Denmark Street, in Soho, a decrepit, small space where clients weren’t expected. Strike had just been in the inner office, checking the mail, when he felt the inner office door close behind him with a loud bang. Startled, specially with the windows closed, Strike turned around and his blood froze as he saw one of the dark figures advancing towards him. Strike had never had aggressive encounters with spirits, but he immediately felt cold, faint, weak… he rushed to the window, opening it wide.

“GO! YOU’RE NOT WELCOMED HERE!” he roared into the figure, that shrieked, and retreated into the darkness. It’s shrieks sounded like sounds from beyond, terrifying, sending chills to him, even when he didn’t consider himself easy to scare. Strike had to admit he was terrified, not having more sources of light. “GO!” but the figure climbed up the dark corner, up to the ceiling like a giant spider, and suddenly the windows shut closed, the blinds falling shut. Just when the room was in total darkness, Strike heard the shriek again, saw the blurry melted white face right in front of his, its mouth opening toothless, full of saliva, and Strike felt it inhale his soul.

His chest constricted in hard pain, he felt frozen cold, and he collapsed, just as he heard his mother scream.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Keep you safe.

“Mr Strike, wake up! Wake up! Come on…”

As Strike’s conscience returned, he felt himself lying flat of the inner office floor, so freezing cold he could only tremble violently. Someone was slapping his face gently, and when he opened his eyes, he was surprised to see the woman he’d been dreaming about so much, kneeling on the floor, pale with worry.

“I’m going to call and ambulance,” said the woman, pulling her phone.

“N-no, p-please…” Strike pleaded. He remembered suddenly what had happened, saw the blinds high again the inner office full of light, but knew what hospitals were full of. He hated them. There was only one safe place for them right now. “T-take m-me,” he could stop stammering, so cold he was, “h-home…”

“Home?” The stranger nodded. “Okay, where is that?”

“M-melody R-road… W-Wandsworth. T-the H-Herberts h-house… p-please…”

“Okay, got it, my car’s down the stairs, but you’re gonna have to move, okay? I can’t with your weight,” she was soft, her voice beautiful and full of worry, dressed in office clothes. She went to retrieve his coat and scarf, tightening them on him, then helped him stand up.

Inhaling felt like ice down his lungs, but Strike did his best, and stumbled, most of his weight somehow perfectly supported by the young woman. She’d picked his phone and keys from the table and closed his office and everything before carefully helping him to the birdcage lift, and then, to an old Land Rover parked around the corner. Feeling hypothermic, Strike stumbled in the seat, hugging himself, and the woman expertly drove away. He was drifting in and out of consciousness, feeling physically ill, and just when he thought he couldn’t take it any more, the woman was opening his door and helping him outside.

“Which house is it?” she asked him, anxious with worry. Weakly, Strike pointed to the Herberts’ house and she got him there, pressing the doorbell repeatedly. “Hang in there Mr Strike, we’re nearly there.” Strike realized then that the choking sounds were his own.

The door opened and Nick appeared, took one look at him, and paled, moving aside.

“Inside, first door to the right,” Nick instructed. “Ilsa!” he closed the door, and soon his wife came over.

“What?”

“Cormoran.”

Making sure Evelyn was entertained in the sitting room, Ilsa rushed to Strike’s bedroom and stood in utter shock at the sight. Strike was in bed, Nick and a woman just like Strike had described to her of his dreams, leaning over him as he shook in bed, arched, gasped for air. His lips were purple, his eyes wide open and staring at nothing, his skin ashen, he sounded like he was asphyxiating.

“I found him passed out in his office,” said the woman. “My name’s Robin Ellacott. I’d come to hire his services but heard no sound so I went inside… and he was just on the floor, like this, but unconscious. I was going to call an ambulance, but he insisted he had to come here.”

“Of course, this is a home…” Ilsa realized. “Thank you very much Robin, I’m Ilsa Herbert, my husband Nick’s a doctor, we’re Cormoran’s best friends. Would you please stay until he feels better? I’m sure he’d like to thank you himself.”

“I’ll stay, if I can help…”

“He’s not choking on anything,” Nick realized. “Mate, what’s wrong? What happened? He’s freezing cold… bring hot tea, and the electric blanket. And a candle!” he added, on a second thought. He’d learned some things, knowing Leda in his teens, but he’d never seen anything like this. As the women ran out of the room, Nick took Strike’s shoes and prosthesis and tucked him with a duvet. “Just keep breathing Oggy, we’re going to take care of you…”

Took a long time, but once Strike was tucked in bed in his shirt and boxers, with the electric blanket, they’d managed to get him to drink a hot mug of tea, and Nick had lit a big candle on his bedside cabinet, surprisingly, Strike’s colour came back, and he fell into peaceful sleep. Shaken, the three adults moved to the kitchen, Nick instructing Evelyn to stay playing in the sitting room. She was an obedient girl, usually. Ilsa held Leo close, mostly to calm herself, and Nick poured them tea.

“What was that?” Robin asked, astonished.

“No idea,” said Nick a little nervously. “Maybe we’ll take him to the hospital tomorrow. D’you want to stay for lunch? I was going to make my amazing tagliatelle, and food always cheers Corm up, you guys could talk later in our office here.”

“Oh I wouldn’t want to intrude…”

“You wouldn’t be,” Ilsa reassured her. “It’s just us and our daughter Evelyn, she’s watching Frozen in the other room… we always have more food than we eat,” she half smiled.

“Well, in that case…” Robin pondered her options. She could go back to an empty house in Islington, crossing London for that, to eat alone and probably late at this point, and make the whole trip be a waste of time. Or, as her curiosity begged her, she could stay with these nice-looking people, enjoy lunch and then get to hire a detective she’d heard a lot about, perhaps even find out what had happened to him. “Yes, sure. Thank you very much.”

In the meantime, Strike was far, far away from there. When his eyes opened, he was comfortably warm and someone was playing with his hair. As he focused on the familiar perfume, he noticed he wasn’t so big any more, but rather just a boy, his smaller frame enveloped by gentle, warm arms, his shorter arms hugging the figure in return. Gentle lips pressed against his forehead, Strike’s cheek pressed against a soft breast, and then he looked up. Looking down on him was no other but his mother.

Leda Strike was miles younger than the last time Strike had seen her, and she looked so beautiful, as always, with her long dark hair falling in soft waves, always perfect no matter what, her pale, heart-shaped face a big contrast, and her dark green eyes framed by long dark eyelashes looking down at him with a grin that reached them. Her fine lips curved full of happiness and cheerfulness, and she wore one of her old dresses, sitting on the beach in their natal St Mawes, in Cornwall, with Cormoran on her lap, no older than eight, at most.

“Mum?” he was surprised by how soft his voice sounded, how child-like.

“Hi, angel,” Leda kissed the top of his nose.

It was a sunny day, and yet they were completely alone, the waves of the ocean in the back.

“What are we doing here?” Strike asked.

“You tell me, it’s your imagination, darling.”

Thoughtful, Strike sat up on her lap, but made no effort to leave her as he looked around, her arms around him still.

“I was thirty-two, in my office… and one of those dark figures with white faces attacked me, I passed out. Am I dead? Is this the light?”

“This, my darling, it’s limbo,” said Leda. “It’s like the reception hall of a house. You’re not alive, you’re not dead… but both things are welcomed here, when the living need the death,” Strike looked disappointed, and she grinned, caressing his round cheek. “Oh but don’t be sad darling, you’re going to have such a beautiful life, and I’ll be right there to see it, and then eventually, you can come with me into the light, when you’re old.”

“Is it nice there?”

“It’s the nicest place I’ve ever been in, in all my travels. Your grandma is there, and your grandpa, but they’re not fighting and bickering any more, they’re in love and they’ve forgiven. And there’s the snake you had when you were little—,”

“Ralphie!”

“That one,” Leda smiled warmly. “And all the food and peace in the world, miles of books… everything. You’ll like it there. But first, you’ve gotta to do your life.”

“Why are they coming for me now, Mummy? What do I do?”

Now it was Leda who looked thoughtful.

“You’re attracting them, Cormoran. You’re so terribly sad, and so terribly angry, all the time. It’s like a feast for them. The lower you feel, the most vulnerable you are, and your soul is so powerful it’s like the yummiest doughnut for them.”

“Why?”

“Oh, because you’re a being of light, my love,” Leda said matter of fact. “You’re pure and uncorrupted, the seventy-seventh in our family line to have such powerful abilities, those not even Harry and Lucy have. The most courageous of us all, and the strongest, to use your gift for good instead of letting it kill you, like it happened to your grandmother. If your soul was to go to the dark side… it’d be a huge win for them, and a huge problem for us.”

“The dark side? Like Star Wars?”

Leda chuckled, shaking her head.

“Not quite, darling. People who do good things, create and attract good energy, energy of light, pure, full of love… people who can only cause harm, create bad energy, and attract it too, the more awful things they do. And in the bad energy, there’s absence of all that’s good, so it becomes full of darkness, empty, there’s no sound of birds tweeting, no sound of waves, laughter, warmth… it’s the absence of all the things we like. Some places and people are more balanced, they’ve got a bit of each, that’s not bad. But sometimes one has a lot of one, like us, or… are mostly just one, like… that Robin.”

“Robin?”

“The woman who found you. Robin Venetia Ellacott, she’s from Masham,” said Leda, then sniggered. “You know Northern hospitality, uh? Bloody nice people, not like us, Southerners. Still, we’re more light than darkness, and she… she has no darkness. She’s the most pure of souls, strong yet also vulnerable. Pure good, that one… and you need each other. Stay away from the darkness, Cormoran, do what’s right, act with your heart, and you’ll be fine. You’ve got to let Robin teach you how to stop being so angry and sad, to forgive, forget… and love. Love is the strongest force there is against the darkness, not light, love. It was my love for my children that always shooed the beasts, they knew that no matter how drunk or high I was, I’d never let them get to my kids. Now, you’ve got to show them who Cormoran Strike is. It’s your turn now.”

“How am I supposed to do this without you?”

“I did it all alone, you’re not. Let them love you, love in return, protect your family above all things, stay away from the Shadows. You’ll be fine.”

“But Mummy, I miss you, Luce misses you, Harry misses you… and your grandson Jack, he’s like us—,”

“Darling,” Leda cupped his face with both hands, eyeing him close, “you can’t miss what’s not gone.”

Just like that, Strike’s eyes opened again as he gasped for air, and this time he was back on his bed, sitting up. It had felt so real… Groaning at a sudden pang of pain in his chest, he opened his shirt to reveal a large purple, green, bluish bruise above his heart. He closed his shirt again, warm and cosy as he was, and got a whiff of tagliatelle, which made him move to turn off the electric blanket he lied on, put on his leg and his trousers, a jumper, and dash for the bathroom quickly before moving to the kitchen.

Hearing laughter, he saw the Herberts at the table, and the strawberry-blonde woman, Robin Venetia Ellacott, laughing with Evelyn’s antics while eating their tagliatelle at the table.

“Oggy, there you are! Feeling up for some food?” asked Nick.

“Yeah thanks,” Strike smiled small. “I’ll serve myself, don’t worry,” the one seat available was next to Robin, so Strike sat there and gave the woman a polite smile, presenting a hand. “I don’t believe we were properly introduced. Cormoran Strike.”

“Robin Ellacott,” she smiled warmly, and when her hand shook his, it was all warmth and softness, except for a cold, massive engagement ring. “I’m glad to see you looking better.”

“Me too, thanks to you of course. Thank you, really, hopefully I can do something for you in exchange?”

“Daddy, I’ve finished, can I go back to playing?” Evelyn interrupted.

“Sure thing honey, off you go,” Nick saw her out, and they returned to the conversation.

While Strike slept, Robin had been chatting with the Herberts, and she really liked them, feeling like they were trustworthy, like they gave her positive vibes. With Strike, she got a similar feeling.

“I believe my fiancé might be having an affair,” said Robin shyly. “I was wondering if you could find any evidence, because if he is then… I shouldn’t go ahead with the wedding.”

Strike frowned lightly, even though he got that type of clients the most.

“Why d’you think he’s cheating?” he inquired, getting a fistful of tagliatelle.

“Oh, he’s an accountant, and he’s supposed to have quite the fixed schedule, but he’s always late, suddenly has work at an odd hour on an odd day… and I’ve been with him since we were teenagers, so I know when he lies, and lately, it’s constantly. He says he’s with a friend who turns out to not even be in the city, he comes smelling of other women… I followed him a bit, saw he wasn’t going to the places he told me he was going to, either. Anyway, I elaborated a folder…” she dragged her purse from a chair on her other side, and pulled out a thin, carton folder, which she handed to Strike. “That’s all his information, family, friends, places he frequents, job… everything. I thought you could use it.”

As Strike touched the folder, he was suddenly struck with a vision. A tall, young man in an elegant suit, with handsome features, walked alone down the London streets at night, whistling. Behind him, the dark figures he’d encountered. He blinked and suddenly he was back at the dining table, but Robin looked odd at him.

“You all right, Mr Strike? We lost you for a second there.”

“Oh, yes, sorry,” Strike opened the folder. “This is incredible, Ms Ellacott. Great job, impressive, will make my job very easy.” Robin blushed and smiled shyly.

“I could pass by your office tomorrow if you want, to sign any necessary paperwork…”

“That’d be good, my contracts are there,” Strike nodded, putting the folder aside. “Ms Ellacott—,”

“Robin. You can call me Robin.”

“Robin,” Strike nodded, “good, well you may call me whatever you like... I was wondering if there was anybody else at my office when you came in. Or perhaps something weird, I don’t know… blinds shut down, lights off, that kind of thing?”

Robin frowned, confused, but shook her head.

“Everything seemed normal to me, there was no one there. I didn’t mean to pry going into your office without permission, but it was so quiet and the office was open, knocked to no answer… I was worried something had happened. But when I came into the office, everything looked normal, lights on and all, yet you were on the floor… shaking cold, and like you couldn’t breathe, you seemed in pain… you told me to bring you here.”

The memories seemed foggy in Strike’s mind, so he nodded slowly, a little embarrassed.

“Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine. Did somebody… attack you?”

“No, no,” said Strike, turning his attention to the food. “I wasn’t feeling all right when I woke up, shouldn’t have gone to work to begin with. But I feel fine now, thank you.”

“Cormoran, uh… would you please not lie to me?” Strike turned to Robin, surprised. She seemed deeply uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, I’m just… sensitive to liars. Specially when I’m hiring one to catch one.”

Strike looked at Ilsa and Nick like a deer in highlights and Ilsa raised her eyebrows, muffled a smile, and turned to her food. Strike looked back at Robin.

“How d’you…?”

“I just know,” said Robin, unapologetic. “I mean I get sometimes lies are necessary but… is not really the case, isn’t it?”

He cleared his throat and sighed.

“Very well then,” he nodded. “Well truth is I’ve no idea what happened this morning. I was all right, then… wasn’t. But you don’t have to worry about me, really. I won’t be caught twice in trouble.”

As soon as Robin left, not long after lunch, Ilsa squealed loudly.

“It’s her! It’s her!”

“Who?” Nick asked, confused, while they washed the dishes.

“The woman Corm dreamt of!”

“Oh, Oggy… I didn’t think so dirty of you,” Nick teased, misunderstanding.

“Not those dreams,” Ilsa slapped his arm gently. “Nick! The paranormal ones.”

“Oh…”

“She’s the woman,” Strike agreed with a nod, reading the folder Robin had left, sitting on the kitchen stools. “Mum said she’s Robin Venetia Ellacott, and we’re supposed to help each other, which means clock’s ticking for me to save her life and I don’t even know from what do I have to save her.”

“Wait, Leda? Is she…?” Nick looked around awkwardly.

“In my dreams,” Strike specified, and Nick sighed, relieved.

“Good, because there are some things I don’t like doing with my wife with our best friend’s mother looking.”

Ilsa chuckled, rolling eyes.

“So,” Ilsa sat with Strike, serious, “are you going to tell us what really happened?” Strike pulled his jumper and shirt, rolling them up, and showed the large bruise. Ilsa’s eyes widened. “What the hell?” Nick also turned around and frowned.

“Who did that?”

“Mum called them the Shadows, it’s what I saw with Ilsa,” explained Strike. “One appeared in my office, and it absorbed all the light, then… kind of tried to go through me or something. That’s the last I remember.”

Nick and Ilsa exchanged deeply worried glances, and Nick stopped doing the dishes, walking over.

“But they’ve never touched you before,” he murmured, tense.

“I know… Mum says they’re taking advantage of… the whole situation with Charlotte, I suppose. Strike me when I’m down and vulnerable. But don’t worry, I’ll move out tomorrow, I’m not going to endanger—,”

“You’re not going anywhere,” said Ilsa firmly. “You said they can’t come here, so we’re safe. Where else are you going to go, Corm? They’ll kill you, they nearly did, if Robin hadn’t appeared… Tell him, Nick!” but her husband didn’t seem too convinced. He looked down in shame. “Nick!”

“What about Evie and Leo?” asked Nick. “Those Shadows weren’t supposed to touch Corm, but they did, what tell us they really can’t come inside? Perhaps they just need to be more of them and then what? You’ve seen what they’ve done to Corm, what do you think they’ll do to our children?”

“I can’t even believe…” Ilsa snarled, suddenly furious and looking at Nick with digging daggers. “He’s supposed to be like your brother! He has nowhere to go! Would you send Dan out like that, you bloody hypocrite?!”

“Ilsa…”

“No,” Ilsa snapped. “You let him go, and I won’t forgive you, Nicholas. I won’t. And you,” her eyes softened at Strike, “please, don’t go, okay? We’ll be safe, I know we will be. Don’t listen to this…” she glared at Nick, clenching her teeth.

“This what?” Nick retorted, indignant. “Sue me for putting our vulnerable children before a war veteran who’s perfectly capable of fending for himself! Leo is not even a year old Ilsa, he can’t even run for it!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Strike saw it. Long, skeletal hands, appearing from the top of the backyard garden’s wall, as if climbing down, long nails dragging over the brick as the Herberts argued like Strike had never seen them. He eyed the hands through the backyard glass door in the kitchen, and suddenly understood. This was them, taking the love away.

“Stop!” Strike stopped Nick and Ilsa, who separated in the heat of their arguing. “I’m leaving, end of discussion.”

“But Corm—,”

“Ilsa, don’t you see they’re already here? Perhaps not literally, but look what they’re achieving already. You two hardly ever fight, and now here you are, shouting at each other over me, with your children next door,” both adults looked embarrassed, and Strike glanced to the garden, seeing the hands retract up the wall. “I need to go and I need to learn to face them and win, like my mother did, can’t do that hiding here. I’ll pack a bag, you guys mind me leaving my stuff until I’ve somewhere to bring it to?”

He was already rushing to his bedroom, grabbing his large army backpack from the closet and beginning to fill it up with some underwear, essentials he might need, like his documentation. Ilsa and Nick rushed.

“Oggy, at least wait until the morning, don’t go yet…” said Nick, trying to stop him. “Why don’t we wait a few days, uh? Find you a proper flat, make a plan together…”

“It can’t wait Nick, they’re too close,” said Strike, opening boxes and drawers to get his stuff.

“Then I’ll go with you,” said Ilsa, rushing to him. “You’re my brother, I’m not letting you—,”

“Ilsa,” Strike stopped, and took her gently from the shoulders, staring deep into her eyes, “you’re not my mother, you need to calm down and put your own children first. I’ll be fine, I promise you.”

“But they already—,”

“They caught me unprepared, not any more,” said Strike.

“At least take my car? I don’t need it…”

“I can’t drive if it’s not automatic,” said Strike, grateful. “Look, you two, just calm down. I’m going to go help Robin, and I’ll be fine. I was homeless half my childhood, it won’t be problematic, seriously. You’ve done your part, and I’m extremely grateful, now I have to do my part.”

“Uncle Corm, what’re you doing?” they turned as Evelyn appeared at the door, looking curious into her godfather’s bedroom.

“I’m leaving, Evie. I was only staying for a few weeks, now it’s time to go. But I’ll see you soon for curry night, uh?”

Evelyn shrugged.

“Can I give you a gift then?”

“A gift? Sure,” Strike smiled and Evelyn grinned, trotted to him and extended a closed fist, letting a necklace fall into his palm. He looked at it, astonished by the realization that he knew that necklace very, very well. It was a sterling silver curb chain, thin and light, with a round, light silver pendant. The back of the pendant had the engraved words 'Possunt Quia Posse Videntur' in Latin, meaning ‘They can because they think they can’. The front had been cast with wax seals, handcrafted so that in Victorian imagery, an Albatross appeared mid flight in the middle, over a darkened background. “But this was my mother’s, we buried it with her,” Strike realized. Leda used to call it her lucky charm because the Albatross was a good luck charm for sailors, and she came from a family full of them.

“Where did you get that from, Evie?” Ilsa asked, frowning.

“A nice lady gave it to me,” said Evelyn innocently. “She was playing with me in the sitting room.”

Startled, all the adults ran there, but there was no one to see.

“I’ll check the security cameras, if anyone’s been in and out we’ll see,” said Nick.

“There’s no need, Nick. Evie, was the woman this one?” Strike grabbed one of the many framed photographs that the Herberts kept in the bookshelf, one of his childhood. Very young Ilsa, Strike, Lucy, Leda, and Ilsa’s siblings James and Meredith and their parents appeared in bikinis in the St Mawes beach, the kids all smiles in the front, arms around each other, and the adults grinning in the back. Strike pointed at his mother, and Evelyn nodded.

“She was right here, playing with me,” Evelyn said, curious. “Uncle Corm, did I do something wrong?” she asked, pouting. Strike smiled, shaking his head.

“No, this is the best gift in the world, Evie,” Strike put it around his neck fastening it under his shirt. He immediately felt a little lighter. “The woman who gave it to you is Auntie Leda, she must’ve come around without us knowing, as a surprise, to meet you, because she lives very far away. Did she say something to you?”

Evelyn nodded.

“She complimented my teddy bears, and my hair, says I look a lot like Mummy,” Ilsa clasped a hand over her mouth and turned around, not wanting for her daughter to see her emotional. “She played with me and then she said I had to give that to you, because she doesn’t need it any more. And then she left.”

“Well thanks, Evie,” Strike hugged her and kissed her cheek. “Good girl. I’ll see you soon, uh?” the adults returned to his room so he could finish packing his bag.

“How…?” Nick was utterly confused.

“Relax, Nick, pretty sure your daughter’s not a medium or anything. It’s just kids, they’re more sensitive. Then they grow old, forget about it and move on.”

“But why was she here?” Ilsa murmured, hugging herself. “Shouldn’t she be in the light?”

“She is,” Strike had crossed her himself, when he was much younger. “She was just visiting. I’m all set,” he threw the bag over his shoulders. “Don’t worry guys, it’s all good, I’m fine. Thanks for the hospitality.”

“No need,” Nick hugged him. “Call us if you need anything.”

“And be safe,” Ilsa hugged him too. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” Strike kissed her cheek. “Don’t stress, Mama.” She half smiled sadly and nodded.

Once he had his boots, coat, scarf, gloves and beanie on, Strike marched outside, backpack over his shoulders, and a bag of Tupperwares with food, a lantern and some supplies Nick and Ilsa insisted he took, back towards London. It was beginning to rain again, and the night was going to be freezing cold.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: Learning the darkness.

Not knowing where else to go as it got darker and rainier, Strike walked into his Denmark Street office, turned all the lights on, locked the door and the windows, slid down all the blinds, made tea in the small kitchenette the outer office had, and began preparing the inner office to be his camp for now. He moved his desk closer to the door, and in the tiny space behind he set his duvet, on the floor, with some blankets, his coat as a pillow. He’d slept in worse places, not just during a decade in the army, but also through his nomad childhood and teens.

Then, Strike grabbed a bunch of drawings from his nephews and Evelyn from his backpack, and tapped them over the wall. Nothing like good children’s innocence to kick out any bad energies.

Strike considered himself a sceptic, and always had. An atheist and a psychic medium himself, he mistrusted everyone else outside his family who claimed to have any sort of skills or contact with the dead, not because he thought himself the only one, but because he knew chances were they were a fraud. He believed in science in what you could see, touch and experiment, but the problem was, he could experiment spirits and ghosts with all of his five senses. But he didn’t believe in God, in heaven or hell, he struggled with many parts of what being a medium entailed, and simply thought there were parallel dimensions with different levels of energy, as proven by science, and souls could perhaps moved between them, between the one of the living and the death, but also between ones of light and darkness. He didn’t think there was a God awarding the good and a Satan and red demons with horns and tails slashing and punishing in Hell. Therefore, he didn’t wholeheartedly believe in things such as exorcisms, Tarot, cards reading, hand reads, nothing like that.

In his world, he only knew for certain that people lived and then died, and that when they died, sometimes a part of them stuck behind, and few of them who could see it, had to help them go on to whatever was afterwards. Strike had, like Jack, first done it with tiny invisible friends in his childhood, then with squatters who died of addiction or stabbed through his teens, and even with his own mother, who had appeared dead in 2005, in a cold January like this, in the Whitechapel squat where she lived with her two and a half year old son Harry, and her boyfriend Jeff Whittaker, who was the baby’s biological father. Strike had been in Oxford, Lucy studying in St Mawes and Falmouth, and he, always hating and mistrusting Whittaker, who was a rat who belonged in filthy gangs, who was fascinated by violence, death and the occult, and was the most violent and dangerous person Strike had ever known, had only gone to Oxford because a man named Shanker, who was his age and a gangster and thief, but who lived for Leda after she had saved his life on occasion, had promised him to look after Leda. He, however, wasn’t infallible, and he’d been selling drugs while Leda died of an overdose, slowly in a dirty mattress on the floor, while her baby cried.

Strike and Lucy had known straight away, because they’d both had dreams with her. Back then Lucy had been able to see her too, not just Strike, so she’d rushed to London and between the two, with Harry’s tiny help, they had followed Leda’s guidance to prove Whittaker had murdered her, which had helped her cross to the other side, as her three children wept holding each other, Harry in Strike’s twenty-year-old arms, Lucy only seventeen by his side, and Whittaker sentenced to life in prison.

Leda had taught Strike and Lucy everything they knew of the occult, and in their childhood, both children had been powerful mediums, the skills weakening in Lucy as she grew older, more fearful, and finally shattered by her mother’s murder which their skills hadn’t helped them avoid, and her violent husband’s cruelty that had pushed her to completely bury them in. But Strike had thrived, and with his innate curiosity, deep desire to learn, and innate bravery, he’d easily decided he had to learn everything he could, read every book, embrace the mystery, the occult, the gift they’d inherited from Leda’s mother, and she from her own father and grandfather, for many generations up, descending straight from the Celts.

With that in mind, Strike prepared to do something he’d seen his mother do whenever they slept in communes, squats, and places generally dangerous, allegedly to protect them. He thought it was a bunch of crap inherited from the Celts, but then again neither of Leda’s children had ever suffered harm under those circumstances, and he was desperate enough to try.

A quick trip to the nearest herbalist got him all the products he needed, including a number of herbs and special scented oils, which he smashed and mixed together, before putting them inside a large, brand new candle, and lighting it. When the oil and herbs burned, a nice scent filled the whole room, and soon, Strike had fallen asleep, close to it, on his improvised floor camp.

“Cormoran, Cormoran, wake up.”

A gentle, familiar voice raised Strike from the most peaceful, comfortable sleep he’d had in years, and he stretched before opening his eyes, coming face to face with Robin Ellacott, who knelt on the floor by his side, looking curious.

“Robin, good morning. What time is it?” he added, as the sun came through the blinds now.

“Past ten… I’m sorry, I came to sign the paperwork as we agreed, and the door… well, you need to see this.”

Strike got up, put his leg back on when Robin turned around, and followed her to the outside office. The outer glass door was shattered, the lock on the ground, the furniture all over the place, the couple of mugs he had, shattered on the floor, the desk broken in half as if a huge weight had fallen on it, papers scattered all over, and the wallpaper ripped, as if someone had written on the wall with a knife, the words ‘You think you can run.’

“Woah,” Strike was surprised he hadn’t woken up with the noise. He supposed he’d been protected in the other room, but the magic didn’t extend so far, and whoever had come for him had been furious not to be able to reach them.

“Are you okay, did someone hurt you again?” asked Robin full of concern.

“I’m fine,” replied Strike, nodding, “well, this is not good for my economy, though… damn it.”

“Why were you…?”

“Oh, I sometimes do. Workaholic,” Strike explained simply, looking at himself to make sure he was dressed properly. “So uh… it’s gonna take me a minute to find those papers…”

“It’s okay, I’ll help.”

“No you don’t have to—,”

“I know, I’m volunteering,” Robin moved to begin picking papers off the ground, squatting in her pencil skirt, and then they heard steps and someone appeared at the door.

Turning around, they saw a tall man, with short receding hair, glasses, and an elegant suit.

“Oh,” he said, surprised at the chaos. “You’re Mr Strike, right?”

“Yes,” Strike turned to him. “Can I help you?”

“I’m John Bristow,” he said, offering him a hand. Strike shook his hand. “I’m Charlie’s brother, I don’t know if you remember… you went together at Henry Fawcett, when you were eight?”

“Charlie! Yes, of course, John…” Strike nodded. Charlie Bristow had been his best friend when they’d attended Henry Fawcett School, in Brixton. He had never known why a family as rich as the Bristows sent their children there, because the school was rather lower class, but it didn’t matter.

Strike himself had only spent seven months there before his family whisked him away back to St Mawes, and he had left right when, after Easter holidays, their teacher had announced Charlie had died during the holidays, falling off his bicycle into a quarry. He’d never known anything about the Bristows since, and had long forgotten about the little boy that used to beg his older brother Charlie to let him play with them. Strike had then defended John a little, but Charlie had never liked him much. Both were adopted.

“I don’t know if you’ve heard about my sister.”

“Your sister?” Strike could’ve sworn there was no sister.

“You wouldn’t have met her, my parents adopted her too, Lula, she became a model with Mum’s surname, Landry? She died last November.”

“Oh, sorry about that, John.”

“Thank you… could we…?” John looked around, at Robin picking up papers scattered all over the floor, the message in the walls, the shattered entry desk, the mug pieces on the floor. “I realize I’ve come in a bad moment. Could we meet soon? I’d like to hire you, offer you a lot of money… is to investigate Lula’s death. The police closed the case saying it was suicide, but I don’t believe it, nobody in the family does. We just want to make sure… and I heard you’re a detective and I said to Mum, Cormoran will find out, he was always a smart kid, right?”

“Right, well…” Strike looked between Robin and John. They were his only clients, and he had debts to pay, his number had been red for a while, and he wasn’t going to say no to a solution to his problems, specially not when he wasn’t planning on making Robin pay, it was a favour for saving his life. He needed the money. “I’ll do it, John, but right now… well, it seems like last night we got some vandals, probably some angry ex client, you see? Sometimes I’ve got to tell them they’re being cheated on,” he gave him a small smile, and John nodded, smiling politely. “That’s why it’s such a chaotic morning. D’you mind if we meet tomorrow?”

“No problem, I can be here at ten, if that’s okay?”

“Perfect, thank you very much, John. We’ll talk in depth about it then, and I’ll get investigating.”

“Thanks, Cormoran. Oh,” John dug into his coat, and pulled out an envelope, “early payments, in case you need to spend some money for the investigation.”

“Very much appreciated John, thanks, bye…” Once they heard the steps down the stairs, Strike looked into the envelope. With relief, he counted at least two thousand pounds, way above his fees.

Robin turned around, standing up holding a stack of papers.

“Is it me or you’re a bit swamped?” she commented softly, puffing softly as she looked at the disaster around her.

Strike pinched the top of his nose, sensing a headache, and took a deep breath.

“Okay, first things first…” he took the papers from here. “Yes, here are my fees, which you don’t have to worry about, you saved my life. But here’s the contract by which you hire my services, take your time to sit on the sofa and read it, it’s the one thing that doesn’t seem to be in pieces.”

Strike grabbed a large, black trash bag from a cabinet and opened it, shoving the pieces of the ruined desk, and the subsequently broken desk computer, he finished filling the bag after sweeping the glass and remaining shit off the floor, putting whichever objects that were on the table and were saved, on the desk in the inner office, and then the tied the bag, now quite heavy, and put it out the door to bring it to the street next time he went down. Robin had rescued a pen and was signing the paper.

“I apologize, I’d offer you tea but I’ve got to buy new mugs now.”

Robin looked around at the now mostly empty small outer office, examining her options. At least everything was clean now. There was the small kitchenette, the filing cabinets, a small plant in a tiny pot on top, and the chair that had been for the desk. The CPU of the computer laid in a corner, seemingly not broken, although it’d need a new screen, new mouse and new keyboard. Strike was now organizing the pens back into their holder, which he put on top of a filing cabinet, and examining the damage of the blinds, that seemed to have received some hard hits.

“How come you were next room and didn’t hear someone barge in and trash your office?” she asked with curiosity.

“It baffles me,” said Strike, shrugging, and took the papers from her. “Very well Robin, I’ll get on with this today, okay? By the end of the week, I’ll know what that fiancé of yours is up to.”

“I could help,” said Robin suddenly. Strike looked surprised. “I don’t have a job. I’m from Masham, just moved here in the summer and my fiancé— Matthew, he doesn’t like me working. He says he makes enough, that I should care for the flat…” she shrugged, then smiled small, although Strike frowned deeply. “Anyway, I’m bored beyond belief, I’d do anything to get out of the flat a little, and I’ve always wanted to do investigative work. I’ve got nearly a full degree in psychology, I’ve worked my whole life until I came here, I’ve been shop assistant, office manager, office assistant… I’ve got a lot of experience.”

“I can’t really pay you,” said Strike. “You and that John Bristow are my only clients. I’m a bit in debt, Robin, and seeing what I have to pay now to replace all that’s been broken, paint the walls…” he admitted painfully, and sighed. “I’m sorry, can’t afford you.”

“Don’t pay me. It’s just, you know, I don’t want to be all day in my flat alone while Matthew works, he doesn’t come home until night and I hardly know London,” said Robin sincerely. “Don’t know anybody here… I’d really appreciate getting to help you around and I promise I wouldn’t interfere in my fiancé’s investigation or anything. I’m very professional, can give you references. Please?”

“You want to help me just ‘cause you like investigative work and you’re bored?” Strike looked quite surprised, and he snorted, amused. “You’re definitely a Northerner.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No, I’ve just heard Northerners are that nice,” Strike looked impressed, and Robin smiled small.

“I could help you find a new desk and put it up, and paint and all. The sooner this is decent for you to get more clients, the sooner we can check on what happened to Lula Landry, right? Matthew can wait…” she shrugged. “If he’s cheating, he will still be doing it next week. Hopefully we can get you some clients so you’re not too stressed with your money.”

“That’s really, really kind of you, Robin,” Strike couldn’t believe his ears. “Very well then… let’s grab some breakfast, uh? My treat,” he raised the envelope. “And I’ll also put this in the bank. And then we’ll go get… things for here.”

Robin smiled excitedly, nodding.

“Oh, before we go…” she grabbed a paper from the stack, a pen, and after scribbling something, and then she found tape in a drawer and, under Strike’s attentive glance, she pasted it on the door frame covering part of the hole left by the shattered glass that used to be the upper part of the door. From outside, now Strike could read ‘BROKEN DOOR BUT SECURITY SYSTEM IS ON (and we’re detectives)! DON’T BE NASTY ;)’ Strike snorted a laugh. “I figured you don’t need more people vandalising in our absence.”

“You’re absolutely right. Let me lock the other door just in case.”

Coats and scarves put on, the two walked back to the street, frozen, and Strike made sure the entry door was properly closed before walking with her into the street, Googling in his phone for IT shops while they walked down to The Flying Horse, in Tottenham Court Road, Strike’s local in London. It promised to be a long day, but he felt relieved to be with Robin.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: A new companion.

During breakfast, Strike and Robin talked about her resume, his career, and the type of investigations he dealt with at the agency. Apparently, Robin had, like him, dropped out of Uni, although in her case she had been months from graduating, and Strike sensed there was a dark topic there that it wasn’t time to unveil just yet. She was six years younger than Strike, and really liked mystery books and detective things, a passion Strike shared. Conversation flowed easily between them, avoiding too personal topics, although Strike did tell her about his relationship to the Bristows and what had happened to Charlie, and Robin in return informed him of how famous Lula Landry actually was, and how ‘have you been under the bridge?’ the situation was, because her suicide had been all over the news for weeks. Apparently, she’d jumped off her balcony into the street.

Robin was quite good at picking technological things and she’d brought her old Land Rover, which heavily smelled of dog because, apparently, it was her parents’ old car, which they’d given her, and they had a Labrador at home. With the big vehicle to carry the big boxes of a new desk, a computer screen, mouse, keyboard, a new desk phone because the other had shattered, and some mugs, tea and electrical kettle, it wasn’t too hard to bring everything back to the office, plus some paint. First, they brought everything to the inner office, which Strike tidied up, to make space to remove all the old wallpaper and paint the walls instead. They had a break for lunch, sandwiches on the floor, and continued for another hour, until the outer office looked like new, and they had some white paint stains.

“Looks amazing,” Strike grinned at the new outer office. It was the nicest he’d ever seen it, and they’d bonded over painting, talking about silly things and laughing, so time had flown by. He looked at Robin, filled with gratefulness. They’d have to wait for the new door to arrive, but for the time being, Strike had hammered some nails to put a thin wooden placard covering the entire squared hole left by the glass. “I don’t know how to thank you, Robin. Couldn’t have done this without you.”

“You are investigating Matthew for free, after all,” Robin smiled warmly. “God, it feels so good to get things done! This looks great.”

“And that’ll be your new desk,” said Strike. “I’m in the inner office. And now we’ve organized it all,” Strike went through the cabinets, explaining each. “White new paper, these are contracts, confidentiality agreements, folders… I’m very organized, usually, just a rough few days.”

“I’ve noticed,” Robin opened them both little bottles of Doom Bar, his preferred beer, from the mini fridge, and clinked their bottles. “To new, better, beginnings.”

“Please yes,” Strike grinned, and sipper from his beer. “You’re a very, very nice person Robin.”

“Bah, just common human decency.”

“You’d be surprised by how uncommon it actually is.”

They drank for a bit, slumped together on the small sofa in the outer office, in front of the new desk.

“Why do you have an assistant’s desk and no assistant?”

“I planned on having one but the business never really picked up enough. It’s been going about as long as you, so I figured… it’s still soon.”

“Good planning ahead,” said Robin, nodding. Strike looked at her, mesmerized that instead of seeing it as a failure she saw ‘good planning ahead’. It was like she could turn any crap around. “I can drive you to the Herberts later if you want. I love driving.”

“I’ve noticed you’re a really good driver,” said Strike, making her blush.

“Did an advanced driving course for fun, military-run.”

“Woah,” Strike looked honestly impressed. “Badass,” she blushed, grinning. “Unfortunately, I’m not going back to the Herberts tonight.”

“Oh I’m sorry, I thought you were housemates…! I’ll drive you home, I meant.”

“I’m staying here,” Strike clarified, then figured after how nice and open she had been, he ought to explain. “My fiancée and I broke up a month ago, I used to live at her place.”

“I’m sorry… did she… cheat?” Robin asked, feeling they’d become friends with the day they’d had.

“No, well, maybe, I don’t know. She just wasn’t good for me. Anyway, the Herberts are old friends, family pretty much so I could stay. But I don’t want to abuse so… I’ll stay here for now, and as soon as the agency picks up, I’ll find myself a home.”

Robin nodded slowly. It had gotten dark outside, where the sun had begun to set before three o’clock.

“You’ll get there, you’re a soldier, you’ve been through worse. This office is pretty nice anyway. And if you need a shower…” Robin shrugged. “You could come to my flat a few times a week if you want. Like I said, Matthew is never home, and I wouldn’t mind. Is not like you’re an addict or something, your situation is perfectly normal.”

“Oh I could never ask…”

“You’re not asking,” Robin smiled.

“Right, you’re volunteering,” he remembered, side smiling with amusement.

“See? You learn fast. Besides, who knows? Perhaps I’ll be in your same situation soon. My flat is my boyfriend’s, if we break up, I’m out.”

“Thanks Robin, although it shouldn’t be necessary, I’ve got my ways,” said Strike. As soon as he’d said that and before he could say nothing else, the lights suddenly went off, so they couldn’t see at all. The room temperature dropped dramatically, so much smoke left their lips as they breathed.

“Cormoran?” Robin murmured, a hint of worry in her mouth.

There was a loud sound as their door slammed open, hitting the wall, that made Robin yelp and grab into Strike’s arm with one hand, his own heart accelerated. Immediately after the loud sound, a hard breeze of wind entered the room through the door, cold, icing wind, and then the light turned back on. Strike and Robin blinked to get used to it, looking around, startled. The door, which they’d locked on arrival, was wide open, and there were big footprints of blood that began at the door and ended right in front of the sofa, facing them. The temperature had brusquely returned back to normal.

“Oh my God Cormoran,” Robin was pale in fear. “What the… oh!” she turned around and her eyes widened, her jaw dropping in a silent scream. Strike turned around immediately and saw that something had written with blood on the wall, right above their heads behind the sofa where they sat. ‘Love, -Jeff’. “The fuck!” Robin jumped to her feet, shaking hands leaving her beer on the desk. Strike was startled, but more worried about Robin at this point. “Is this some kind of sick joke?!”

“Robin, wait, listen—,”

“I’ve gotta go,” said Robin brusquely, putting on her coat and scarf. “You’ve got something weird going on in here Cormoran, you should leave, this place doesn’t give me good vibes at all…” she practically ran out of the office. Strike had an immediate got feeling and hurried after her, putting on his coat and running as fast as he could with a leg and a half.

“Robin, wait!”

But he didn’t have to run much, stopping in his tracks as he saw the landing below. Jeff Whittaker, a man he hadn’t seen in twelve years, stood, prison having made him way more decrepit than he already was. He was still wearing prison uniform, his pale arms covered in tattoos, his hair shaven prison style, his skin pale and sunken. He was unhealthily slim, in his bones, his face so sunken his cheekbones were more pronounced, and the hollow caves his eyes had become. It seemed like he had no eyeballs, a deep darkness instead, and his smile was perverse. Strike knew right away that the forty-six year old was dead, because he looked somewhat transparent, and because of Robin’s reaction. She was sobbing quietly as Whittaker wrapped a strong arm around her from behind, keeping her from moving, filling the room with ice coldness, blood pouring and dripping from a large gash in his head, forming a tiny pool beneath their feet. One of his hands, that crossed in front of her, keeping her captive in his strong arm, grabbed her arm hard, while the other grabbed her throat. She, who couldn’t see but could feel him, was shitting herself, panicking, and gasping for air, and Jeff was enjoying it.

“Robin,” said Strike softly, “you’re being held by a ghost. I’m not going to let him hurt you, but you have to try to stay calm and trust me.”

Jeff laughed, snide.

“What are you going to do then, uh?” Jeff said with a false feminine voice. “I’m already dead, and now… I’ll torment you for the rest of your life, just like you did with me. I killed his Mummy, you know?” he added into Robin’s ear. “I’m gonna kill ya now, what a pity… she’s so beautiful…”

Strike felt himself boiling in anger, and he walked forward.

“Leave her alone, Whittaker,” he snapped. “You are dead, you don’t belong here, this is the world of the living! I order you to leave!”

Jeff laughed again, and suddenly he stopped chocking Robin, but a knife appeared in his hand, and Strike’s eyes widened in fear. The blade pressed against Robin’s throat and she gasped, a drop of blood appearing in his neck.

“Cormoran! Help me!” she pleaded, not knowing what was happening, only knowing that it felt like something ice cold was grabbing her hard, making the air in her lungs feel like ice, making it impossible for her to move.

“What ya gonna do, Cormy?” Jeff said, evidently amused. The amulet hanging from Strike’s neck felt warm, and it gave Strike an idea.

“I am not going to let you hurt her,” Strike reached forward and his hand connected with his neck, cold and solid beneath his fingers. However, his hand became as hot as his amulet, and Whittaker suddenly screamed in pain, Strike’s fingers strangling him, and dropped Robin, who crumbled to her knees, before suddenly vanishing. Strike nearly fell forward, and when he looked down, the coldness leaving the room, he saw the blood was also gone, and Robin was coughing, trembling, recovering herself and sobbing. “Robin, shit…” Strike dropped to his knees, and wrapped his arms around her, helping her back to her feet.

“W-what w-was t-that?” Robin stammered, sobbing, leaning into his arms. Strike stopped to hug her properly, keeping his arms tight around her.

“I’ll tell you everything.”

Soon enough, they found themselves back on the sofa upstairs. The blood had entirely vanished, and Robin was drinking a hot cup of tea, Strike’s coat around her over her own, while Strike sat next to her pressing a wet kitchen cloth against the little, but surprisingly, very real cut on her throat. Robin had stopped crying now, and was taking deep breaths, comforted by Strike.

“Luckily, it’s superficial,” said Strike, and put the cloth back in the kitchenette before returning to sit with Robin. “I’m very sorry, Robin.”

“What d’you have to do with anything? What’s happening, Cormoran?” she asked, her voice still full of fear.

“I know this is going to sound completely mental, so I’m going to ask you to please remember I’m a healthy grown up, a veteran, and I would never joke about this, I don’t want to lie to you, and I am not trying to fool you with any shit, okay?”

“Okay…”

“My grandma, Eleonor Nancarrow, she was uh… a psychic medium,” Strike explained, and Robin frowned softly. “Now forget everything TV or films have taught you about them, and keep in mind I am very sceptic and scientific on everything in life, so this was a hard pill for me to swallow too, but she was really a medium. She could see the dead, she could feel them, touch them sometimes, hear them… they’d realize she could do that, and they’d go to her to ask for help, many not realising they were dead, or unable to go on into what we call the light, because they had unfinished business. My grandma, just like many in our family before her, helped them as much as she could. My grandpa, however, could never understand her, thought she was insane…” said Strike, trying to be completely open with her. “Eventually, he was so violent with her that she killed herself, when my Mum and my Uncle were very young.”

“Oh no…”

“Yeah… anyway, as my Mum grew up, she realized she was just like her mother, could do the same things. She had dreams too, visions that came to her without any control about what, when or why, about things that had happened or that could happen. They were messages from beyond,” Strike continued. In the time he’d made the tea for Robin, he’d already found out in his phone that Jeff Whittaker had died in prison just a week previously. “Like her mother had done, mine, her name was Leda, did everything to help them.”

“So they really do exist, mediums?” Robin asked, curious.

“I still believe most of them are total fraud, specially those in fairs… but my family descends straight from the Celt civilization, in my maternal side, from a druid I believe so… it runs in us. Dozens of my ancestors were mediums.”

“Us? So you… you’re a medium too?”

“Yes,” Strike nodded. “Me, my sister Lucy, her four year old son, our teenage brother Harry… all of us, in different degrees though, because the skills may not advance the same in everyone, specially when you repress them, so Lucy has it mostly repressed, Harry can hear some things, I have the full package. Only that instead of doing like my mother and grandmother… I couldn’t devote my life to the dead, it’d drive me insane. I could never forget my grandma ended up killing herself, and my Mum was a drug addict, I didn’t want to follow in those footsteps. So I went to the army, my uncle was a SIB until he retired, in the Royal Military Police, so I followed in his footsteps, but the dead always find me, no matter how far I go. Last year, I was medically discharged because an IED explosion blew out half my leg,” he pointed to it over his trousers. “That’s a prosthesis. And thankfully it was just that, because someone from beyond… I think my Mum… shouted in my ear that there was a bomb, so I reacted and grabbed a mate, threw us both to the back of the vehicle we were in. When the vehicle stepped on the IED, my mate and I were the only survivors.”

“Bugger…” Robin stared at him, transfixed, and for a moment, when ‘bugger’, with her accent, sounded more like ‘booger’, Strike nearly smiled, liking it. “So you’re a full time medium now?”

“Not quite. I try to live a normal life as much as I can, but like I said, they find me, I don’t get much of a choice. My dream was this, private detective,” Strike gesticulated to the office. “Generally things are quite anodyne actually, I help someone cross over now and then, but mostly I get to focus on my job, and on helping my four-year-old nephew cope with his own skills. However, a few weeks ago I began to have odd dreams, like premonitions… and you were there.”

“Me?”

“Yes. Something I couldn’t see held you, just like now, holding a knife to your throat, and you begged me to help you,” said Strike, and Robin looked stunned. “Then odd things, odder than usual, scarier than usual, began to happen. On New Year’s Eve, I was with Ilsa Herbert, she was driving us to her house after celebrating, when I saw some figures of the darkness… we call them Shadows. They’re like lost souls that belong in the dark, is a bit complicated. And they were lurking around the road. I thought they couldn’t touch me, because they never before had and I’d seen them a couple times in life, but the day you found me here, one of them had gotten inside the office, and attacked me. It had never happened before, that my life had been at risk because of what I can do. That something from beyond had been able to actually hurt me. Left me this,” Strike opened his shirt just enough to reveal a large patch of dark hair, and the bruised chest. Robin’s eyes widened.

“Oh, God…”

“I asked you to bring me to the Herberts not because they’re my best friends, not because they know everything, not because Nick’s a doctor… but because the way my Mum had taught me, the Shadows weren’t supposed to be able to get in their home. They fear the light, but what truly gets them gone is pure love, as cheesy as it is. Which is why normally, they can enter houses, buildings… but not homes, because a home becomes such with love, and the Herberts have the most love I know. But then I saw one of the Shadows trying to lurk into the garden, and I realized the Shadows don’t need in to cause pain. If they’re an amount big enough, and lurk close enough, feeding of sadness, anger, fear… they can bring sadness, anger, all those bad emotions, and spread them, causing for the home to crumble, then they can go in and collect the souls to become more powerful. When I realized they were drawn to me, and hence I was endangering the Herberts…”

“You had to come here, last night.”

“Exactly.”

“Were they Shadows now, here?”

“I didn’t see them, but they might be collaborating with the one I did see. Jeff Whittaker, he died in prison days ago, I didn’t know. He was my Mum’s boyfriend, and he’s the father of my little brother. He killed Mum twelve years ago, in three days. He was supposed to do life in prison, but I just saw in my phone that he was recently killed in prison, in a feud with another prisoner. He’s the one who was here, who grabbed you, and wanted to hurt you, just because he enjoys hurting people.”

“How do we get rid of him?”

“I’m not sure, I’d have to do some research… I don’t think there’s a light for him to go to. But in the meantime,” Strike removed his necklace, and slid it around Robin’s neck. “This was a gift from my Mum, and it’ll keep you safe. I didn’t know until just now when I found I could touch and hurt Whittaker, which made him go away… but as long as you wear this, you should be safe. Don’t ever take it off, okay? Even to shower, until I fix this, and I promise you I will fix this. This amulet has been in my family for hundreds of years, kept us safe from them… now it’ll protect you. I’ll get rid of Whittaker and the Shadows.”

“Us,” Robin corrected. “We will do it,” she repeated. Now, Strike noticed the distinction, and looked surprised.

“Us? You want to do this with me?”

“Of course, the bastard nearly slit my throat, and this is out of your control, you said it yourself there are things you didn’t even know could happen until now, which means there are no rules any more, so you need all the help you can get. And nobody tries to kill me and then doesn’t get a lesson from me,” Robin said fiercely, but Strike saw her eyes full of determination.

“But you can’t see them, hear them… it’s already terrifying enough as it is…”

“But I’m a brave person, that means I get to be afraid yet decide to keep going,” said Robin stubbornly. “And I’ve saved your life once, which means there is stuff I can do. You sure you don’t want to keep the amulet though? It’s you who’s most vulnerable.”

“My mother will protect me,” said Strike more positive than he felt. Robin eyed him cautiously. “Don’t worry, really. I’ll figure it out, I’m more worried about you, so please just take good care of that necklace, not just because it’ll keep you safe, but also… well, it’s the only thing I’ve got left from my mother.”

“Oh, Cormoran…”

“Just keep it,” Strike smiled warmly, and Robin nodded, sliding it into her blouse. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.”

“Really?”

“Yeah… it’s easier when I know what’s happening. Besides, I always thought these things were real, so…” Robin shrugged, then smiled. “Now I know.”

“I need you to keep the secret, though. My family’s faced a lot of pain, cruelty and misunderstanding, and… we’d rather no one knows, unless it’s absolutely necessary or they’re family. Would you not tell your boyfriend either?”

“Sure, it’ll be a secret,” Robin nodded, and finished her tea. “Well, I better go to bed, thanks for everything, this was okay… But I will see you tomorrow morning, there’s Bristow’s interview.”

“Good,” Strike smiled warmly, getting up. “I’ll walk you to the car, I’m still a little shaken up.”

“Are you sure you’ll be okay here alone?” asked Robin, on a second thought. “What if they hurt you again?”

“I’ll be careful, prepared,” Strike took his coat from her and put it on. “Are you good to drive?”

“Yes, I think so. Well, just call me,” Robin scribbled her number on the back of one of Strike’s cards, which he kept in a holder on her desk, and handed it to him, “if anything happens.”

“Will do. Thanks.”

Once Strike returned to the office, he lit the candle again, and this time he prepared another for the other room, and keep the door that connected them both, open with a chair. Feeling more unprotected without his necklace, but knowing he had to give it to Robin, sleep didn’t come so easy this time.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: Strike and Ellacott.

The first three weeks having Robin in his office were surprisingly easy to Strike. Just as suddenly as they’ve begun, all the strange and scary things stopped happening altogether, so they could focus on Lula Landry’s death. John Bristow was paying generously, which meant Strike was able to give Robin a bit of cash every week, in black, as a small thank you for her soon proven invaluable work, and in two weeks they’d gone as far, with Robin’s help to find out Lula Landry had in fact been murdered, and then Rochelle Onifade, a homeless friend of hers who Strike had tried to interview. Now, they were on the final days of investigation, collecting the last evidence to find the murder, Strike calculated, and Robin had already proven her worth, expertly psychoanalysing suspects, pointing out a things in the crime scene he hadn’t noticed, even going undercover impressively at a Vashti store to find out more about the victim’s last day. She kept their files and accounts up to date, administered and managed the office expertly, even faking accents to dodge calls of a lawyer who kept pressuring for Strike to pay off his loans, and Strike was happier every day for having her in the office, specially on Leda’s death anniversary, when she encouraged him to go leave flowers at his mother’s graves because she would ‘hold down the fort’.

In the meantime, their friendship got closer, and Robin learned a lot about him, but mostly from the Internet, because as much as he’d felt obliged to tell her everything about his family’s paranormal history, he was quite tight-lipped about his personal matters. Online, Robin found out Strike’s father was a famous musician, Jonny Rokeby, with whom he had no relationship, but who Strike confessed had lent him the money now his lawyer buggered them about, and that Leda Strike, who obtained her surname from her ex-husband, unrelated to Strike, was the sister of Ted Nancarrow, a decorated retired SIB, and was famous herself, but not because of being a medium, but because she was a groupie and a model, and had dated many musicians, including the famous Rick Fantoni, with whom she’d had a baby, Lucy. She also discovered Strike was also a decorated ex SIB, a former Sergeant, and famous also for dating for a decade the socialite Charlotte Campbell.

Today was the day Strike had been dreading, though. For two weeks, he’d been following Matthew Cunliffe like a shadow, going as far as to enter his office on occasion, never seen. He’d followed him some mornings for several hours when not busy with the Landry case, several evenings, entire weekends, sometimes even following Robin without her knowing, if she was with him, and man, he was a cheater. And now he had an amount of evidence too big to hide it from Robin a minute longer.

Arriving to the office that afternoon, however, full of dread, Strike was surprised to find laughter in the office. The new door was now installed, so he opened it, and was surprised to find his sister Lucy, having tea and sharing laughter with Robin. Both turned to him, surprised.

“Hi Stick! Robin and I were just catching up, got yourself a real good assistant here!” said Lucy happily.

“Luce, what are you doing here?” Strike accepted a kiss on the cheek nevertheless.

“Wyatt’s picking the boys from school, so…” she shrugged. “I decided I’d come visit my big brother, we haven’t spoken in weeks, and I was worried when Ilsa told me you’d left. Where are you staying?”

“Here,” said Strike. “It’s the safest option, until I figure out what’s going on. It wouldn’t be responsible of me to stay anywhere near children, until then. Any messages Robin?”

“Gillespie called again,” that was the lawyer, “and one new client, I scheduled the first meeting for tomorrow at ten.”

“Fantastic, thank you. Want to come inside Luce?”

Lucy followed Strike to the inner office, and while Strike unloaded his camera contents in his laptop, he turned his full attention to Lucy. He knew her too well to not see when she was hiding something and dying to tell him.

“So what’s really up?” he insisted. Lucy grinned.

“Corm… I’m pregnant. It’s Wyatt’s, obviously.”

Strike’s eyebrows shot to his hairline, and his eyes widened.

“You’re pregnant?” She beamed, nodding, touching her belly a little. She was always a little plump, and she had given birth to two boys, so Strike wasn’t sure if she was too far a long. “But Luce, you just started dating him!”

The last few months, Lucy had been surprising him a lot. She had always been a ‘perfect family, perfect life’ person. Everything, in her world, had rules, order, timing. Marriage, then children, and marriage would come on due time too. Greg had been her third boyfriend, and she had married him nearly six years ago, after two years of relationship. Then she’d had Jack, then Adam, and the marriage had crumbled. She had met Wyatt when she had moved to London from Falmouth, now nearly three years ago, when she, a book illustrator, had begun to work for a publisher that published Wyatt’s children books. They’d been best friends quickly, and only in July had that become a relationship, that had grown surprisingly fast, with him moving into her house three months after they’d begun dating. He was a good guy, gave Strike good vibes, and he was a widow whose wife had died shortly after marriage, in a car accident with their newborn daughter, so he understood a lot, and was sensitive and kind to Lucy’s drama. Still, becoming a family… seemed to big of a step.

“I know, it wasn’t planned Corm, but we’re so happy! You should’ve seen his face when I told him, he cried, laughed, came home with a bunch of baby onesies, he painted the nursery this morning, we told the boys yesterday and they’re excited too. I’m only two months pregnant so perhaps it’s too soon to tell… but I’m doing it, because I had a premonition that we had a healthy baby girl. A girl, Cormoran!” she was so excited.

“Don’t you think you’re hurrying things up a little too much with Wyatt?”

Lucy’s smile dropped, and she looked like Strike had just slapped her hard across the face. Blinking a few times, she looked incredulous at him.

“What?”

“You don’t like being alone, you jumped into a relationship as soon as your divorce was finalised, he started living with you and the boys so fast, now you’re pregnant six months later… it hasn’t even been a year since you divorced, Lucy, don’t you think you’re going a little too fast?”

“What d’you suggest I do then? Return the baby to the factory?”

Strike rolled eyes.

“Well of course not, just…” Strike puffed. “Lucy I’m just worried going so fast might get you into another difficult relationship, I know Wyatt’s different, but did we ever really think Greg would be who he is in the beginning?”

“I know, but I love Wyatt, he makes me happy, he’s already reacted to my weirdness and the boys and the baby so much better than Greg did, can you blame me for wanting to be happy?”

“I only wish you didn’t seem to need a man to be happy, Luce. That you’d spend some time alone now and then without feeling an absolute need for someone else,” said Strike.

“You’d rather I became you? Because look how well that’s going.”

She regretted it as soon as she said it, which was out of spite purely, but it was late for apologies. Strike stood up, shaking his head and looking away.

“Way to go, Luce.”

“Stick, come on I only meant—,”

“No you’re right, I got exactly what I deserved, right? ‘Cause if I’d just agreed to a child I would’ve married Tracey, lived happily ever after in a three storey house with five dogs and ten babies and even my agency would have picked up by now, I would’ve avoided years of Charlotte, who knows perhaps I wouldn’t even be in a position where my mother’s dead ex is trying to kill me!” he roared angrily, his face red with fury.

“Wait what?” Lucy stood up, startled. “Are you talking about—,”

“It doesn’t matter! Look I was trying to give a shit about your life and be a big brother and be there for you like I wasn’t all those years in the army, but if this is how welcomed that is, then I’ll happily go back to not giving a shit! NOW GO AWAY!” his shouting reverberated across the room and Lucy jumped, startled, her eyes filling with tears. She was never, and specially not after Greg, good at withstanding shouting.

Lucy rushed out of the office, and after a few moments, there was a rattle in his door and Robin came in, now waiting for him to answer.

“Come, let’s go to the pub. It’s five o’clock.”

Five o’clock was their official closing hour. Strike took a deep breath and nodded, accepting his coat from her. They walked to The Flying Horse, Strike still fuming and going over his fight with his sister while muttering insults under his breath, and Robin strolling calmly, a little behind, giving him space and time to wind down. At last he flopped on a pub bench, and Robin returned a few minutes later with a large Doom Bar and bacon rolls for him, and a glass of red wine and a bag of chips for herself. Strike tried to pull out his wallet, but Robin stopped him.

“Just inviting my one friend in London out for a drink,” she said softly, and Strike nodded, putting his wallet down. A few sips of beer and a good bite at the bacon roll was enough to calm his demeanour and make him feel a great wave of sudden affection towards Robin.

“Thanks for this, Robin. I needed it.”

“I know, you’re like a good-oiled machine, but food’s your oil. Bit out of it and you lose your shit, don’t you?” said Robin fondly, and Strike gave her a stern look, although the edge of his mouth curved upwards a little.

They didn’t speak again until they’d both finished eating and were in second round of drinks, this time paid by Strike.

“That was my little sister, Lucy. We grew up together,” Robin already knew, because she’d been talking with Lucy for an hour before he arrived, so she simply nodded. “She divorced less than a year alone, her ex, Greg, was violent with her, specially because of our little…” Robin nodded, understanding, and he continued. “And she’s now a single mother to two little boys, Jack, four, and Adam, three. Jack’s like me with this… thing. Anyway, she’s been dating this guy Wyatt, long time best friend, and they’ve been living together too, now she’s accidentally pregnant,” Strike went on, feeling that after shouting in Robin’s ear, he owed her a full explanation.

“How come that made you so angry?”

“It wasn’t the pregnancy, it was… well, Lucy’s always had a not so secret disapproval to the way I do life. My military career, my questionable dating choices, proposing to my ex… she never understood, and she’s a good person, but can be annoyingly judgemental. I was trying to show some concern for the way she’s hurrying up so much in her relationship, and she kind of insinuated I’m not a good example precisely, and I went off.”

“Well you had your reasons,” Robin commented softly. “However, I’d advice you to remember your sister, who disapproves a lot of your life for what you said, still chooses to be there and love you and support you, and that you were someone so important to her she couldn’t wait to tell you she was pregnant. Usually, in my experience with disapproval… those who disapprove us never leave us alone, and argue about things constantly and make life daily difficult. At least Lucy’s not like that, is she?”

“You’re right,” agreed Strike, nodding. “I guess she just didn’t show up in the best moment, I’ll call her tomorrow.”

“That bad with my fiancé, uh?” Robin detected. Strike looked up and didn’t see dread in her eyes, but an acceptance of defeat, like a man going to war by force.

“D’you want it in short, or nasty details included?”

Robin looked around the overcrowded pub.

“Can we go back to the office, and you show me everything?”

And so after buying two bottles of Scotch, big, because Strike felt they were going to need them, they walked back to the office and Robin sat at his desk. For a few minutes, she stared at photographs of Matthew entering a variety of brothels trying to pass unseen with sunglasses and hoodies, which only made him stand out more, and exiting, according to the photographs which had the time written on them, an hour or so later. Then, he saw her meet in discreet corners with a blonde woman who had a wedding band, all smiles and kisses, sometimes obviously on a date judging by his suit and the bouquet of flowers he’d carry, and Robin’s face began to crunch as if in physical pain as she saw them making out and disappearing into hotels for hours. There were photographs of Matthew shirtless peeking out of the hotel room too, sometimes with the blonde naked hugging him from behind, but the angle, the photographs taken from the street below, allowed to see her naked side and her breasts pressing against her back. Sometimes they’d even make out by the window, or went to Robin’s own flat, on the mornings she was at the office. The last Strike had gotten was a video, filmed pointing at a wall that seemed to be of the room adjacent to Matthew’s at the hotel, and as the sounds of loud moans, sex, her voice calling his name, and his calling for a ‘Sarah’, Robin shut the laptop down, and began to sob.

“They were at it every day I tailed, two weeks,” Strike said softly, letting her cry and pushing a box of tissues to her, her face in her hands as her body wrecked with heavy wailing. “I’m sorry, Robin. According to the information you gave me, sometimes he was there when he was supposed to be at work, at the gym, or at friend’s houses. I’ve done some investigating too… her name is Sarah Shadlock, she works at an art auction house, they both studied in Bath, same year different degrees.”

“I know her,” Robin said tearfully, her voice shattered. She grabbed a handful of tissues and blew her noise, dabbing at her eyes. When she looked at Strike, his stomach sunk, seeing her beautiful blue-grey eyes filled with pain and tears. “She’s been a close friend of his since our uni days, every time he came to Masham it was with her, I never liked her… then my girlfriends began to say Matthew had to be cheating with her, because they were so close all the time, but I never believed it. When I came to London, I knew they were still close friends but… she married early last year, we both went to her wedding, I thought… I thought she wanted him, but he wanted me… stupid me…”

“You’re not stupid,” Strike gently rubbed a tear off her cheek with his calloused thumb. “Don’t ever let a dickhead mark your value, uh?” he said full of tenderness.

“Oh, Cormoran, what am I gonna do? I have nowhere else to go, and the flat is his…!”

“I can help you pack your things, tonight. I can take you to Nick and Ilsa’s, they’re always happy to lend their guest room, and is a nice room, bathroom adjacent and all. Their daughter is great, their son barely cries at night, you’ll have plenty of peace, and well, some of my stuff is still there but I piled it in boxes neatly in a corner, so it shouldn’t bother you. And they’re really good people, my best friends in the world, and they really liked you. I’m sure they’ll be more than happy to let you stay as long as you need.”

“How am I gonna ask that of them? I don’t even have a proper job, I only have very few savings… it could take me months, even… a year, maybe? To find a job and save enough to leave their house.”

“And they won’t mind,” said Strike, completely sure. “Besides, we can fix some of that right now,” he walked to the outer office and came back with a contract and a confidentiality agreement. After scribbling in the contract for a bit, he handed it to Robin. It wasn’t the contracts he had for clients to sign hiring his services, but a contract for him to hand to any prospective employees, with a box left to be filled with the position, and the amount of time. Strike had written ‘Junior Detective & Assistant’ and then, ‘24 months’. Robin stared, so stunned she stopped crying all together. “We’ll hopefully have you upgraded to full time detective in less than a couple years, but y’know, gotta put something in the contract.”

“You… you’d hire me? Officially? Junior detective?”

“I thought that’s what you wanted?”

“Yes, more than anything!” Robin beamed, her eyes filling with happy tears. “But what about the money? You can’t afford me even below minimum wage…”

“We’ll figure it out,” Strike shrugged. “Look, truth is doing this alone was becoming overwhelming and… you’re terrific at this. The accounts are up to date, you caught on my filing system without explanations and everything is neatly organized, just your pretty face here already makes people more keen to hire us, and you’re such a great help, you do things like you were a SIB or something, faking those accents, improvising that character the other day at Vashti, that psychological knowledge and the way you get people to open up to us in our investigations… this agency needs you. So I’ll train you the best that I can, and I’ll give you promotions and raises as soon as I can, okay? With you here, the business is looking up, hopefully a new client tomorrow by what you said… perhaps this will be our year.” He handed her the pen to sign, and Robin grinned from ear to ear, signed it, signed the confidentiality agreement, and as they stood up to shake hands, she hugged him.

Strike stiffened for a second but then relaxed, her frame, even when she was a tall woman, small against his enormous size, and she wrapped his own arms around her.

“I won’t disappoint you, I promise. I’ll figure out my personal life and show up here the most professional—,”

“I know,” said Strike, rubbing her back. “Don’t worry, I’ve been there, sometimes life just sucks. But now, we’re in this together. Gets easier then.” Robin nodded against his shoulder, and Strike closed her eyes. She felt warm and comforting, and her perfume, which he’d grown used to, felt like oxygen in his lungs.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: Matthew Cuntliffe.

Turns out, Matthew wasn’t home. The flat was small and Robin hadn’t bought that many things from Masham just yet, so Strike helped her fold clothes and put them in her suitcase, while she stopped herself now and then to cry a little, quietly putting her life in all the suitcases and a few boxes, which they put in her Land Rover. They had come into the flat for the last time just to look around and make sure Robin wasn’t forgetting anything she had paid for, including books and kitchen utensils, and were about to leave, when the door opened and Matthew entered, in his suit, with a lovebite in his neck that the had tried to conceal rising his coat’s collar. He put his briefcase on the floor and straightened, looking at Strike and Robin with a light frown.

“Who’s this?” Matthew asked, eyeing Strike.

“My boss,” replied Robin tensely. The tension was such Strike could breathe it in, at this point.

“Your boss? You don’t have a job,” said Matthew. In order to work for Strike the past few weeks, Robin had told him she had taken on strolling around the city to get better acquainted with it, and he’d allowed it, as long as the flat remained clean, food made, dishes done.

“I do,” said Robin coldly.

“But I told you not to! I said, you’re to stay at the flat!”

“Well I don’t care what you say any more!” Robin argued. Strike shut up, not wanting to meddle. “I am leaving you.”

Matthew paled immediately, softening.

“What? But baby, why? I love you, we’re engaged, I want to marry you!”

Robin took off her engagement ring and put it on the entry table.

“But I don’t want to marry you. You’re a cheater, and a liar.”

“I would never cheat on you!”

“Then what’s that lovebite?! D’you think I’m blind, aside from stupid?!”

Flustering, Matthew tried to raise his collar more and walked to Robin.

“Baby, please, please, I promise it was just one night, it won’t ever happen again…”

“STOP LYING!” Robin roared, pushing him away when Matthew tried to grab her hand. “I saw you with Sarah Shadlock, every day, for weeks!” Matthew flustered more and more. “When did it start, Matthew? In Uni, like all my friends said?!” Matthew looked down, and Robin immediately knew. She let a sob out. “Oh no… it was then…”

“Robin I’ll end it, okay? Please,” he knelt, intertwining his hands pleadingly, eyes watery, “please, Robin, you’re the love of my life, I’ve been a royal tosser but I can change! Please, she means nothing to me, it’s you I want!”

“So you ruined everything for a meaningless fling? Great!” Robin sniffled. “Nearly a decade together, and you throw it all away for something that doesn’t even mean… I love you! I love you, and you’ve broken my heart, you piece of royal scum!” Robin shouted.

“Robin, please!”

“Stop begging! If I meant anything to you, you wouldn’t have spent the last three and a half years having an affair!” Strike’s eyebrows raised, surprised. Piece of shit… “The engagement is over, we are done, and I am leaving. I’ve got a friend who’ll let me stay with her for as long as I need.” Strike had already called the Herberts, and they’d even offered to come help pack, but it hadn’t been necessary.

Matthew’s demeanour suddenly changed and he stood up, putting his hands gently on Robin’s shoulders and becoming serious.

“Stop talking nonsense Robin, you need me. You can’t afford to lose me, and what are you going to do? You have nothing else, not even a degree, you’ll never make enough to even survive here, so unless you want to come back to Masham you better put that ring back on and stop being an entitled, stupid bi—,” before he could finish the word, Robin smacked him hard across the face, tears rolling down her face, so hard that the sound resonated across the room, and Matthew wobbled, his hands flying to his reddening face.

“You hit me! You bitch…!” he moved towards her but Strike put a hand against his chest.

“Think twice, mate,” he said serious, “because I’m an army veteran and boxing champion, and I will not be so kind to just smack you. And if anybody asks, we’re the only witnesses. Now move away, before I ruin your entire life.” He said gently.

“Oh you whore. You’re sleeping with him!” Strike took one step towards Matthew.

Matthew was tall and fit, but Strike was half a head taller and way broader, and he stepped so close their chests nearly touched. From his height, Strike looked down at him, menacingly, like a giant Dobermann staring down at a prey. Matthew’s throat went dry and Robin stared, surprised that even though Strike was always big, this was the first time she ever found him scary. He never used his size to make her uncomfortable.

“One more word against Robin, and I’ll put you through a level of pain that will make you beg me to kill you.”

“Are you threatening me?” Matthew spat out, trying to appear brave.

“No. I’m making a promise to hurt you severely if you don’t shut up right now and move away.”

“Leave him, he’s not worth our time,” said Robin gently, making a point to not say Strike’s name. Strike’s demeanour changed immediately with the sound of Robin’s voice. His expression relaxed, and he gently pushed Matthew aside, holding the door open gentlemanly for Robin, who stepped outside.

Robin drove away in silence, from her former flat in Islington towards Wandsworth in the opposite direction, through the dark city illuminated now by advertisement screens, cars, and street lights. She looked pale, her lip was trembling, and after a while she silently parked and, as soon as she had turned the ignition off, she began to cry in earnest. Strike watched her silently, not knowing what to do, and after a while, he pulled out a bunch of biscuits he’d grabbed from the office tin and wrapped them in napkins inside his large coat pockets, in case he got hungry. He loved biscuits. After a moment of thought, Strike tapped Robin’s shoulder gently and, when she turned to him, he shyly lifted the biscuits.

“Have a biscuit, it always makes me feel better when I’m upset,” he murmured, blushing.

A snort of laughter interrupted Robin’s crying and she looked at him with a warm smile and tilting her head sideways, finding his gesture childish and adorable, tears still falling down her cheeks. But she reached for his large hand and took a biscuit, giving it a good bite. She knew how much he liked them, how much they and a good cigarette meant for his day. She immediately felt better but she didn’t know if it was the amulet he’d given her, the company, the sugar, or the fact that Strike kept sharing what was important to him, with her.

“He doesn’t deserve your tears anyway,” Strike murmured, shyly using the back of his large finger to gently rub tears off her cheeks. The fact that he, as big as strong as he was, was always so sweet and gentle with her, warmed her heart. She always found something deeply adorable in the fact that someone, like a large horse or a tiger, or a big guy like Strike, who could deeply hurt you if wanting to, would choose to not just not hurt you, but show you affection, even in small gestures like that, which spoke miles. “Grab some more,” Strike offered her more biscuits, “we don’t have to move until you feel better. No rush.”

Robin smiled silently eating more biscuits, and a while later, they sat in silence, watching droplets of rain slide down the windscreen forming diagonal, zigzagging lines.

“Thanks for everything, Cormoran.”

“No problem. You’re a very nice person. You’ll do better than him one day, won’t be hard. London’s a big place, lots of young men worth the effort.”

“It’s okay, I can do without,” Robin squeezed his hand gently. “Those biscuits really felt good.”

“Right?” he smiled like an excited child, and she giggled softly.

“You’re very sweet sometimes, you know?”

Strike shrugged.

“Only with those who deserve it. Don’t you worry now, Robin,” Strike squeezed her hand gently. “You’ve got friends now. We won’t let you down.”

Robin smiled tearfully at him, touched, and leaned over her gear box, pressing a tender kiss against his bearded cheek that made him blush hard to his ears.

An hour later, they were laughing hard with Nick and Ilsa over curry night, Robin’s things in the guest room. Evelyn had gone off to bed, and Robin was cradling the sleepy Leo, subjected to ‘baby therapy’, that was really doing its thing. Ilsa kept refilling her large glass of expensive wine, a gift from a client, and Robin kept happily drinking, comfortable on the sofa with the baby and a blanket. She already adored Nick, Ilsa, and even the little kids.

“From now on, Robin,” Ilsa slid her business card in Robin’s jeans pocket, “you got a problem, you call your friend Ilsa, legal or not. But if Matthew bothers you again, I’ll happily sue his arse for free.”

“Thanks, Ilsa,” Robin grinned, and looked down at Leo, cupping his face with her index and thumb. “You’ve got such good parents,” she kissed his forehead soundly.

In the morning, Robin came back a little late, with Strike’s permission, because he had known she’d have a hangover, and by then they’d already been hired by a new client, a man who owned a small business and wanted to know who of his employees was stealing from the till. Before Robin went undercover, pretending to be an employee for the day to figure it out, Strike called her to watch some CCTV footage of Lula Landry’s street with him. He’d seen it a hundred times, but he hadn’t seen anything but a black, unidentifiable figure walking towards the flat but then turning and vanishing, and then it appeared again, recorded by a different camera in another side of the street, running away.

“Please, I can’t see anything any more,” Strike said, and Robin leaned to watch the videos. She began frowning a little, and replayed them in slow motion. Strike didn’t even know his laptop could replay in slow motion, and his eyes widened in surprise. He truly sucked with technologies.

“Did you see that?” asked Robin, pointing over his shoulder at the screen. “There… this figure has black gloves, and the back of the jacket shines because we know it was the new Guy Somé jacket, but this other one is different. Look, no gloves and… the jacket doesn’t shine. Not the same guy.” Strike leaned forward, his heart accelerated in excitement.

“You’re right!” he said excitedly. “Wait a moment… I know who killed Lula and Rochelle.” The realization came suddenly.

“Already?”

“Should have realized sooner! It was John Bristow.”

“The brother? But he hired you.”

“Yes, but look… I think the guy who’s wearing the Guy Somé jacket is Bristow, and this one… could it be Jonah?”

“Lula’s half brother in the army?”

“Yes,” Robin leaned closer to take a look, replaying the video.

“Could be… it’s all so dark, but he’s black, right? Would be easy to camouflage in the dark. The other hand is clearly white, so it’s definitely not Jonah. But the guy who was coming and turned around, could be. What’s your hypothesis?” Robin asked, turning to him. She was always fascinated by his brains.

“We know Lula’s adoptive father died years ago, and her mother is dying of cancer. We know she disliked the Bristows and so she was looking for her biological family, and we know she found out her father died, and her mother was some jerk who wanted nothing with her, and we know she found Jonah Agyeman, her father’s son with his wife, who’s in the army. We know she and Rochelle were celebrating something, and her friend Ciara Porter,” with whom Strike had admittedly slept after she gave him information, a model as she was, “told us Lula wanted to change her will and leave Jonah everything. We know Lula and Jonah had planned to finally meet… what if Jonah went the night she died, or tried to, but regretted it last minute?”

“He turned around… didn’t tell anyone, afraid he’d be considered a suspect and immediately lose his career.”

“Exactly. But say Rochelle was working with John Bristow, we know she was homeless and taking advantage of Lula’s good heart for her money, so what if she died because she knew a lot, John was paying her for the money, and then killed her when I told him I’d been trying to speak with her?”

Robin’s eyes widened.

“She’d tell him Lula’s plans, she’d know, Lula told her everything.”

“Exactly, so John would want to get rid of Jonah and stop the testament from being changed, because if Lula changed it, her money wouldn’t go to the dying Yvette Bristow, who has become nearly broke due to her medical expenses and a life of overspending.”

“And John needed it to go to Yvette, so he could inherit it once she died, if he got rid of Lula. Otherwise he was hardly going to inherit anything.”

“So he went to see Lula the same night, the night she died, and entered the building while the housekeeper was in the pool. He went upstairs to Lula’s apartment, and they argued, but nobody heard because when you and I went there we saw the apartments are perfectly sound proof. Lula kicks him out because she’s waiting for Jonah, and then John has an idea, and goes to the second story apartment, empty and being prepared for that rapper that was coming. It was open, with cleaning service in and out, so he sneaks in while everybody is busy, and sees the exclusive Guy Somé gear that had been left as a gift,” explained Strike.

“He puts on the gloves and the jacket, which Guy told us he’d left, and which disappeared, and takes the flowers, because you found a petal under their vase, which means they were already there, then taken, and put on top without noticing the petal. John must have used them to cover his face when he returned to Lula’s, so that when she looked through the peephole she’d think he was Jonah, not seeing his face, and let them in,” Robin realized full of excitement. Strike nodded.

“Then, she opened for him, he begins to shout at her, they’re fighting again, John presses her until they’re in the balcony...”

“And he pushes her off the railing,” Robin finished. “Tansy Bestigui’s husband had locked her in the balcony in the first story, so she sees Lula fall to her death, begins screaming, her husband could not have heard her from inside, but she probably began to slam the glass and he turned and saw her anguish, opened, afraid of being sued… and she puts on her coat and runs outside the flat screaming from help, which alerted the housekeeper.”

“By the time she begun screaming, John had left the apartment, looking for an out… then he hears her screaming, and hides in the second storey apartment again while everybody runs to the third storey to Lula’s apartment. John leaves the flowers, but keeps the jacket and gloves and runs out of the building. They’re leather gloves, if the police asks for his fingerprint to compare, it should match fingerprints all over Lula’s apartment.”

“Because leather gloves don’t protect from leaving fingerprints, you taught me that,” Robin pointed out with a smile, and Strike smirked, nodding. “We just have one problem, we need the changed testament or all of this is just a hypothesis.”

“Hmmm… how do you feel about identity theft?” by all response, Robin chuckled.

After Strike had called first John Bristow’s girlfriend and assistant to scare her into collaborating, Robin called John Bristow’s law firm pretending to be a client the girlfriend had told them about, requesting an appointment with Bristow in Reading, the two got their coats on and rushed in the Land Rover towards the Bristow’s manor in North London.

It wasn’t the first time Strike came to interview Yvette Bristow, but it was the first time he got Robin to join him, for what she was excited. The cancer-stricken Yvette was resting on the sofa, so full of meds she could hardly give straight answers, but it was good enough for their plan. While Yvette told Strike about how Charlie, then Lula were her favourites, how her lawyer brother, Mr Bestigui, John’s boss, had disliked John and tried to persuade them not to adopt Lula, and other things, Robin excused herself to go to the bathroom and went upstairs, lurking around until in a closet, she found Lula’s large purse, which Ciara had told Strike was Guy Somé’s, and had a secret hidden pocket, a fake bottom. In there, Robin found the testament, changed, and to her surprise, the brakes of a small bicycle, for the size of them. Robin photographed everything, wearing special gloves to manipulate evidence, and left it all in place before rushing back to Strike.

A glint in her eyes told Strike they had it, so he bid goodbyes and the two returned to the car.

“So?”

“Just like you thought. Look, I found something else too...” Robin handed him the camera. Strike smiled at the testament, and his smile dropped at the brakes, his brow furrowing in concentration. He’d seen those brakes before.

Suddenly, he was hit by a vision, his eyes shutting close, his breath caught in his throat. He saw a young Charlie being constantly pampered and congratulated by her adoptive parents, John relegated. He saw John take the brakes off Charlie’s bicycles, and Charlie not realize until they were cycling down the hill, screaming in panic as he approached the quarry edge…

Strike blinked awake in the car, taking a deep breath.

“What did you see?” Robin asked.

“It was John. He killed my friend Charlie.”

Strike had an old friend in the London Metropolitan Police called Eric Wardle, to whom he handed the evidence and told about the case, and Eric sent a patrol to retrieve the testament and the brakes, the last of which was, like Lula’s apartment and parts of Debby Mac’s apartment, full of John’s fingerprints, once they got a judge’s order to obtain it. With John Bristow arrested for triple murder, and Wardle crediting the agency for the press, it was only a matter of time before Yvette died, and her brother offered the agency a large sum of money as a thank you for finding out the truth. By then, it had been over a month of Robin working for Strike, and he knew just how to celebrate. He paid parts of his debt, and, while Robin was in the agency answering calls for the many people that suddenly wanted to hire them, their popularity soaring, Strike went to the Vashti shop where Robin had been pretending to be looking for a dress for Strike’s ‘wife’, her ‘sister-in-law’. Now, the beautiful, long, emerald green Cavalli dress was in a bag in his hand, as he stepped off the birdcage lift into his office. Robin was just hanging off the phone, and she grinned at him from her desk.

“It hasn’t stopped ringing all week. You’re entirely booked for the next month!”

“That’s fantastic news, but I couldn’t have done it without you,” said Strike, and placed the bag on her desk. “I hope you’ll accept this as a thank you.”

“Cormoran! I can’t believe…” Robin lifted the dress, beaming at him. “I know its price, remember? It’s too much.”

“We’ve got money now, and we’re going to have more, as it looks,” said Strike. “It looked beautiful on you, you ought to have it.”

He blushed as he said so, and Robin grinned from ear to ear, beaming, before jumping to her feet and giving him a tight hug.

“Thank you, Cormoran. You’re the best.”

He didn’t want to admit how that mere sentence had made something in his chest soar.

“So uh… Leo’s first birthday’s next week,” said Strike casually. “I know it’s Valentine’s Day, so perhaps you’ve got plans but… I was hoping you’d come to the party? I get super bored at those things.”

Even as he said it, trying to sound casual, he was blushing hard, and Robin grinned sweetly at him.

“Of course I’m going, I live with them now, remember? I’m helping decorate the house, and we’ve been seeing cake designs online for a week. It’s going to be Mario Bross themed,” Robin commented. “You bringing Ciara?”

“Ciara?”

“Porter,” Robin added, as he seemed clueless. She smiled small. “I’m not judging, but I know you slept together.”

“Oh… no, that was nothing,” did she hide a smirk when he replied? Did she seem happier to know it was nothing. “You bringing someone?”

“Oh, I have no social life outside the office, I’d have to bring you,” Robin commented, and he refrained from saying how much he’d like it if she brought him, even when he was Leo and Evelyn’s godfather and his presence was pretty much mandatory. “But I’ve good news, I’m moving out of the Herberts’ house in April!”

“Are you?”

“Ilsa has a close friend, an actor named Max, he’s got a great apartment in Earl’s Court and he’s looking for a permanent flatmate, he’s the owner of the flat so I’d just have to share daily expenses, it’s pretty affordable now the agency is going well,” said Robin excitedly. She noticed how he looked like she’d slapped him with bad news. “He just needs a couple months to come from a job out of the city and get the place ready for me.”

“An actor, uh?” he’s probably rich, handsome and will pamper her a lot, thought Strike with surprising resentfulness. “Well, good for you.” He grumbled.

Amused, Robin elbowed him lightly.

“Cormoran?”

“Hmm?”

“Max is gay, you know?”

Automatically, he turned scarlet red and fumbled with his words, trying to appear like it didn’t matter, like he wasn’t jealous, while she giggled softly.

“...it’s just— well, how can you trust straight actors, am I right? They only think of boobs and fame, it’s just better if he’s gay, not that I— obviously I have no problems with—,”

“Cormoran, relax. I know you’re just looking out for me, you’re my friend.”

“Best friend,” he corrected on impulse, before his brain could give his heart a stern look, and she looked surprised, while his ears turned hotter and redder. “I mean… yeah?”

Robin grinned at him.

“Yes. My best friend.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: Terror.

Strike was bored. It didn’t really happen a lot, but he was in his office, reading ‘Bombyx Mori’, a book their last high profile victim, a writer, had written, and that was enough to twist his insides, while Robin was tailing a politician around the parliament for a separate investigation. It had been great having her in the office, she had been very useful in the two months in the agency, and also a great company for him, a lovely company instead, one that had improved his own personal well-being while also helping the agency get a better, healthier income, so that Robin had recently been given her first salary raise, and Strike, had gotten to rent a small attic over the agency.

“Ugh, to fuck with it all,” Strike discarded the book aside, disgusted, and then his phone rang. Seeing Robin’s name, he answered it, and immediately frowned at the loud sounds of sirens in the background.

“Cormoran!” Robin sounded breathless. “You’re not going to believe…”

“I can hardly hear you, what’s the chaos?”

“Cormoran, there was an attack… I think it was terrorism…”

Strike’s heart caught in his throat and he straightened in his seat, slowly, his heart racing.

“What are you talking about?”

“I saw a car…” she said, breathless, and from the sounds of it, running. He could still hear some screams in the background, and Robin’s voice sounded harsh. “It was in Westminster, I avoided it narrowly… Cormoran, they drove at about seventy miles an hour against the multitude, pedestrians… I saw someone get out and begin stabbing people… I’m running…”

“D’you have the Land Rover?”

“No, too much traffic around here and is close to the office anyway… anyway I’ll be there in twenty or so…”

“No, no, Robin, look around, you see someone stabbing still?”

“No, police’s all over…”

“This might not be over, you don’t know if there are more cars, listen, get to the Imperial War Museum.”

“The Museum?”

“Hide there, I’ll pick you up. Terrorists shouldn’t go in there, and you can’t be run over there either,” said Strike, thinking quickly. “Where are you exactly?”

“Uh… uh…” he could hear Robin begin to be overwhelmed, her breathing fast. Sirens were loud in the background. “By the Red Lion Pub in Denmark Street, Cormoran, everybody’s running…”

“Turn left, run to King Charles Street. Avoid big avenues. Run there, and you’ll see St James’s Park in the end, the museum is just in the corner. Focus, run, and call me when you’re in the museum.”

Robin hug up, and for a few long, terrifying minutes in which Strike hurried to get to the street and begin rushing towards Robin, Strike feared the worst. Every step trying to run on his prosthetic, taking longer routes through narrow streets to avoid the overcrowded avenues, which were main focuses of terrorism at the moment, police sirens beginning to echo everywhere, felt agonizing. He only prayed he hadn’t sent Robin to her death.

At last, his phone rung, and Robin sounded, much more recovered.

“I’m at the museum. I’m staying close to the emergency exists, just in case, but there’s security here, they’re guiding people inside from the street,” Robin explained. “Getting the same idea you did. I’ve heard the police took the terrorist down. Heard shooting.”

“Okay, stay there…” Strike resolved to walking a bit slower, because he couldn’t help her if he injured himself. “I’m on my way Robin. Where exactly are you?”

“At the entry, just up the stairs, so I can see quickly if there’s incoming danger. But police’s all over, so I should be safe, I think. Are you sure you should be coming?”

“I am not letting you come back alone, just hold on tight.”

Strike hung up, painfully aware now that he’d sent her to a potential terrorist objective, because of Churchill’s War Rooms, or Her Majesty’s Treasury right next, but he truly believed she was safer there than in a pub or something like that. Unless someone disguised as a terrified tourist came in with a bomb… but if the attack was with explosives, the Parliament or the Big Ben would’ve been attacked. If they’d used a car and a knife… if that remained the MO, Robin was completely safe.

The closer he got to Robin, the more chaos he found, the more police trying to send him the other way, but he showed his Private Investigator badge, said he was working with a DI, and was allowed in. At last, covered in sweat, he pushed his way through a terrified multitude, and saw Robin, paler than he’d ever seen her, standing by the Churchill statue, chewing on her thumb nail with an arm crossed over her chest, anxiously looking on. Her eyes caught his and she immediately looked relieved and ran to him. They hugged tight, both filled with insane relief. Robin was trembling.

“You’re okay…” Strike said, squeezing her tight, rubbing her back. “You’re okay…” he repeated, more for himself than for her. “God, oh God…” he pressed his lips against Robin’s temple, breathless, and moved them a little so he’d get a good look of the main avenue while hugging Robin close.

Robin had to admit two things right there, one, she had been terrified, two, as much as she wanted to be strong independent woman, she was still a young woman who hardly knew London yet, even if the investigative work had helped her a lot with that, and being in Strike’s huge, warm embrace, with a man who was a soldier, who was used to these scary situations, who knew London like the palm of his hand, was utterly comforting.

“They’ve cut traffic coming here,” said Strike when they finally separated, holding her face to see her better, “so we’ll take the narrow streets, get away from areas were big cars could walk. I’ll take you to my attic…”

“D’you think Denmark is safe?” Robin asked. “It’s still down town…”

“It’ll have to be. No terrorist should be thinking of my little attic, that should be safe. We’ll close the office for the day, doubt any client will be coming anyway.”

“D’you think our friends…?”

“They’ll be safe. Bromley is far as fuck, and Wandsworth… well, Evelyn and Leo are with the sitter, right? Nick at the hospital, Ilsa in court… she’ll be safe. Let’s go.”

It took them half an hour to get to the office, because they restrained their urgency to walk at a normal pace, keeping special attention to anything remotely suspicious, knowing if they ran, if they let panic win, they could run straight into trouble. At last, they breathed in relief when they got to the attic. Strike was glad he’d cleaned it the day before, and looked neat and good. Robin dropped on the bed, letting her head fall back against the mattress and taking a deep breath, closing her eyes. Strike opened the window and lit himself a fag, while pouring them two glasses of whiskey and sitting then with Robin.

“D’you mind if I take my prosthesis off? Ran a bit to catch you and it got swollen…”

“Go ahead, I’ll text my parents I’m all right. They’re probably worried sick by now,” Robin sat up, pulling her phone, seeing indeed it was blowing up with calls and texts by now. “Lucy’s safe, she’s texted me too, and Nick and Ilsa…”

“Good, good,” Strike yanked off his prosthetic, too a long puff of his fag and accompanied it with a long sip of whiskey, sighing in relief. He could feel his phone buzzing and saw that he, too had a bunch of people worried about his well-being.

For a few moments they both occupied themselves letting everyone know they were okay and making sure everyone they knew was okay, finding Robin had been the only one at the scene. Then, Strike turned the TV on and they sat in tense silence watching the minute by minute in BBC News. Apparently, for what they knew so far, a terrorist had gone through Westminster Bridge driving into people at 76 miles per hour, using a grey Hyundai Tucson, and then had gotten out and began stabbing people until a cop had killed him, shooting him dead. They had already counted six dead, not counting the terrorists, and dozens of injured. Strike turned the TV off and turned to Robin, his fag now finished.

“Congratulations Ellacott, you’re lucky as fuck. How did you avoid that?”

“Well, I was in front of the Big Ben, waiting for Snubs to get out of the parliament, thinking of grabbing a sandwich actually… then I heard screams,” said Robin. “Turned and saw a car going rogue in the bridge, people running… it was less than a minute, and the car was on us, I ran out of the way, thought it was a drunk driver… But then the terrorist got out of the car, and I saw the knife, saw him stab someone… so I ran,” explained Robin. “Back towards the river, around New Scotland Yard, heard the shooting… called you as soon as I got to Derby Gate.”

Strike watched her, mesmerized, and released a deep breath, squeezing her hand.

“I’m so fucking glad you’re bloody smart and capable, Robin. You have no idea…”

“You don’t think… this has anything to do with all the odd stuff that’s been happening to you lately, right? Whittaker, the Shadows…”

“Honestly? I don’t know. But terrorism, Robin… unfortunately that’s a very real threat, happens all the time. It was only a matter of time before it struck London hard,” Strike said, and finished his whiskey. Robin had only drunk half a glass yet. “I’ll accompany you back to Wandsworth when things calm a little out there. Let’s be really careful with outdoors work now, uh? Particularly near places like Westminster. Keep our eyes wide open, learn possible safe hidings nearby before we go.”

Robin nodded, and leaned her head against his shoulder.

“We should tax this client extra for high risk case,” she half joked.

“Damn right.”

Unfortunately, it didn’t end there. Two months later, there was an attack at the Manchester Arena during an Ariana Grande concert Robin and Ilsa had been talking about going to, but that ultimately had been too much money and time, breaking their work routines, to work out, a fact they felt terribly fortunate for once the news came up the next morning, when they were each preparing to work. Twenty three people died this time, victims of Islamic extremism, and over eight hundred were wounded, most of them, minors, which made things more shocking.

Strike, who didn’t want to think of something like September 11 happening in London, threw himself back to work, although they were quieter that day, and in the following weeks, as they worked to close the Owen Quine investigation.

On the 3^rd of June, however, things went downhill. With only a bit over a month before Lucy’s baby, which had been confirmed a healthy girl, arrived into the world, and with Robin now living with Ilsa’s actor friend Max Priestwood in Earl’s Court, that Saturday Max’s boyfriend Damien, a lightning tech in film making, had invited Ilsa, Nick and Robin, and anyone else they wanted to invite, to a small concert at a pub in Borough Market that night. They invited Strike then, because it was the type of classic rock covers band they figured Strike would enjoy, and because he and Robin had just closed the Owen Quine murder investigation, and so the six went together. They got a small round table, chatting amicably and already having fun and drinks before the concert had even begun, and by the time it started the pub was packed. Apparently, the small band was well-known, and they had concerts there often.

“They’re pretty good,” Damien assured them. He was a confident man in his early thirties, with black hair and a goatee, and he’d been Max’s boyfriend since New Year’s Eve, when they’d coincided at a cast party for the BBC drama they were both in, and made out. Everyone liked him, and Max seemed genuinely happy with him, so Robin was happy to be in the comfortable company of a group where everyone liked everyone more or less, linked together through the Herberts and Strike.

When the first chords of ‘Living on a prayer’ began, the crowd went wild, and any bit of embarrassment Robin was having going to a concert with who at the end of the day was still her boss, disappeared after two beers, when the chorus echoed and they were on their feet, singing along. Even Strike seemed to have forgotten he was usually shy and contained, letting go with the song that had been written when he was a toddler, and that they all knew by heart. The band was indeed quite decent, good at putting people in their thirties to sixties in a zone of nostalgia and comfort with the tunes that had marked their teens and young adulthoods, and even childhoods.

“Oh baby Robin knows it!” Nick chuckled at Robin, hearing her sing along ‘I still haven’t found what I’m looking for’, a song that had come out three years before she was even born.

“I’ve got culture!” Robin celebrated raising her arms up, making them laugh.

The girls knew ‘Faithfully’ by heart, while Strike and Nick jammed hard to ‘Walk of life’ and Max shouted every word to ‘Don’t stop believing’, and then the 90s arrived, which had accompanied them through their late childhoods and early teens and, in Robin’s case, the first ten years of her life.

“I THOUGHT THAT I HEARD YOU LAUGHING…!” they laughed as they shouted along the chorus with the rest of the packed pub, dancing a little in their small space.

By the time ‘Don’t speak’ came up, they were nearly hoarse, and the best was yet to come, because the early 2000s had been quite good, and this band covered it all, chronologically, and Nick and Ilsa celebrated the Linkin Park song they’d danced to together the night they’d met.

“Sometimes I forget how old you all are,” Robin said jokingly.

“Oh she dirty!” Max laughed, putting an arm around her as they sang along. Strike laughed at them, and gulped his fifth beer.

Then came Adele, The Lumineers, Twenty One Pilots, Walk the Moon, Lorde, Gotye, Imagine Dragons, and Robin was the happiest she could possibly remember.

“’M not that old,” was saying Strike drunkenly as the musicians took a break, his voice hoarse, after three songs whose lyrics he hadn’t known much, the most modern ones, “m’l’tary just doesn’t h’ve good radios…”

“Sure thing,” Ilsa laughed, carefree while her children were with their Herbert grandparents and Mummy and Daddy got to let wild.

Robin, who had lived with Ilsa and Nick for a few months before moving with Max, eyed them, blushing, as Ilsa and Nick made out like teenagers, swaying with the music and -she could’ve sworn- Nick’s hand wandered under her t-shirt, hers grabbing his arse in the dark, suddenly feeling like she was looking at her parents having sex, and looking away. She was nonetheless warmed by their love and how alive their flame still was.

“They’re ssso gettin’ laid tonight…” Strike murmured drunkenly, as if guessing his thoughts while his eyes wandered back to the musicians. “YOU ROOCK!” he shouted hoarsely. Robin giggled, loving this new, carefree version of Strike. “Y’know wos the best part?” he added with a smirk into Robin’s ear.

“What?”

“They could all be dead, and I wouldn’t realize!” he was giggling know, and made Robin laugh.

A waiter ran to the musicians, and suddenly their faces paled and one of them, the leader, took the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s get serious for a moment and please listen to me attentively,” he said. “I am not joking. I repeat, I’m serious now, the pub manager has to deliver a message, please silence,” the pub hushed down and they all turned to them, frowning.

The manager got on the small stage and took the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen, for your safety, the pub will remain locked for the next hour, we’re barricading inside… please silence! I’ll explain! I’ve received a call from the police.”

“What?” Robin turned to Strike, who was scowling.

“I can hear screams,” said Strike. “Can you?”

“I can’t…”

“A van has been running over pedestrians at London Bridge just a couple minutes ago,” continued the manager. “The police suspect it could be like the Westminster attack, and we’ve been told there are people with knives in Borough Market, right outside. To prevent them from getting in, we need to ask everybody’s help to move as quietly as possible to press tables and chairs against doors, nobody gets in, nobody gets out, for an hour, when the police will update us and let us know if it’s safe to go out. We’re going to be quiet, we’re going to turn down the big lights and the blinds, make people think there’s no one here, nothing to see, so the terrorists don’t try to barge in. Please remain calm, no matter what you hear, and I promise you we all will get out alive, let’s just do what police says.”

Everyone moved in teams. Remaining as quiet as they could, voices down with tension and fear, some calling family and friends, they helped lower all the blinds, lock windows and doors, use boxes of drinks, tables and chairs to barricade, and with the remaining chairs they sat by the stage, some on the floor, keeping all lights off except for a couple small wall lights to see each other a little. Everyone was told to put their phones on silence, pretend there was no one here.

The next few minutes were terrifying. As screams began to be heard everywhere outside, Strike put an arm around Robin just like Nick was doing with Ilsa, comforting her.

“Not again…” Robin found herself murmuring, and then people began to hammer their hands against the doors, shouting to be let in, screaming for help, and she shut her eyes close. She knew they couldn’t open, or the terrorists could come in too. But she couldn’t help thinking about all the young people in Borough Market, teenagers, young adults…

“It’s going to be okay,” Strike murmured. “Police is here…” they could hear the sirens now.

Strike had an old friend from the Army who was a DI at the police, Eric Wardle. He was a tall, strong, good looking man who sometimes collaborated with them in investigations, and whose partner, DI Vanessa Ekwensi, had become one of Robin’s closest friends, and they knew the two had been very busy now London was in top levels of alert because of terrorism. Strike and Robin wondered if their friends were out there now, tackling down terrorists, helping victims.

After what seemed like forever and in reality were just a few minutes, the manager took the microphone again and all the lights turned back on.

“I have received a call from the police, and the terrorists have been shot, so danger is over,” the manager said, but everyone was too shaken to celebrate. “I have been told there are fatalities and many stab wounds, so we’re going to reopen the pub, help as many victims as we can, and let anybody, particularly teenagers, come in, have some water and rest, while they wait for parents, ambulances, etc. We’re going to do the best we can to help out. If there are any doctors in the room, we encourage them to help too, the rest of you can go home. Please stay safe, and avoid Stoney Street, Borough High Street and London Bridge. The police are evacuating people to the north side of the Thames using Metropolitan marine support units, but you can also walk, and will find police to guide you. Thank you.”

Everyone began to move.

“I have to go and help where I can,” said Nick as the group stood up. “Our car is like three streets south, you should be able to get to it and get out, and I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

“I’ll stay too, they taught us first aid in the army,” Strike nodded.

“I’m not leaving you behind, what if there are any more terrorists hidden somewhere?” said Ilsa, turning to her husband. “I can help, you just tell me what to do.”

“Same,” said Robin. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Max and I can help,” said Damien, and Max nodded.

“People will be scared or stabbed, we can put pressure in their wounds and try to comfort them?” suggested Max.

With a plan made, they went out, and it was worse than they thought. They were near Stoney Street, and people were crying, there was blood all over the floor, people here and there were tending to wounded, everyone was trying to help in the darkness and the remaining chaos, ambulances here and there. Nick hurried to a teenager, ripping a piece of his shirt to wrap it around the teenager’s bleeding arm, instructing Ilsa to go aid a young woman who was bleeding on the floor.

“This way,” Strike guided Robin to a crying young man on the floor, and taught her to put pressure on a bleeding thigh, while Strike used his jacket on an unarmed police woman whose neck was bleeding.

For an hour, they helped everyone they could, getting rid of panic and squeamishness as they went into duty mode, helping paramedics and police to calm anguished youth and bring help where needed, putting people in stretchers and ambulances, until at last, it seemed like duty was finished. They cleaned off blood best they could in a pub, and, shaken up and exhausted, the six walked to Nick and Ilsa’s car. Strike, Robin, Damien and Max had come by public transport, but Nick drove them all home before he and Ilsa returned to Wandsworth. Strike refused to be driven home and left in Earl’s Court, giving Robin a hug goodnight before taking a taxi to Denmark Street, not wanting for Nick and Ilsa to have to be out in London too much.

On Monday, when Robin and Strike opened the agency, Robin was still shaken up, quiet and crestfallen.

“I heard they’re searching the Thames for bodies,” Robin commented in a whisper during lunch drinks that day. “When will this madness end, Cormoran?”

Strike sighed, and reach out to squeeze her hand. He couldn’t tell her, because it would be deeply inappropriate, how he was more anxious about losing her than about losing his own new girlfriend, how he couldn’t conceive a world without her, how relieved he was she’d been safe, by his side, both times she’d found herself in the middle of terrorism.

“I don’t know, Robin,” he said instead. “But I know that whatever comes, you’ll have me right here.”

Robin smiled small at him. She couldn’t tell him how much that single statement helped.

Just a few days later, Finsbury Park suffered a minor terrorist attack, that prompted Strike to gift Robin a pocketknife ‘just for self defence’, but then things seemed to calm down, and within a few weeks, they were managing, at least for now, to go back to normal lives.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: New life.

On a hot day of July, Strike told himself that life was undoubtedly sweet, if you didn’t think of all the terrorism London had lived lately. For the past seven months, since Robin had come into his life, everything in it had changed drastically and for the better. Robin was handling her separation from Matthew better these days, had spent Easter holidays in Masham with her family now that the agency was positively soaring and that Strike had felt good to have her in an unlikely zone for terrorism, and when she’d returned, full of energy and renovated, she’d been key to resolve Owen Quine’s murder, a writer whose guts had appeared in a house in Talgarth Road, and who’d been killed by his editor, Elizabeth Tassel.

Their personal lives had also been soaring as much as their agency. Whenever they felt like relaxing and could stop thinking of terrorism, Robin, Ilsa and Vanessa Ekwensi would go for drinks at lunch time or on the weekends, often joined by Lucy when her work and two older children allowed it, and through Lucy and Ilsa Strike knew Robin had begun dating again that summer, but nothing too serious yet. She was also enjoying a happy life with her new gay flatmate, Max Priestwood, and his Dachshund, Wolfgang, and she seemed happier than Strike had ever known her, often found relaxing with Max and his boyfriend Damien in Earl’s Court, playing poker after dinner.

In the meantime, Strike’s private life was better than ever. He was enjoying his new friendship to Robin, who in his mind, he considered a very close friend, and the absence of paranormal activity for several months now, and which he didn’t miss at all. Strike had only encountered some sightings in the areas of London where people had recently died due to terrorist attacks, but helping them cross over hadn’t been as extenuating as other parts of his medium life.

He’d forced himself, with the exception of that one time with Ciara Porter, into sexual abstinence, and he’d only gotten back in the dating pool when he knew Robin was back too, by seeing Nina Lascelles, a cousin of a journalist he knew, who had helped with the Quine case. They’d dated for a couple weeks, but it wasn’t too serious, and now Strike had begun dating Elin Toft, the sister of one of Nick’s colleagues, which he’d met at a party at the Herberts. She wasn’t very interesting and Nick and Ilsa didn’t like her much, but the sex was great.

Now, the sun was hitting hard, and Strike closed his eyes, his eyes closed, enjoying the warmth on his face, while his nephews played tag, laughing in the garden, and he reclined in the garden chair, in his tank-top, tanning his arms and enjoying a cold beer.

“Come on now, boys!” Robin’s voice made his eyes open, and saw her smiling as she entered the garden in her pretty summer dress. “Time to go!”

“Did our sister arrive? Did she?” Jack rumped up and down, full of excitement, as he and Adam rounded Robin, who giggled at their excitement.

“She did, wanna see?” Strike noticed she was holding his phone, and she knelt to show them a photograph, which made them squeal.

“Let’s go meet sissy!” Adam pleaded. “Robin, pretty please!”

“We’ll be right there,” Robin caressed his face softly and looked up at Strike, who walked towards them. There was something about Strike wearing a tank-top, now he’d been losing weight at the gym lately, because he said it was better for his prosthesis, that made her throat become dry every time. It exposed his strong, ripped and big, heavy arms, covered in freckles from long summers at the beach, and soft, dark hair, it marked his broad chest, and a bit of dark mane came up from the collar, and from his armpits, which she found oddly attractive. He was clean-shaven now, with only stubble to cover his face. “Your sister called, you left your phone inside so I answered, I hope you don’t mind. She sent a photo, told us is time to bring the boys.”

“Let us see then,” Strike took his phone and raised his eyebrows at a blonde, red-faced, sleeping little baby. “She’s… cute?”

Robin rolled eyes and slapped his belly gently, quickly making an effort not to blush when she noticed it was way harder than she’d expected, and giggled.

“Of course she’s cute, she’s your niece! Let’s go meet her.”

Lucy had asked them, when her labour had started during the previous night, to come babysit the boys. Well, in truth she’d asked Strike, who’d panicked so obviously Robin had, when she’d found out in the morning when he’d called to tell her why he wasn’t coming to the office, volunteered to come join him. They’d been playing all morning, then Robin and Strike had joined forces to prepare lunch, and they’d been having honest fun. Now, they had been having a break, while the children continued to play, over excited with the guests, when Robin had gone inside to the bathroom, when she’d heart his phone ringing on the sofa, probably having slipped from his pocket at some point during the day.

He put his shirt back on, open on top of his tank top, and they gathered the boys, putting jackets and small shoes, before putting them in Lucy’s car, as the couple had travelled to the hospital in Wyatt’s. With the boys safely in their car seats, Robin drove them towards the city to the large hospital where Strike’s young sister had just given birth for the third time, a month after Wyatt had proposed to her during a romantic walk across the beach after Strike had agreed to babysit, too.

“I hate hospitals,” Strike grumbled as Robin drove. “Couldn’t she give birth at home? No, of course not.”

Robin chuckled, knowing his childish grumbling was only half serious.

“Nobody likes hospitals, not even Nick.”

“Yes, but mediums specially,” Strike murmured. “Full of my friends, they are. And if I accidentally make eye contact with a dead person, they all know at once. Y’know what it is like to have a hundred voices in your head asking you for help, and a bunch of dead people walking through you?”

“It’s a hot day, that way you’ll have some cold air,” Robin joked with amusement, and he rolled eyes, but muffled back a smile. “You can take my hand if it gets too much.” She said then, teasing.

“Oh shut up…”

In spite of her early teasing, once at the hospital Robin proposed a game for the boys. They had to close their arms, press their hands over their ears, and Robin and Strike would scoop them up and carry them. They weren’t allowed to open their eyes and take their hands off their ears until they arrived at their mother’s room. Once Strike realized the idea had come after Robin had put two and two and imagined if Strike could see a bunch of dead people, so could the boys, her thoughtfulness made Strike feel, not for the first time, an unexpected wave of sudden affection towards her colleague, who in the last six months had received up to four salary raises.

“Just look down and follow my feet,” Robin whispered by Strike’s ear when they walked towards the hospital. Strike did as she said, and the moment they walked into the hospital, he was infinitely grateful for her brains.

The noise was surreal. Strike could distinguish only a few voices, for the way they all overlapped, but someone was shouting at a doctor that they were right there ‘are you fucking blind?’, someone was calling for help to find her baby, unheard by everybody else, someone was looking for their parents. Strike’s chest constricted uncomfortably and he looked down at Jack in his arms, moving his hand to make sure he couldn’t hear anything, his eyes squeezed shut.

Lucy’s room, fortunately, was clear.

“She’s beautiful Mummy,” Adam kissed her mother’s cheek. Lucy, who looked exhausted but happier than Strike remembered having ever seen her, held a chubby little baby wrapped up in a violet blanket and sleeping in her arms, as she sat up in bed, with one boy in each side. Wyatt, the beaming new Dad, was perched on one side of the bed, leaning over Adam with a gentle hand on his shoulder, to kiss Lucy’s temple. He was an attractive man, with a squared jaw covered in blonde stubble, thick eyebrows, and luminous blue eyes, his hair short and soft-looking.

“Mummy makes the most beautiful babies, doesn’t she? I mean just look at you two,” said Wyatt happily, and Jack smirked at him. “You’re amazing, my love.”

“Thanks sweetie,” Lucy grinned impossibly hard, sweaty, dishevelled and tired, and kissed him over Adam.

Strike looked awkwardly from Ted and Joan, who’d come with Harry over night, and Harry, to Robin, who stood looking at the family all sweet and tender, smiling.

“So what’s her name?” Joan asked sweetly.

“Well, after much deliberation…” Lucy eyed her boyfriend, who grinned. “We’re naming her Leda Jowanet Nancarrow-Mellows.” She’d recently returned to her original Nancarrow name, because she had wanted to stop being Mrs Highland, and in the process, she had also realized that as much as she loved her father, she just wanted to be Nancarrow.

She had been born from a Nancarrow, as much as Leda had hated the surname and changed as soon as she found a good one to marry into, and raised by Nancarrows, and it just felt right. She had also changed the boy’s names to Nancarrow, once the judge had given her full custody of the boys after she, following Ilsa’s recommendation and Strike and Wyatt’s pleas, had told the police how Greg had come into his house with a knife, attempting to harm her, and if her brother hadn’t protected them, she’d be dead, and so would her children. Greg was under arrest awaiting trial, and the new documentation had arrived two weeks before, which meant their identities were all restored on time.

The name of the baby, however, stunned them all. Lucy had never been secretive with her love-hate relationship with a mother she deeply disapproved, always preferring Joan over Leda, and now, in spite of it all, Lucy had named her only daughter after both mothers, as Jowanet was Cornish for Joan. In fact, Ted’s boat was called Jowanet. Hyphenating her name also showed a new Lucy; one that wasn’t going to change her own surname for Mellows after marriage, one that was done depending on anybody, let alone a man, one that was going to restore the balance and equilibrium of gender equality, and to never let her daughter forget the origins she wanted to be proud of, for once. It also meant now Lucy and Harry would share surname, aside from bloodline, and her children would wear the same surname as most of their family, which was somewhat meaningful.

“Oh, that’s beautiful darling,” Ted grinned from ear to ear, and Joan clasped her hands over her chest, overjoyed. Wyatt’s long, thin finger caressed his new daughter’s cheek, delicately. He had a huge smile and tears in his eyes.

“Our beautiful little Leda Junior.”

Lucy’s eyes drifted from her baby to Strike, who looked stunned, and she smiled small, knowing he was thinking of whether her opinions about Leda, which they’d often fought about, had changed. The corner of his mouth twitched into what he hoped was a grateful smile, and she nodded, looking back at her daughter, which she now held in one arm, wrapping the other close around Jack and kissing the top of his head.

“You like your sister, Jackie, love?”

“I love her,” Jack declared, grinning. “When can I play with her?” Wyatt and Lucy laughed.

“Soon, Jack, as soon as she’s big enough,” promised Wyatt. “But in the meantime, she’s going to require a ton of bed time stories I was hoping you and Adam would help us with?” both boys replied filled with enthusiasm, and Strike grinned, happy they were finally happy.

Deciding to give the family some privacy, Ted, Joan, Harry, Strike and Robin walked to the cafeteria for some tea and snacks.

“Is it me,” started Harry as they sat, “or hospitals are full of dead people?”

“Definitely not just you, but remember not to lock eyes with them or you’ll never get rid of them,” said Strike.

“Oh I forgot! I’m sorry, you guys want to head out for a bit?” Ted asked, conciliatory. He hadn’t inherited his mother’s medium skills, which had vanished after his childhood.

“It’s okay Dad, we’re big guys,” said Harry with a warm smile.

“Almost forgot, your fifteenth birthday is coming up, right?” Strike commented, turning to his brother as he remembered his birthday came on the 31^st. “You gonna be in London? We could do something fun like… not pubs because you can’t drink, not a brothel because you’re under 21…” he said teasingly, and they began to laugh. “Perhaps one of those pools with balls?”

“Oh shut up!” Harry threw him a tiny envelope of sugar, with a smile in his face, as they laughed with the teasing. “I will be here though, sharing birthday month with our niece, and there is something I wanted to do.”

“Name your price,” said Strike.

“I wanted to go to one of those places where you can shoot paint guns,” said Harry. “We could go together and see what wins, youth or experience?”

“You’re so going down…”

“Does everything have to be a competition with you two?” Joan said amusedly, looking at her favourite boys.

“What’s the fun otherwise?” retorted Strike, and Robin muffled a chuckle, always heart-warmed at Strike’s relationship with his baby brother.

Robin herself had three brothers, as Strike had learned over the course of their friendship. There was Stephen, two years older than her, then Martin, a year younger than her, and finally, Jonathan, who was twenty-four next month. Robin would, on the other hand, turn twenty-seven in October, six years younger than Strike. Robin’s family also included her parents, her sister-in-law Jenny, Stephen’s wife, and a niece from them, Annabel, who was seven months old.

About three weeks later, they were back at the office. Strike was telling Robin how he had gotten paint up to Harry’s ears the day before on his birthday, while he made them tea, when Robin began to open a package she’d received. She’d been buying some things for her room, now she had a flat to stay in for the foreseeable future, and had her things sent to the office, because she was mostly there and with Max’s job, she couldn’t count on him always being at the flat to receive her packages.

“...and then I shot him right on the ars—,” Robin’s sudden movement stopped her. She had backed off her desk, where a box sat open, and was covering her mouth in horror, her eyes fixed on the box. Her horror was such she had lost her breath, and hadn’t screamed.

Frowning, Strike put the tea down and walked to the box, his eyes widening as he caught sight of a shaven leg that had been cut off someone. Wrapping an arm around Robin to guide her away, Strike looked one last time at the slender, pale leg, with toenails painted red, before closing the office behind them and guiding her upstairs to his attic. This was the last thing they needed, with the tension they’d had the last few months due to the terrorist attacks.

Robin had never been in Strike’s attic before, or anyone for that matter. She’d peeked inside sometimes if he’d fallen asleep and wasn’t answering to his phone, because she had a copy of the keys, but that was it. Now, she saw it was a small, two-room attic plus bathroom, as tidy and organized as Strike always was, with no other marks of personality other than an orange duvet on his bed and children’s drawings on a wall near his bed.

She excused herself to the bathroom, and couldn’t contain a sudden urge to throw up, while Strike phoned Wardle and walked into his tiny kitchen-dining room to make new rounds of tea, handing Robin one when she came out, pale and sweaty.

“Sorry…” she murmured.

“It’s okay,” Strike offered her a chair. “Who gave you the package?”

“Courier downstairs, when I was coming up from getting the morning newspaper,” said Robin, sipping from her tea, although her stomach felt twisted. “I was expecting a lamp, so…” she shrugged. “The courier was about as tall as you, broad, never took off his black helmet so I couldn’t see him, and had a leather jacket and black and red gloves, and blue, loose, jeans. He never spoke, just nodded when I asked him if it was for me, and then he left on a white and black lexmoto scooter.” Strike stared at her, surprised. “I told you I love vehicles in general.”

“You forgot to put excellent witness in your resume,” Strike commented, impressed, and she smiled small, always fond of his compliments. “I’ve called Wardle, he’ll be right here and handle this. Our clients are not going to like us getting legs, though…”

“Well, you explain them our issues with advertising companies then,” Robin commented darkly, and he snorted a laugh. “That leg belonged to a young girl, Cormoran…” she said, mortified.

“I know… hopefully is not murder just… a profaned grave.”

“Have you touched it? Perhaps you’ll get a vision…”

“Good idea,” Strike nodded. “Stay here, all right? Wait here.”

Robin nodded, not really looking forward to seeing that leg again, and Strike walked downstairs, putting on his plastic evidence gloves from a box that was always in the inner office. Approaching the leg, he took a deep breath and extended both hands, placing them on the leg. Instantly, he was hit by a vision. There was a young, slim, brunette girl, walking alone into a familiar building. She was reading an SMS that read ‘Door Code 3348. Strike x’, entering a dark, empty room. She was looking out the window to a large board that read ‘Whitechapel’, and then a dark figure appeared from behind and covered her face with a plastic.

“Strike!”

Strike jolted out of the vision and pulled off his gloves, throwing them to the trash as he turned to see DI Eric Wardle, tall and manly with his leather jacket, appear in the office, followed by his partner, DI Vanessa Ekwensi, a slender, black, skilled woman Strike had heard from through Robin a lot.

“Sorry,” apologized Strike. “I was getting a vision.”

“A vision?” Ekwensi frowned, and Strike felt grateful for Robin, who hadn’t revealed his secret to her friend.

“Strike’s a medium, I know it sounds bollocks,” said Wardle, “but I’ve known him since our army days, and the guy’s legit. What did you see?” he added, as they came closer to the leg.

Strike told them everything Robin had told him, and everything he had seen.

“I’ll go upstairs to fully interview Robin,” said Vanessa, moving out of the office, and Wardle, with his gloves, picked a note from under the leg.

“A harvest of limbs, of arms and of legs, of necks—”

“—that turn like swans,” interrupted Strike, who was by the kitchenette, too far to read the note, “as if inclined to gasp or pray.” Wardle turned to him, surprised. “It’s the lyrics of a Blue Öyster Cult song, ‘Mistress of the Salmon Salt’. My mother loved that song.”

“Then it’s surprising that the package wasn’t addressed to you,” Wardle pointed out, showing him the part of the box were the address was typed. Cameron Strike had been crossed and instead, they’d written Robin Ellacott. “Not by much, though.”

Once forensics came to deal with the leg, Strike and Wardle returned upstairs, and told Robin and Vanessa, who’d finished the interview, what they’d found.

“I told Vanessa,” said Robin, “I don’t know anybody who would want to kill me and who would be capable of cutting off a leg, and apparently for Strike’s vision, of murdering a teenager. And I know nothing of Blue Öyster Cult, had never heard of them before… so it seems likely the killer wanted to send this to Strike, and addressing it to me as his friend would sting more.”

“So do you know somebody who would send you a leg?” asked Wardle, turning to Strike.

“Two people,” said Strike, nodding. “Three, actually, but one of them is dead, so that leaves two. There’s Noel Brockbank, Seventh Armoured Brigade, nearly got him arrested, but I ended his career,” he scowled, an odd expression in his face. “And Donald Laing, King’s Own Royal Borderers, I got him life. They were both sadistic, cruel and brutal.”

“Noted,” Wardle scribbled it in his notepad. “Well, we’ll go, call you when we know more.”

“Thanks…”

Strike saw Vanessa hug Robin affectionately, murmuring something in her ear that made Robin smile over her shoulder, before leaving with Wardle, and once forensics left, Strike and Robin strolled to the pub. Strike got them beers and chips, knowing they were Robin’s preferred snack.

They drank the first round in silence each absorbed in their own thoughts, but with the second, Robin spoke up.

“So what’s the story with those men?”

The senior detective, who was craving a fag, meditated his answer for a moment.

“Laing and I met in the ring, boxing in the army, we had little championships. I was winning, he turned visceral with anger, so much his superior called him to the office the next day, but he got off with the excuse that his wife had recently miscarried,” explained Strike. “I still won, and a few years later, I was sent to Cyprus to investigate an alleged rape conducted, supposedly by Laing. His lawyer got me off the case because of our history, so a colleague that was dealing with a drugs case swapped cases with me, and a week later my colleague told me he was inclined to believe Laing’s story that it had been consensual sex, and she had then regretted it when her boyfriend had figured out, and reported Laing.”

“It wasn’t true, was it?” Robin frowned deeply, her voice weak for what Strike assumed was the shock of the day.

“Well, Laing managed to make everyone believe him, he’s an incredible actor, makes people think he’s things like sweet, funny, nice. He’d moved to Cyprus with his wife, a girl from his native Melrose, and as I investigated the drugs case undercover, someone told me Laing had been dealing, not just cannabis, in the island, and not just that. Apparently he was…” Strike eyed Robin and decided to skip the details. “Violent with his wife. People thought she was agoraphobic because she never left the house. I went to visit her then, and heard a baby crying. The neighbour told me there was something off with the situation, so between that and the crying baby, I considered it enough reason to break in, still skipped some army rules. Anyway, I’ll skip the details but… he’d hurt his wife, who nearly died, and their baby, who looked malnourished and sick,” Robin’s scowl got impossibly deeper. “I got Laing life, but he got out a couple years ago or so, good behaviour.”

Robin puffed, shaking her head.

“British justice at its finest.”

“Yeah…”

“And Brockbank?”

Strike tensed up, and for a moment Robin thought he wasn’t going to talk any more. She had learned, over time, that Strike had big moments of openness and then at times absolute reluctance to speak, and there were times when it was best not to push. However, after a long moment, he sighed and spoke.

“I investigated him in Germany, he’d married an army widow with a daughter, then had a son with her, a baby. The daughter was twelve, and she went to a school for children of British soldiers, so when she told a friend her father, Brockbank, had tried to cut her leg… the kid told their own parents, soldiers, who reported it. But Brittany denied everything, scared, and it didn’t help that I screwed up the arrest.”

Robin’s frown deepened.

“How so?”

“I… well, when I entered the house to arrest him, Brockbank tried to attack me and I punched him, hard, so much I knocked him down. When he hit his head against the floor, turns out he had a previous undiagnosed injury from playing rugby too hard, he got seizures, bit ones. I got away because he’d attacked first and I knew nothing of his previous injury, but his defence used it in his favour and he avoid sentencing. I think with time, Brittany’s mother might’ve left him… but I don’t know what happened to her. It’s the one I find it hardest to deal with,” Strike admitted, looking down. “Then again if she was dead… perhaps I’d see her.”

“We know it’s not Brittany, right? You saw another girl.”

“Yes, right.”

“So where do we start investigating?”

“We figure out where they are, what’s happened to them,” explained Strike. “Might take a while.”

“Right… and what about the song your mother liked? What’s the relationship?”

“No idea,” Strike shrugged. “Blue Öyster Cult was her favourite band, she had ‘Mistress of the Salmon Salt’ tattooed… in her pubis.”

“Not the Deadbeats?” asked Robin without thinking, just because she knew that was Jonny Rokeby’s band, and not getting into the tattoo placement.

“No,” Strike half smiled, shaking his head. “Old Jonny came a poor second to my mother, next to Blue Öyster Cult’s lead singer Eric Bloom, one of the very few who got away, so beautiful my mother was. I was nearly christened Eric Bloom Strike, as a matter of fact.”

Robin choked on her drink, and Strike laughed.

“God!” she chuckled.

“Harry was actually christened Henry Bloom Whittaker, but my family changed his surname to Nancarrow, and our mother liked to call him Harry, so it stuck,” said Strike.

“And you got Blue,” Robin realized. “C. B. Strike,” she had read in his documents a lot, “actually means Cormoran Blue Strike, for that band.”

“You should be a detective,” said Strike, and she grinned. “Why Venetia then?”

“Oh…” Robin blushed. “I was conceived in Venice.” Strike laughed so hard, with a belly laugh, that she laughed too. “Oh bugger off!”

“Sorry!” but he was still smiling. “I should do that, if I ever have a kid, name them after the place where I conceived them. Sofa Strike,” Robin began to laugh, “Shower Strike… London Doom Bar Bed Strike, bloody story of their life,” Strike joked around, laughing, and Robin laughed harder. He realized he really liked to make her laugh. “Are all your brother called after the places where they got conceived too?”

Robin chuckled, but shook her head.

“No, they got normal names like… the eldest, Stephen, got Michael after my father. Why were you named Cormoran?”

“Because of the Cornish Giant, obviously,” Strike gestured to his size. “Mum said giving birth to me was horrible. Poor woman, I must’ve always have been big.”

Robin tried hard not to imagine a big fat baby full of dark, curly hair, which she’d consider too absurdly cute.

“What Cornish giant?” she asked, confused, and now Strike looked surprised.

“What d’you mean? The only Cornish giant?” then he saw the confusion in her. “You’ve never heard?” Robin blushed, and shook her head. “Jesus, millennials…”

“You’re a millennial too!”

But Strike ignored her.

“It’s a folklore tale, the giant Cormoran who used to assault towns for food—,”

“I mean it sounds legit,” Robin teased, laughing. Strike snorted a laugh.

“And then the boy Jack who ends the giant, to tell you the story quickly.”

“Jack? Oh dear Lucy had it all planned!”

“I’m afraid so,” Strike chuckled, amused. He liked to have cheered her up. “Now come on, let’s get you home, I hate when you go after dark.”

“How am I not going to go after dark when most of the year we have darkness at three?”

“Well,” Strike helped her put her coat on, “at least I accompany you to the car, uh? Between the ghosts, and legs being sent… nope, you’re not staying out late. Even I’ll sneak to my attic soon.”

Once Robin was in her Land Rover en route to Earl’s Court, Strike poured himself a glass of whiskey in his attic and lied down, snuggled in bed. His phone buzzed and he saw a message from an unknown number:

‘I wanted that baby. Our baby.’

Strike knew immediately it was Charlotte. She’d left him alone for months, but he should’ve known she wouldn’t go without hurting him as deeply as she could. He didn’t answer, and received a new message, with came with a photograph of Charlotte Campbell, beautiful as ever, with Jago Ross, Viscount of Croy and former acquaintance from Oxford, a man she’d then left for him. Strike’s heart clenched painfully when he spotted a ring in her finger with a massive diamond.

‘If you leave me, I’ll go with him.’

Quickly, Strike dialled Elin Toft.

“Hi Elin, listen, fancy coming over? I’ve got Scotch and dinner.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: Struck.

When she arrived to the office that morning, Robin was surprised to find it locked. Strike was usually the first one to arrive, so she figured he must’ve fallen asleep, not for the first time. The man was a disaster with technologies, and often struggled to remember how to set his phone alarm, so she decided she’d give him half an hour before going upstairs, and began to make tea. She was hearing movement upstairs, and as she had presumed, soon she heard steps down the stairs, but they didn’t sound heavy and limping like Strike’s, just a quick, light, trotting, and the door opened. To Robin’s surprise, it was her boss’ girlfriend, Elin Toft, who appeared at the door.

“Good morning Robin,” the ex-violinist saluted with a smile, dressed in a far too sensual dress that left little to the imagination, and closing her coat to cover herself, blushing. She was a Norwegian-descent beauty.

“Morning,” Robin greeted her politely. “Fancy some tea?”

“No, I’m just leaving… I only wanted to warn you, the boss might not come here for a while.”

Robin frowned, now worried.

“Is he all right?”

“Yes, just… he called me over last night, and he was really drunk when I got here. He’s passed out now.”

“Oh…”

“Anyway, I gotta go, I’m late for work. Keep an eye on him for me, will you?”

“Sure, thanks for letting me know.”

“Bye Robin, have a good day.”

“You too.”

Robin counted ten seconds slowly, under her breath, as Elin’s steps rushed further down the stairs, and then shot off her seat, grabbed Alka Seltzer and rushed upstairs, using her spare key to open the door. She couldn’t believe her eyes. There were at least four bottles of whiskey and several cans of beer scattered, empty, across the floor, and Strike’s snores inundated the room. What the hell had happened after they’d bid farewell?

She walked inside quietly, and frowned, seeing Strike face down on his bed, sprawled, naked, with a sheet covering his arse and half a leg, his one foot spread out of the bed. She could see, impressed, how large and rippled with muscle his freckled and very sun kissed back was. Robin filled the largest glass of water she could find in the kitchenette and placed it on the small night stand with the Alka Seltzer before cautiously leaning to press her palm against his forehead. He was too warm for her liking.

“Oh, Cormoran, what’s happened?” she murmured to herself, and adjusted the sheets and the duvet to cover him completely, gently coaxing his foot into the bed. She took the trash out, and on the way out, she locked the office and put a note on the door saying ‘Closed today for the morning, come after 12pm!’. In the street, Robin went to buy veggies and everything necessary to make a good hot soup full of vitamins, and the ingredients to make one of Nick’s famous vitamin boosts, which he had taught her when she lived there.

Nick loved cooking, and he loved exercise and staying healthy too, so he was prone to creating juices that were full of vitamins and nutrients, health bombs as he called her, and she’d been honoured to learn a full of his receipts with him. She tried to make the least possible noise in Strike’s box-sized kitchen, and half an hour later, she finally emerged to a bowl of hot vegetable soup and a large glass of the purple juice she’d made, and put them on Strike’s bedside cabinet with the water and the Alka Seltzer before gently sitting on the edge of the bed and shaking Strike awake.

His dark green eyes opened, his lips in a little pout as he groaned loudly.

“Hi there,” Robin said softly.

“R’bin? Wus Eleen?” he asked drunkenly, clumsily looking around and groaning again, pressing a hand against his face and retreating entirely under his duvet.

“She had to go to work, told me you weren’t feeling well, so I came to check. Here, I made you some soup, and one of Nick’s power juices to make you feel better,” Robin used a cheerful tone to convince him. “There’s Alka Seltzer too, and myself to make you company?” she tried to bargain. She knew Strike wasn’t very much into vegetables.

His dark eyes peeked under the duvet, below a dark mane of thick curls, looking at him in a way that reminded Robin of tortoises slowly checking if it’s safe to come out of the shell. With an alike slowness, Strike crawled out of his duvet and raised his head to glance at the soup.

“’S green…” he said with a tone of disappointment, and Robin rolled eyes.

“And it will make you feel much better.”

Strike groaned, then he peeked under the duvet. For a moment, Robin feared he was thinking of returning to it, but instead, he blushed.

“Robin… I’m pretty nude…” he murmured shyly.

“I’ll wait downstairs. If you’re not back in half an hour, I’m coming back. And you better don’t throw that soup, because I’ve put plenty of garlic so I’ll smell it if you haven’t drunk it.”

But there was no need for threats, and Strike came back downstairs twenty-five minutes later, fully dressed, his breath stinking of garlic and toothpaste, which hadn’t done much to hide the stink of garlic. At least, the garlic muffled his alcohol breath. He still looked pale.

“Sorry about that Robin, but thank you, I feel much better now,” said Strike, making himself a mug of tea. “Right so I got you a little something, I remembered I had it in one of my boxes…” he dug in his pocket, and gave Robin a rape alarm. “Best one in the country. Whoever this guy is, he knows you, so nothing after dark, always carry that. The amulet only protects you of paranormal stuff, which unfortunately doesn’t include every dangerous criminal. You’ll be doing Radford.”

Radford was a wealthy entrepreneur who had hired them to place one of them undercover as a part-time worker in his office to expose suspected criminal dealings by a senior manager. Since Strike had become so high profile and recognizable after two big murder cases, Robin was the obvious choice for the job, and now Strike hoped he could convince Radford to increase Robin’s hours, so she’d be safe in a palatial office block, every day, nine to five, until they found the maniac who’d sent the leg.

“Has your mother ever been photographed naked?”

The question caught Strike so off guard, that he nearly snapped his neck turning to her.

“What?”

“It occurred to me,” she said, blushing hard, and for the first time that day, Strike really looked at her, noticing she looked exhausted, with deep bags under her eyes that make-up hadn’t managed to conceal, like she hadn’t slept at all. The observation worried him immediately, “your Mum had that tattoo that obviously not everybody could’ve seen, right? So how did Brockbank or Laing know how special that song was to her? Well, they couldn’t, unless there was public evidence of the tattoo. And I googled them both, they weren’t of your mother’s generation, so they can only have seen what the internet preserved, like photographs, and you said she modelled sometimes.”

Strike nodded slowly.

“That’s a plausible thing, yes…” Strike admitted. “Could be, smart thought Robin. Are you all right?”

“Me? I should be asking you that.”

“Fine,” Strike puffed. “Got drunk, called my girlfriend for a shag, was so drunk I don’t even know how I managed to finish her off, and now my head’s killing me. You?”

Robin sighed.

“Nightmares. Couldn’t sleep, and didn’t want a sick day.”

“I’d happily give you a sick day. With all this terrorism madness, and now receiving a leg in your name… nightmares are normal,” said Strike. “It wouldn’t be a problem to give you a day off or two to recharge.”

“Yes but I don’t want it,” Robin insisted. “Besides, I’m not sleepy. You, however…”

“I’m fine to work,” Strike grumbled. “Anyway, we have the Khan case, the leg, a few more clients… divide and conquer. I’ll investigate Brockbank and Laing, you can do Khan—,”

“But I can investigate Brockbank and Laing too!” Robin complained. “The leg was addressed to me, you paid me the best surveillance course after the Quine case, you saw my recommendation letter, I’m good! And I did a three-week self-defence course in my twenties, so I can take care of myself.”

“Look,” Strike raised a pacifying hand, “for now, just for now, focus on Radford, Khan and Leeland, they have some surveillances to do. I’ll do Mayley, Sanders, and stay at the office the whole day glued to the computer and the phone to try and find out through military acquaintances where Laing and Brockbank might be, you can’t do that, you don’t know them like I do and they won’t speak to a civilian. When we have something of theirs to go with, then you can join in.”

Robin looked at him, as if seizing his honesty, and then nodded, serious, and got up, grabbing her purse.

“Okay then, call me when you’ve got something. I’m going to try and catch up to Kahn.”

“Fantastic,” Strike nodded. “D’you have your pocket knife, the rape alarm, phone fully charged?”

“Yes, yes, yes…”

“Nothing after dark uh?”

“Okay Dad!” Robin left and Strike sighed, looking around the office. He liked it a little less when Robin wasn’t around.

Strike entered the inner office, mug of tea in hand, and lit himself a fag while trying to expel Charlotte from his mind, and opened his laptop, sitting at his desk. He wasn’t very skilled with technologies, but he was good with Google, so he opened it and, in his usual two finger style, slowly typed ‘Donald Laing’, his big, calloused fingers needing some time to find each letter. A number of results popped into view, and based on the information he had on Laing, like career, age or family, he narrowed it to a man that a few years before was living with a Lorraine MacNaughton in Corby. Writing down the details in a paper to go look for him at some point, he went back to the Google search bar, this time to type ‘Noel Brockbank’, of which there were fewer results in England. It could be a N. C. Brockbank who’d lived in Manchester not too long ago, but Strike wasn’t sure. Closing down his laptop, Strike took a long puff of his cigarette and after a moment of thought, he pulled out his phone and called an old acquaintance from the army, Lieutenant Graham Hardacre, who was still a SIB. He didn’t pick up, so Strike left a message to see whether he could help find information about Brockbank.

Next, Strike checked his watch. He had lost far too much time that morning having a pity party about Charlotte, not to mention the night, and now it was time to go take care of the other cases. Truthfully, Strike was sure being sent body parts wasn’t going to be good to their business, and he wanted to try and get some money from closing some cases before all his clients started to leave, not wanting to be associated with a man someone hated enough to chop people for.

But just as he got up, finishing his fag, to leave for tailings, a thought popped in his mind and he sat again, and this time, the name he searched in the laptop was Brittany Brockbank. He knew now she wasn’t the girl whose leg had been chopped off and sent to them, because he was sure she wasn’t the girl of his vision, but the events had made him consider what had been of her, how was she doing, and he felt an urge to know her status. There were some Instagram and Facebook accounts to that name, but neither seemed the Brittany he knew.

Giving up and deciding he better move and get some money made, Strike stood up again, finished his tea, and left to face the hot August London.

For several hours and well into the afternoon, both detectives were actively busy with their other cases, which mainly required surveillances and tailings, and as the day ran late, Robin returned straight to her flat in Earl’s Court while Strike eventually returned to the office. Releasing a deep sigh, he sat at Robin’s desk. The faint smell of her perfume in her main area of the office made his lips curve softly into a smile, which grew as he saw the small pot of ‘Crown of Thorns’ on her desk, the little red-violet flowers flourishing with Robin’s expert care and dedication.

Strike let his curiosity get the best of him for a bit. He contemplated how clean the desk was, how organized, and the little post-it notes Robin had pasted to the lower edge of her screen, her handwriting curvaceous and with long lines, yet clear. The first one said ‘Jon’s Bday Call!’ the second one, ‘1 month to Lucy’s BD – gift!’ then others like ‘Check filings are up to date’, ‘Cormoran’s biscuits’, and the last one ‘Monthly office bills!’ Strike smiled to himself, touched at all the things the woman kept in her head. Her brother and his sister’s birthdays, the later of which he’d forgotten, work stuff, his biscuits.

The first drawer was locked, and although Strike was pretty sure he had copies of every office key, he let it be and opened the second drawer, finding neatly organized pens, post-it packages, and a few other office things. And then, Strike saw the box of the ‘nutter letters’. Robin hated his use of the umbrella term, but truth was in the last few months they had been getting letters from crazy people, that Robin had insisted on filing, hoping he’d pay attention to them. Strike was about to close the drawer when, as if they had some telepathic connection, his phone buzzed with a call from Robin. Was it possible she’d known he was looking in her things?

“Everything all right, Robin?” Strike asked as he answered the call.

“Yes, I’m home. Listen, it just occurred to me, are you in the office?”

“Yes,” he was a little relieved she hadn’t known for sure he was here, at her desk no less.

“Great, get to my desk and open the second drawer, get the box with the nutter letters,” for a moment, Strike wondered whether he should make nose to pretend he had to walk to her desk, but ultimately he decided against it, and simply grabbed the box, opening it on her desk. The letters were neatly organised chronologically, which was impressive.

“I’ve got it, what am I looking at?”

“Look at the pink letters we received in June, addressed to you. There are some you should check, of people who… well…” Strike could hear Robin’s brain working overtime to try and figure out how to put things. “One girl wanted to ask you advice on how to cut off her own leg.”

“Say WHAT again?!”

“It’s a psychological problem, it’s called... not being a nutter,” she correctly anticipated him, making him laugh. “Anyway, there are people who feel they’re not in their right bodies unless they’ve got some type of physical disability, so they try to hurt themselves to make themselves disabled. Some think you cut off your own leg, so this girl asked for advice. I know it’s—,”

“Nuts? Madness? Seriously brain damaged?”

“I was going to go with hard to believe,” said Robin, and he could practically hear her roll eyes. “Just check that out, Cormoran, please. Say the girl told the wrong person, someone who was plotting to do this all along, and they did this to her, isn’t it worth checking?”

“Fine…”

“Thank you. Goodnight, Cormoran.”

“Goodnight Robin.”

Strike hung up and read half a letter before it was more than he could take, so he took a photograph of it and sent it to Wardle with a text for explanation, before tucking it back in the box and the box in the drawer.

Chapter Text

Chapter 12: Pushing through.

The day had been long and rough enough, so at home and after calling Strike, Robin put on her pyjama and sat down with a glass of wine on the sofa, next to Wolfgang, who curled, sleeping. Max was making some dinner for them, which she was insanely grateful for.

“Any news on the leg thing?” asked Max, coming and putting the plates on the coffee table.

“Thanks Max, no,” Robin sighed. “The police is on it and we have to focus on our other cases if we want to make any money to be up to date with our bills. But Cormoran was doing some research today, so hopefully that’ll give us something. How was your day?”

“Oh it was okay, tiring. Lots of action scenes,” Max was playing Aramis in the new adaptation of The Musketeers, a role for which he was letting his hair a big long and had grown a goatee and a moustache. Now, in his pyjamas, he looked like Aramis had gotten lost in a temporal travel. “So how’s it going with Alan? Are you still seeing him?”

For a few months now, Robin had tried to get back into dating, as much as her heart still hurt for Matthew, through non-serious things to try and give her heart something else to think about. Vanessa had told her about a dating app made by women for women, so that women were the first to contact if interested, and they could even block guys if they were too nagging. So far Robin had been talking with Fred, a digital designer of about her age she had seen a couple times but hadn’t found too interesting, Alan, a primary school teacher who was very funny but after a couple weeks of dates didn’t manage to make himself any more attractive than just a friend to her eyes, and Cormac, a nurse who worked crazy hours so they couldn’t see each other often, and in fact had one had drinks once when she’d left work and he’d been in-between hospital shifts, but she had found him charming and handsome and they often texted each other through the app, replying whenever their busy workloads allowed, and she had felt some connection with him.

“No, he just… he’s very nice, but I don’t feel any…”

“Spark?” Robin nodded. “Gotcha.”

“So now I’m seeing Cormac.”

“Cormac?” Max whistled in admiration. “What is it, three in three months? Way to go, girl! So how’s this Cormac, is he hot?”

Talking about boys, Robin had found out, was one of the great pros of having a male, gay flat mate. Conversation quickly turned into boys section, and as Robin relaxed, laughing with the flatmate she’d quickly befriended, she could at last, forget about the shit of her life, even if it was just for once.

When she finally went to bed, Robin looked in her phone to check if Cormac had texted her, and he indeed had.

‘Goodnight Robin! Keeping you in my thoughts tonight to cheer me during night shift. I hope you had a lovely day xoxo’

Robin smiled to herself and texted back.

‘Goodnight Cormac, bit of a shit day if I’m honest but you just cheered me up! Good luck tonight but you won’t need it xoxo’

It had been liked that with Matthew, she remembered bitterly, once, when they were in their late teens. He had been sweet, gentlemanly, attentive, charming, loving… he hadn’t minded waiting years for them to have sex, although, now that she realized angrily… he had minded. So much, in fact, he’d fucked Sarah. With angry tears threatening to spill, Robin’s mind wandered off to the other women she knew had been dramatically hurt by men. Lucy Nancarrow and… well, Leda Strike came to mind. She had been murdered by Jeff Whittaker, a man whose life had been so dark he had automatically belonged in that side from his death, and had tried to kill her just out of association with Strike. Her neck injury, now completely healed, had for a week adorned a place that still tickled whenever her thoughts wandered to Jeff Whittaker, wondering when he’d come again, somewhat both anxious and relieved by his lack of appearing back in Strike’s life.

With her phone in her hands, and absently playing with the pendant that hadn’t moved from between her clavicles since Strike had gifted it to her seven months before, Robin found herself Googling Jeff Whittaker in her phone. His Wikipedia page wasn’t too long.

Jeff Whittaker

Jeff Whittaker (b.1970) was a musician best known for his marriage to 1980s supergroupie Leda Strike, for whose murder in 2005 Whittaker received a life sentence, and died late in 2016, after fighting with another inmate. Whittaker is a grandson of diplomat Sir Randolph.

Early Life

Whittaker was raised by his grandparents. His teenage mother, Patricia Whittaker, was schizophrenic.[citation needed] Whittaker never knew who his father was.[citation needed] He was expelled from Gordonstoun School after drawing a knife on a member of staff.[citation needed] He claims that his grandfather locked him in a shed for three days following his expulsion, a charge his grandfather denies. Whittaker ran away from home and lived rough for a period during his teens. He also claims to have worked as a gravedigger.

Musical Career

Whittaker played guitar and wrote lyrics for a succession of thrash metal bands in the late 90s and early 2000s, including Restorative Art, Devilheart and Necromantic.

Personal Life

In 2000 Whittaker met Leda Strike, ex-girlfriend of Jonny Rokeby and Rick Fantoni, a supergroupie and model who was working for the record company considering signing Necromantic. Whittaker and Strike lived together in Whitechapel with Strike’s children from her previous relationships to Rokeby and Fantoni, and she and Whittaker had a son, H. B. Whittaker, in July 2002 . In 2003 Whittaker was sacked from Necromantic due to his drug abuse.[citation needed]

When Leda Whittaker was found dead in their shared Whitechapel squat in January 2005 , Whittaker was charged with her murder. Autopsy revealed she had been injected which excessive amounts of LSD, a drug her family claimed she only took in small oral doses now and then, socially, and not alone, injected and in such high amounts, let alone with her baby alone with her. The autopsy also revealed that the drug had been taken in her sleep, and that what initially seemed to be a blow to the head sustained on a fall had in fact been caused by forceful violence, and after Whittaker’s alibi couldn’t be confirmed, and her blood was found in his nails and clothing, his fingerprints in the LSD needle found with the body, it was determined that Whittaker overdosed his girlfriend in her sleep, and then he’d killed her violently, hoping it’d look like she had hurt herself while hallucinating. He received a life sentence, the fact that she was his girlfriend and mother of his child being aggravating.

Prior to his arrest, in 1985, Whittaker was arrested for the first time after attempting to murder a teacher who had given him bad grades outside his house, but released with a warning and a restraining order due to his age, in 1990 he was arrested again for vandalism, and in 1994, he spent six months in prison for attempted rape and attempted murder. In 1998 Whittaker was jailed for preventing the lawful burial of a body. Karen Abraham, with whom he had been living, was found to have died of heart failure, but Whittaker had kept her body in their shared flat for a month. In 1997 and 1999 Whittaker was jailed for dealing crack cocaine and LSD.

Robin felt chills seeing the man she had been dealing with, both her and Strike. Sleep, she realized, wouldn’t come easy this night either.

Snuggling in bed, tired but not wanting to go into a world of nightmares once more, Robin found herself going through her phone photographs trying to cheer up. She found herself smiling at a silly selfie Ilsa, Lucy and her had taken with baby Leda, and that gave her an idea. Opening Google again, she typed ‘Leda Strike naked’. Just typing it already made her feel all kinds of uneasy, specially knowing she sometimes wandered the world of the living, but when she found a photograph of the beautiful woman modelling naked, she knew she’d been right all along.

For a moment, she simply sat to marvel at her beauty, looking for any similarities between Leda and her children, all of whom she knew and liked. Her long dark hair was beautiful and wavy, as dark as Strike’s and as elegantly wavy as Lucy, Jack and Harry’s. Her dark green eyes were Strike’s only, with the same long, dark, abundant lashes, her heart-shaped face and thin lips were similar to Jack and Harry’s, her cheekbones and ears similar to Lucy’s, her general slimness and tallness very much Strike and Harry’s. Her breasts were concealed by her hair, her skin pale and clean of imperfections like Lucy and Harry’s, her fingers long and beautiful, her body with Lucy’s curves. And there, between her legs, a perfectly trimmed triangle of dark hair above which she could read, without zooming in, ‘Mistress of the Salmon Salt’ in cursive.

And then for an odd moment, Robin found herself wondering how Strike looked naked, which made her blush. The first time she’d met her boss, she hadn’t thought of him as attractive. He looked too grumpy and gruff, had been a little fat, his surly expression permanent, his hair so much like pubic hair, but not the neat one his mother had had. Would his actual pubic hair be—? No, she would not let her mind go there. But over the past few months, as she grew closer and fonder of him, and began to see him as her best friend, he had begun to become more and more attractive. For starters, his hair, she knew now from one of the times they’d hugged, was surprisingly soft and spongy. She had seen that up close, his eyes were mesmerizing, so dark, so green, and with so many eyelashes, something that would be almost feminine if the rest of him wasn’t so masculine. His eyebrows, for example, were so thick and long, full of unruly dark curls, and she knew now that Strike’s eyes had lines painted around them whenever he smiled. His nose bridge was covered on freckles from long hours under the sunlight, and his beard was actually quite neatly trimmed and clean. He had good teeth too, pristine white and, not with the artificial perfection of someone who’d worn brackets, but slightly imperfect, natural in a way she preferred.

Robin thought Strike’s thick neck, his general bigness, broadness and tallness, and the sun kissed skin were all quite different from the pale, Barbie like Matthew, and now that she stopped to think about it, she quite liked it. She liked his hugs too, the feel of his chest and belly against her both when he was still carrying a bit too much weight and was like hugging a soft teddy bear, and now when he’d lost weight and gotten back in shape, and it was like hugging the strong soldier he was. And his arms… they were big, heavy, hairy, with those big hands… and his back, which she’d seen that morning full of freckles and muscle, with just a bit of hair…

“Ah…”

When Robin heard herself, she noticed all at once that she’d closed her eyes, her nipples were hard, she had moaned, and her hand was tantalising over her wetness under her trousers. The realization horrified her for a split second, until she realized she was so horny all of the sudden, she had to finish what she had started.

Shit.

She really found Strike attractive… sexy even.

The next day, thankfully for Robin’s shame and embarrassment, she and Strike didn’t cross paths at all. She had tailing to do, so she didn’t go to the office in the morning, instead taking care of closing two cases that involved a man they nicknamed Mad Dad his wife wanted them to tail for a few days and a woman they nicknamed Spearmint Rhino. When she went to the office to close the tabs, update the filings, and email the respective clients to give them an appointment the next day to provide the results of the cases and get final payments, Strike was still gone in another case, so she found herself alone in the office, checking Strike’s mails, which was part of her daily duties.

His ‘News of the World’ acquaintance Dominic Culpepper was mad they weren’t giving information about the severed leg, but other than that, there was nothing. It was past five, so she could head home, but she decided to stay for a bit longer, wanting to see Strike even if it was just to say hi. She was no longer mortified, forgetting the very reason why she was supposed to be mortified to begin with. She had had a rough night of sleep, once more. So Robin began researching online for a birthday present for Lucy, since her fiancé, Wyatt, had organized a small dinner gathering behind her back as a surprise, and Robin was one of the invited guests.

Robin was just trying to decide which wine seemed more like Lucy’s and whether she’d been drinking wine considering she was breastfeeding, when Strike came in and stopped, surprised to see her. For a moment they just stared at each other. Robin looked about as tired as the day before, and Strike, about as knackered. Robin wondered if he’d been drinking again. She still didn’t know what had made him get so drink two nights before.

“Hi,” said Strike, taking off his coat, “why are you still here? It’s getting dark outside.”

“I closed Mad Dad and Spearmint Rhino’s cases so I had to come and update filings, make appointments for final payments, things like that.”

“That’s very good news… we’ve lost Khan and Redford. They don’t like we got a leg.”

“Oh, bugger! Why are you smirking?” Strike couldn’t help himself when she said that, and her latent Yorkshire accent came up.

“Nothing,” said Strike. “At least you had a good day, uh?”

“You could say. Cormoran, are you all right?” he’d attempted to walk to pour himself tea, and he’d limped so heavily he’d gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white as he muffled a groan, as he’d nearly lost balance. When he was too much in pain to answer, Robin got up, worried. “Did you hurt your leg?” she saw his face now, clenched in pain, white, and she gently took his arm and put it over her shoulder. “Lean on me, can you hop? We’ll get you sat down.”

Hopping slowly and leaning heavily on Robin, Strike made it to the sofa and released a sigh as the weight left his prosthesis.

“It rained, the pavement was a little wet… I slid and fell, stupid clumsy me, just outside the office…” he murmured, leaning back on the sofa.

“You’re not stupid, you just have a prosthesis. Let me check?”

“Hell no,” there were some red lines Strike wasn’t willing to close. Robin would not be looking at him with horror and pity, Robin was his employee, and he’d embarrassed himself enough in front of her lately.

“Cormoran,” she said sternly, moving her desk chair to sit directly in front of Strike, “there is pride and then there’s stupidity. You can’t see down here as well as I can, it’s only logical I, your friend, carefully take off your prosthesis and look to make sure you haven’t hurt yourself majorly. Someone sent us a leg and a ghost tried to kill me and might try to kill you, do you really want to end up wheelchair-bound now?”

Strike glared at her but puffing, admitting she was right with a nod.

“Fine just… be gentle.”

“I will be,” carefully, Robin pulled his right leg sleeve up. “Did you hurt somewhere else when you fell? Your wrists?”

“No, I didn’t actually… I didn’t hit the ground, grabbed onto the door… but the leg twisted badly, that’s what happened.”

“Right, bloody rain…” Robin had pulled the trouser sleeve up enough to see where the prosthesis ended, and she gently took off the prosthesis. Immediately, Strike released what sounded like a groan of relief, and his head fell back. Robin carefully put the prosthesis aside and gently put a hand under his knee to examine the area. “It looks really swollen and red, Cormoran… the socket cut your leg a little, but it doesn’t look too bad. Could bandage it up if you want, to protect the cut from brushing against the socket tomorrow?”

“That’d be good, thanks Robin… also could you… if you don’t mind,” said Strike. “Upstairs, in my bathroom, there’s a cabinet with a cream that’s anti-inflammatory and pain relief, if you could bring it…”

“Of course, I’ll be right back. And I’ll make your tea.”

When Robin came back she had everything, the cream, healing pomade for cuts, gauze and bandaging. Strike eyed her, surprised.

“Since when is our first aid kit so well stocked?”

“Since I work here,” Robin smirked, and Strike nodded with a small smile.

“Of course. I can do that, you don’t have to…”

“Let me,” said Robin. “You saved my life, least I can do is leave your leg looking nice and smooth.”

For a few minutes she worked in silence, first gently massaging the anti-inflammatory cream with her fingers, careful not to get it into the still bleeding cut, with an expertise that made Strike close his eyes and some obscene noises, followed by apologies, leave his lips. Robin smiled softly, and dug her fingers a bit deeper, which made him emit a nearly orgasmic sound he was done caring about, his leg thrown back. Next, Robin applied healing cream on the cut, and put a gauze and a small bandage, making a cushion of cotton over the gauze to shield the cut from the prosthesis next time.

Then, Robin put his leg on a cushion on her chair, washed her hands, put the kettle in the stove, and looked into their freezer for an ice bag, which she smashed to get the ice to be malleable little bits, and then wrapped around Strike’s stump. She then filled two mugs of tea and handed Strike one as deeply creosote as he liked it. When he took it, he looked at her like she was some type of angel.

“You’re bloody marvel.”

“Oh, I’ve upgraded from very nice person,” Robin joked teasingly, and he chuckled, taking a sip of his tea and relaxing. “Feeling better?”

“Feeling amazing now. You’ve got skilled hands, you could’ve been a pianist.”

“Then I wouldn’t be here to annoy you,” said Robin amusedly, sitting on the sofa with him.

“As if you could ever be annoying.”

Touched, Robin gave him a heart-warming smile.

“So how’s the investigation going? Any news on Laing and Brockbank? What about the letter?” Strike told Robin everything he’d found out the day before, and that Wardle was considering the letter in his investigation. “So a trip North is incoming?”

“Sure, at some point,” Strike nodded, and eyed his leg. “Gotta get this bastard under control first. I bloody hate it, Robin. Bloody motherf…”

“Hey, at least you’re alive.”

“That doesn’t feel like the relief you think every day… cruelty or mercy,” Strike nodded slowly, and outside, it got darker, a rain beginning to break. “After the explosion that ripped off half my leg, there was a boy, the one who’d put the bomb. He came to me with a gun, pointed it at my face. Then he saw my leg… and smiled. And left. Cruelty or mercy?”

Chapter Text

Robin pursed her lips in thought.

“Maybe a bit of both.”

“Maybe,” Strike nodded. “Now I’m left constantly feeling powerless and clumsy, chronic pain. And now turns out there are people who think I’d do this to myself… and who want to do it to themselves. Out of their royal minds. Someone followed me today,” he said suddenly, and Robin frowned.

“Really?”

“Big guy, wide… could be Laing, could be Brockbank… pretty sure wore disguise. I’d have followed them but…” he pointed to his leg. “So please, please,” he eyed her pleadingly, “don’t go around alone after dark. Someone might be following you too. I’ll call you a taxi tonight.”

“We can hardly afford…”

“I’m not cutting budget on your safety, Robin.”

“At least let me pay it.”

“I already pay you little enough, this goes from the agency. Any day you’re out late, you get a taxi, the agency can and will pay, always.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a little paranoid? We don’t even know if this was murder or just someone who took a body from a hospital. Could be just a freak who likes chopping dead people to scare us.”

“Murderer or not, nothing will be enough caution,” said Strike. “Don’t you fucking realize, Robin?” he added, his tone a little harsh, and she frowned. “If anything happens to you, it’s on me. You are a civilian, I am the veteran, and I am disabled,” his eyes filled with indescribable pain as he used that word she’d never before heard from his lips, and she frowned deeper, unable to take her eyes off his, “I can’t help you. In March, if you’d been in serious danger… you would’ve been off to fend for yourself, and you know when I would’ve realized you’re dead? When I saw you, and I would’ve thought you were alive, I would’ve gone off to hug you… and I would’ve fallen on my face. That’s how I’d know this job I got you into got you killed, one way or another, and don’t think for a bloody second I could just move on with my life after something like that. You think your life is your business alone… well, I get it, feminism these days, men aren’t supposed to be hovering over women for nothing, you guys are supposed to be badass, independent and fucking invincible…” he looked away, his eyes suddenly tearful. “Well at least do it for me. Just until we catch this bastard, I’m only asking you to take care, for your friend. If I matter anything to you.”

“All right, all right,” Robin sighed, nodding. “I’ll be extremely careful, I promise you. You do matter to me.” He nodded, clenching his jaw. “Is this why you got so drunk the other night?” she asked slowly.

“Not really,” Strike took a deep breath and after a moment of consideration, he continued. “Did you know I was engaged?”

“Only from Nick and Ilsa,” Robin admitted. “They mentioned a Charlotte Campbell.”

“Yes,” Strike nodded. “Did they tell you why I’m not engaged any more?”

“No.”

“Charlotte is… she’s the fucking love of my life. Most beautiful bloody gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen,” said Strike, taking a long sip of his tea. “Can you get me a stronger drink, Robin?”

“Sure,” Robin went to his attic and found brandy, which she turned with. With a victorious sound, Strike poured a generous amount into his tea as she resumed her own tea in her seat next to him, and he took a long sip before continuing.

“I met Charlotte in Oxford. I’d gotten a scholarship, you see? Not like my family could afford to send me to Oxford. But I had incredible grades, little nerd I was… anyway, Charlotte was dating Jago Ross, who then was to inherit the title of Viscount of Croy. Thirteenth or something. Bloody snob. Anyway, she was the most stunning woman in Oxford, everyone was after her, and we were nineteen, at some Christmas party before the holidays… I’d been in Oxford for just two months, and my friends dared me to get Charlotte to kiss me. She came into the room, she’d fought with Ross, and I walked up to her… she noticed I’d stained my shirt accidentally, and like in the bloody Hollywood movies, took me to the bathroom to get it off and cleaned. We had sex right there.”

“Wow, you’re good at this flirting thing then,” Robin said lightly, and he snorted a laugh.

“That’s what I thought. But years later, at some point during turbulent thirteen years of our on and off relationship, she told me she just wanted to make Ross jealous, so she would’ve fucked the first guy she saw, which turned out to be me. Then she supposedly actually fancied me…” he shrugged, and refilled his now empty mug with just brandy, taking another sip. “Can’t trust she ever loved me, or anyone but herself for that matter, but I loved her with my whole heart. Even when I dated other women, when we were off… no one compared to her. Everyone else just seemed like the second best option… it didn’t matter if no one in my life liked Charlotte. It didn’t matter she was insane, crazy, a complete liar incapable of telling the truth even about the simplest things in life, an expert manipulator… every time I seemed to distance myself a little, she’d threaten with suicide and stuff. Twice I got her in a hospital. All for nothing. She made me feel like if I left her, she’d kill herself… like her life was my responsibility. Like I was a bad guy, if I didn’t put up with her lying and manipulating and controlling… and she always wanted my attention. She didn’t want me to work, like Matthew didn’t want you to work. In her ideal world, I’d never leave her side. Not to work, not to see my friends, not to see my family… thirteen years with her and once it was finally over, I realized just how much I’d grown apart from my loved ones. Nick and Ilsa had forbidden her in their house near their kids, so I hadn’t visited in so long… and Lucy bit of the same thing. It’s what I get for being so bloody stupid.”

“You’re not stupid,” said Robin again. “D’you know what she did to you fits inside domestic violence?”

“Does it?” Strike looked at her like she’d slapped him. “But that’s not for guys, issit? Look at me, I’m huge… nobody would ever believe I suffered domestic violence. Lucy did, did she tell you?” Robin nodded. “Bloody Greg. Nearly killed her. No, I was just… oblivious, pathetic… I don’t want a pity party, is not that, I’m just trying to be realistic, stick to facts, truth… that’s my thing.”

“Then trust me, as someone who was months shy from becoming a psychology graduate and who actually studied it, when I tell you it’s truths and fact that you, my friend, are a victim of domestic violence.”

“How so?”

“She was your formal partner. You guys got engaged. You lived together. And she was controlling, she tried to isolate you from your people, she was coercive, she emotionally manipulated you,” he nodded slowly, “did she also stalk you?”

Strike thought of her texts, which hadn’t really stopped in months, trying to get a reaction from him.

“When we’ve been broken up… even now… she’s always texting me to get an emotional reaction. Like she used to send me photos of herself cutting herself…”

“All the stuff you’re telling me is psychological, mental and emotional abuse, Cormoran,” said Robin softly. “One doesn’t have to literally stab you to be domestic abuse. Stabbing your heart figuratively also counts. And if she forced you to have sex, or financially manipulated you…”

“She didn’t… well… it’s true we lived in her flat. It’s true she used to say I didn’t need to work, ‘cause she’d buy me whatever I needed. Didn’t like me having my own money unless it was to buy her expensive shit.”

“Sounds totally like a domestic abuser,” said Robin. “It happens to guys too, Cormoran. You know what the problem is? This whole culture of masculinisation. Men can’t cry, men can’t complain, men can’t show emotion… all of that bullshit. Makes men feel like if a woman won’t stop shouting at them, playing with their feelings and emotions, and they don’t just take it without complain, then they’re weak and less manly. And y’know what happens then? Suicide. You’d be surprised by the amount of men, as tough as you with the military careers or police and all, that kill themselves because they’re suffering so much, and they’ve been taught men don’t have feelings, men don’t talk feelings and men don’t complain. Burying it all in isn’t courage, isn’t bravery, isn’t being tough, isn’t being manly. It’s just plain stupidity. Y’know what’s brave? Having the guts to talk about the hard things, trust on someone again after you’ve been played with so badly… just hope they won’t hurt you too. And admitting you were screwed over.”

“That makes sense,” Strike nodded slowly. “I know people in the army… happy people, I thought. Suddenly killed themselves.”

“Happens a lot, and still… men keep being taught wrong, because some people are more worried that a tutu will make their boys gay than they are about raising mentally healthy and strong men. I’ll have you know women dig sensitive men, like Nick or Wyatt. Women think that’s sweet… at least the type of women you should care about.”

“D’you?” Strike asked without thinking. Robin smiled softly.

“I do. Specially after being abused myself… Matthew sounds a lot like your Charlotte.”

“Dicks…” Strike sighed.

“So why did the engagement end then?”

“Oh, right, I was gonna tell you… I was ready to forgive everything, but then… last year, Leo had just been born and we’d just seen him, and I was bloody excited for her, so happy, because… well, I’ve never liked kids really, I wasn’t good with kids even when I was a kid,” he was slightly tipsy now. “I got a lot of what now they call bullying, being a medium didn’t help. Seeing people my friends couldn’t see, thought I was making it all up for attention… anyway, I get uncomfortable with kids, and I never wanted to have one. Charlotte absolutely hated children, so we agreed, no kids. We were already engaged. But I still got what I guess must’ve been surprisingly excited for Ilsa because well… she’s been my friend since we were babies. Her Mum and my Aunt were best friends since school, still are. And she… she’s suffered a lot trying to have kids.”

“She told me about the miscarriages.”

“Yes… she was fucking broken then. And they’d wanted to give Evelyn a little sibling, but they were scared shitless about another miscarriage, so Ilsa was on birth control actually, and Leo was… like magic, complete surprise, they couldn’t believe it. And it was going so well, they told us, he was so healthy… I was fucking overjoyed, ‘cause I knew their suffering, their fight… and they’re both my best friends… I mean aside from you,” Robin blushed. “Charlotte got jealous, like she always did whenever attention didn’t revolve around her for a bit,” Strike was surprised by how comfortable he felt talking with Robin about these things, he never talked about so easily with anyone else before her. “And she blurted she was pregnant.”

“She did what?!”

“Yeah… I didn’t understand, because I was so careful. Condoms, pills… we did it all. She said they weren’t 100% effective and so… for months, she kept the lie with lies. She never gave me any evidence, and her body never changed in the slightest. She didn’t want to go to the doctor nothing. And then she faked a miscarriage, got me to drop off work for weeks to be by her side. It was like in the movies, she cried all day for weeks, never leaving her bed, talking suicide… got me worried sick. And refused to speak with the therapists I brought over. I knew how depressed Ilsa had been, because when she miscarried, both times, it was advanced, you know? So it affected her more, holding the ball of blood her child was, in some public toilet… fucking horrifying. And I feared Charlotte would be the same. Nick and Ilsa were so sympathetic, but I could see they didn’t fully buy the act. And then in November, I asked them to tell me exactly how their miscarriages were, the details… they valued it, was like therapy, but then I realized Charlotte had done the Hollywood version. Her body would’ve done it differently, she would’ve needed medical attention, her hormones would’ve done things, her body and breasts would’ve felt differently, she would’ve had some bleeding… I mean she was supposedly like halfway through the pregnancy, right? So I confronted Charlotte… and she admitted it was all a lie. I left her, can’t fucking forgive that.”

“Of course… that’s horrible, Cormoran.”

“Y’know what’s worst?” Robin shook her head. She couldn’t imagine something worse, as good of an imagination as she had. “I went through eight weeks of therapy when she told me she was pregnant. I wanted to be happy, to be a father, to be excited… to change and want fatherhood. Took two hours of therapy every day for weeks, talking about very difficult personal stuff, then giving myself talks, talking with friends, reading a shit ton of books… but eventually I was so fucking excited and elated. I was looking at mini Shelock Holmes hats, hoping to make this a family business, daydreaming of teaching our kid Latin, detecting, boxing…” he sniffled, rubbing his nose impatiently. “She faked the miscarriage just when I was the most excited, and it bloody shattered my heart. It was all a lie but… to me it was real. To me, I really felt like I was going to be a Daddy, and I wanted to be the fucking best, because I never had a father myself, I had my Uncle Ted but… not the exact same. I wanted to imitate Ted and Nick and be the fucking best, I was training babysitting my nephews, Evelyn, Leo… I wanted my child,” he sobbed out, and Robin, who hadn’t expected him to actually cry, wrapped an arm over his shoulders and pressed a soft kiss against his temple, her heart breaking for him. “H-how can someone…” he took a deep breath. “Tell you they love you more than… fucking everything… and then lie to you like that? Fake something like that… on the face of your friends who’ve actually gone through that, fucking disrespect, and then break your heart… and I can’t fucking go back. I can’t stop wanting a kid now… and I’m never gonna have one. God knows, maybe… maybe I’m even infertile, cause the explosion…” he took a few deep breaths more, and Robin squeezed his shoulder gently, leaning her head on his shoulder.

“Did she come around the other night?” she asked softly.

“No… she texted me. She’s been doing it a lot actually, to get me to come back, I never reply. But then she sent me one saying… she wanted our baby, acting as if she hadn’t admitted it was never real. And then she sent a photo… she’s gotten engaged to Jago Ross now. Told me if I leave her, she’ll go with him. Doesn’t fucking realize I’ve already left… and dunno,” Strike shrugged, looking crestfallen, slumped there, unable to move. “I didn’t want to think… so I called Elin. I don’t even like her, I’m such a brat, playing her like this… using her for fucking sex. But she and a few drinks, and I can forget about Charlotte for a bit, you know? Am I a terrible man for doing that, Robin? I am, right?”

“You’re not… you’re just deeply hurt,” said Robin. “Y’know what’s the difference between you and a bad guy?” Strike shook his head. “A bad guy doesn’t even stop to consider if he’s doing the right thing. A bad guy doesn’t feel regret or remorse, just celebrates getting laid. You’re not like that. You don’t want to treat any woman wrong, specially not with how the women around you have been hurt my men. For what I’ve heard…” and her eyes were glassy now, with a ravenous rage for Charlotte. “You’re a good man, who wanted to be a good husband and a good father, and you got screwed over by the most horrible people. And none of that is your fault. And I’m glad you trusted me to tell me, because now if she comes around, or calls, or whatever… I’ll kick her the hell out. You remember how you protected me from Matthew?” he nodded. “Let me do something like that. Don’t be so bloody proud all the time…” she wrapped her arms around him, leaning against his shoulder. “I care about you. I want to help you.”

Strike nodded, releasing a deep sigh, and muffled back a yawn, rubbing his face with a large, hairy hand.

“I should go to bed…”

“I’ll help you,” Robin moved, putting the prosthesis back but then encouraging him to support on her so he wouldn’t be putting much weight on it.

Leaning heavily on her, Strike made his way outside the office, which Robin locked, and then, because the entry to his attic was through a narrower stair behind a door and the birdcage lift didn’t go up there, she helped him carefully and slowly make their way to his attic up the stairs, supporting most of his weight with surprising strength. At last, she led them into his flat, to his bed, and took off his prosthesis again, helping him get rid of his suit and lie in bed.

Emotional and physical exhaustion quickly took over Strike who, despite it being an early hour to go to bed, not even having had dinner, closed his eyes, and soon fell asleep. Robin sat next to him on the bed to recover her breath from the effort of helping him, taking a glass of water. As she recovered, she lied down over the covers next to him, taking her shoes off. She’d just lie there for a moment, in case he needed to use the loo or something. Just to rest for a little bit, and then she’d get in the taxi.

Except that before Robin could get up to go, her eyes had closed and she, too, had fallen asleep.

She was woken up early in the morning by her phone and, jolting awake and quickly realizing where she was, Strike’s snores having calmed down although he was still asleep, Robin grabbed her phone and rushed out of the attic, sitting on the stairs. It was Max, and it was half past six in the morning.

“Hi Max,” she said, yawning.

“Robin, are you okay?” he asked, a little stressed.

“Me? Yes, what’s going on?” Robin worried something had happened in their shared flat.

“Nothing, it’s just…” he sighed. “Forgive me Robin. I know we work crazy hours, but I didn’t realize you were going to be out and with this whole leg thing, when I woke up and realized you hadn’t been home all night… I worried something had happened.”

“Oh, Max… that’s so sweet of you, I’m so sorry I worried you,” Robin was sincerely touched by his care and worry. “I’m all right, I came to the office for some urgent paperwork, ended up falling asleep on the sofa here. I’ll probably have breakfast here and then head home for a shower I suppose.”

“Good, good, travelling back here late wouldn’t have been smart… well, glad you’re okay. Can I do anything for you? I’m on my way to the studio, but I could pass by, drop off anything you need.”

“No, it’s fine, but thank you so much Max.”

“Okay. By the way Robin, you should know… the leg thing is all over the news this morning, and the papers.”

“Shit… well, thanks for the head’s up. Have a good day.”

“You too Robin, bye.”

Hanging up, Robin took a deep breath and covered her face with her hands. She had fallen asleep on Strike’s bed with Strike. Luckily, he didn’t know yet, she could go, get her shoes, and be out of his hair before he realized… but then again, a number of lines had been crossed the night before, walls that had been carefully kept between them to maintain professionalism had crumbled, and now Robin wondered how their relationship was going to be, regardless of whether he realized where she’d spent the night, or not.

Chapter Text

When Robin re-entered Strike’s attic to retrieve her shoes, he looked startled to see her, sitting on his bed on the phone, until Robin lifted her shoes for him to see, then he just looked quite confused, but he focused on the call. For what Robin could hear as she sat tying up her little boots, it was Lieutenant Graham Hardacre from the SIB, and he was in Edinburgh. Just when she was about to leave, Strike hung up.

“That was Hardy,” he said, examining his stump and, with relief, finding it looked much better. “He’s been moved to a prestigious posting in Edinburgh Castle, Section 35 of the SIB, it’s good! He read about us in The Scotsman, so it must be all out by now.”

“Yes, I was just on the phone with Max, he says it’s all over the news and the papers.”

“Crap… well, in the good news, Hardy’s going to help us. He’s got stuff on Brockbank he wants to share with us, but we have to go over there, if he sends us stuff he could easily get caught and lose his career. But he’ll leave the computer open,” said Strike with a smirk. “I’ll grab the train to Edinburgh, see what he’s got, then he’ll lend me his car and I can visit Melrose, Laing’s last address is there and it’s not far from Edinburgh. I’ll leave today, be back tomorrow or so…” he nodded to himself. “And I just saw my messages,” he lifted his phone, “we’re down to two clients Robin. You can cover that on your own, right?”

“Actually, I think they won’t notice if we disappear for a day or two. Let me go home to shower and pack a bag, and I can pick you up in two hours at most, we’ll be in Edinburgh in seven hours tops. It’s a bit longer than by train, but we have our own car to investigate any leads for as long as we want without depending on your friend’s kindness, and it’s not like we can do much here anyway with press after our arses. And besides, your leg was pretty battered yesterday, I can pick you up right at the door and you don’t have to put any more weight on it for hours, by the time we get to Edinburgh it’ll be much more recovered.” Strike stared at her for a long moment, meditating the plan. Then Robin raised her eyebrows. “I keep my Land Rover fully stacked with biscuits and tea…”

Strike’s eyes lightened up and he clenched his jaw softly, as if he didn’t want for her to know the power that mere statement held over him.

“Fine, I’ll get ready myself and meet you downstairs in two hours. Pack for two, three days, in case Hardy has good stuff.”

Robin couldn’t contain her excitement as she showered quickly and packed a large travel bag with some changes of underwear, her documentation, some money, toiletries, and spare clothes just in case, plus Wellington boots, because she checked the weather in her phone as she packed and even though it was how August, it was going to be humid and rainy in the north. She and Strike had gone on very few little road trips during the Quine case, longest of which was to Devon, and she’d realized she really loved road trips in general but also with Strike, who’d seen far more world than her and knew their country much better, so she was very excited about this one.

Scribbling a note for Max to know she’d be gone for several days and giving Wolfgang a good snuggle goodbye, Robin grabbed her bag and coat, and rushed to her Land Rover outside in the street. She had filled her thermic bottle with tea, packed a bag with sandwiches and biscuits, and on her way to Denmark Street, passed by a Bakery to buy some sweets as well, soon getting to her boss’ building. Strike was sitting at the stairs by the entrance, with a large military backpack.

“All packed Sergeant?” Robin asked jokingly as he flopped on the copilot seat, throwing his bag to the back of the vehicle. He rolled eyes, but hoped she wouldn’t notice he’d blushed slightly at the nickname.

“By the way, what were you doing in my attic this morning?” asked Strike, who felt the most comfortable in vehicles when Robin drove.

“Fell asleep on your bed last night. I had sat down to catch my breath and next I knew I was waking up this morning, sorry.”

“It’s fine, actually it’s great, better you didn’t go out in the middle of the night…” Strike commented. “Sorry about my behaviour yesterday, Robin. You shouldn’t be dealing with your boss’ personal crap.”

“That’s right,” said Robin, and his stomach dropped. “Thing is, I’m dealing with my best friend’s personal crap, which is entirely different.” Strike looked at her, surprised at the statement, and Robin pointed to a plastic bag between them. “There are biscuits, sandwiches, tea, and I bought cheese sticks and mini quiches at the Bakery.”

“Oh Robin… you, marvellous Robin…” Strike was digging into the bag with close to no restrain. Robin chuckled.

“Measure yourself, will you? It’s supposed to last us all day. We’re only stopping when we need to use the bathroom or have a rest.”

“I give you my word of scout.”

“Were you a scout?”

“Nope,” answered Strike, mouth full of quiche, and Robin laughed.

An hour into the long drive, Wardle phoned Strike, apologizing for things blowing to the press so quickly, and announcing that according to forensics, the leg belonged to a woman matching Strike’s description, aged between fifteen and twenty, dead when the leg was cut off, but not long dead. It had been kept in a freezer before being sent to Strike and Robin. She had an old scarring on her calf that long predated death, but they would need a bit more time to find out what had happened. However, their artist had done a portrait of the girl Strike had described, and it would be on the TV day and night just in case someone thought she was familiar.

The police had also used Robin’s unmatched description to find CCTV of the exact motorbike Robin had described, with fake plates, the biker just like she had described. He drove towards a real courier depot in the south, and was last caught on camera in Wimbledon.

“Good,” Robin nodded. Hey I was thinking, Harrogate is halfway and it’s in our route, I know a place there with the best tea in the world, if you want to rest a little there. My Mum used to take me all the time when I was little.”

“Harrogate?” Strike meditated it for a moment, then nodded, touched that Robin wanted to share a special place for her, with him. “Sure, good idea Robin.”

“Oh!” Robin had a sudden realization, and Strike looked at her, curious. “BIID! Body Integrity Identity Disorder, I knew I’d read about it in Uni.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Strike with amusement.

“It’s the irrational desire for the removal of a healthy body part. The sufferers are rare and the cause is not really known, but they tend to be really disliked, people say they do it for attention seeking… but it’s an actual serious psychological disorder. They call themselves transabled, people with BIID, they say they want, need, to be paralysed or amputated. A girl who wrote to you Kelsey, the letters I showed you… she was transabled. Wanted advice on how to cut her own leg.”

Strike stared at her in fascination.

“Strike 1, Psychology 0,” he murmured. “I’m a little happier you changed career paths every single day, you know?”

Robin half smiled.

“While you reunite with Hardacre, I suppose if only you go in it’ll be less suspicious… I’ll try to find something in the Internet. I’m thinking there must be blogs for transabled people… perhaps the victim was transabled, and the killer found her there. We’re pretty sure she was killed now, right?”

“Yes, I think so,” Strike nodded. “If it’s the girl I saw… she was just a kid. Fifteen at most, I’d say.”

Robin nodded, eyes on the road. She loved driving, and she didn’t want to get distracted letting her mind wander off to the many things about their investigation that would inevitably be source of interest for her curiosity. They fell into silence for a while, each comfortably enjoying the trip, despite the whiff of wet dog.

“What did you study in Oxford?” asked Robin after a while, to keep her mind off the case.

“Human Sciences.”

“What’s that about?”

“Studies biological, social and cultural aspects of human life,” Strike explained, and Robin hummed with approval. “It explores the interdisciplinary understanding of fundamental issues and problems confronting contemporary societies. Stuff like the evolution of humans and their behaviour, molecular and population genetics, population growth and ageing, ethnic and cultural diversity and human interaction with the environment. You’re supposed to develop competencies that help you understand the complexity of human beings and their problems. 2003 to 2005, when I joined the Army,” he added.

“Sounds quite interesting actually. What drew you to it?”

“Seemed fascinating, and it was great actually, sparked my curiosity a lot,” said Strike. “At first I thought it’d help me in my medium life, perhaps I’d find some clue to why I had this… thing. Didn’t really find that, but it’s still useful for an investigator.”

“Would you like to finish it?”

“Maybe one day, I don’t know. Would you like to finish psychology?” Robin gave it a moment of thought before nodding.

“Very much. But not at Manchester this time… maybe Open University, when I can afford it. Mum likes to study things there now and then, she says it’s great there.”

“Yeah, my Uncle Ted did some studies there as well, quite fancied it. You should do that, who knows, perhaps it’ll give you a boost as a detective.”

“Why did you…” Robin meditated whether to actually ask for a moment, before going on. “Why did you drop out? Why the army? If I could see dead people, I would avoid war zones…”

“My Mum was killed in January 2005,” Strike explained. “I returned to Whitechapel with Lucy, who was studying Year 12 in Falmouth, and Ted and Joan, to get Harry, who was uh… two and a half. When we were in Whitechapel, the three of us saw her, our mother, just like I see you now. You can imagine, for a moment we thought… But Lucy and I understood. She helped us prove she had been murdered by Jeff, we had our goodbyes, she left. And so afterwards we were quite… well, you can imagine. Not good. We each returned to class, we wanted to stay busy, but I could only think of the SIB. My Uncle, Ted, he was an SIB for a few years, before he dropped out to take care of me when it became clear my Mum wasn’t doing the best job. I was intermittently in his care or hers throughout my life,” he explained. “And I’ve always done whatever Ted did, since I was a little boy. I loved to play with his military stuff, to hear his stories… his old job always fascinated me, his adventures. And after Mum died, I wasn’t the same, obviously.”

“When something that big happens, people often go back to the beginning, you know? Retrace steps and try to find your footing away.”

“Well that’s what I did. All I knew was Oxford, with its snobs and the air of greatness, didn’t feel right any more, and my studies stopped making sense. I wanted to catch bad guys like Jeff, I’d liked the feeling, I wanted to follow on Ted’s footsteps, get a proper career, perhaps take care of Harry. Ted and Joan are old now, I’ve always wanted to be ready just in case… I figured I’d make some money to send them to take care of both of my younger siblings at the time, and I’d catch some bad guys and feel better, which I did. Seeing the dead, as you said, was a little inconvenient… but whenever I could sneak without my comrades catching me, I’d help them find their way. I was the light at the end of their tunnel, many had died on IEDs and things like that, so suddenly they didn’t understand what had happened to them. They didn’t realize they were dead, didn’t know why others couldn’t see or hear them. Wanted to go home, with their families.”

“Oh, poor souls…”

“It felt good to help. Their relief when they saw someone finally heard them… I’ll never forget that. It was the first time I started to think being a medium could be a good thing,” explained Strike. “Eventually, I knew it was time to go, Ted helped me know the timing, you know, before you become completely absorbed by the military and become one of them and forget what it feels like to be normal. I had decided to leave and become a private investigator before the IED that got me medically discharged. I wanted to catch bad guys and the freedom to help the dead when I could, specially after being in hospitals crowded with tormented souls after the explosion, and this job gave me that. What about you? How did you end up here with me?”

“Well uh…” Robin slowed her speed slightly, keeping her attention both on the quite empty road and the conversation and the company. “There isn’t much to tell, you already know the basics. When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a cop, catch bad guys. I went into psychology to become a forensic psychologist, help the police… I’ve always been fascinated by the human mind. Anyway, something happened, not something I should be talking about driving, another time… sure. But after that I wasn’t all right, had to drop off, didn’t really have a choice. And then I lost my way. My mental health was well… inexistent, and Matthew made me feel safe, comforted. It was some very rough years, lost a grandfather in the middle of it all who was close to me and everything.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Thanks,” said Robin with a nod. “Matthew wasn’t always a dickhead. I had known him since childhood, his family lives two streets from mine and there’s only one primary school in Masham. We used to play together all the time, he was such a good friend, a genuine funny guy, sweet and compassionate… I honestly never understood how he changed so much. We began dating in high school, he was the handsomest guy, everyone was jealous I was the one to date him. And he was real sweet, real gentlemanly, I wasn’t seventeen yet and I didn’t want to have sex, wasn’t ready, and he never once pushed it. He’d buy me flowers, write me letters… some of the happiest years of my life,” Robin admitted. “Then things changed as we got our A-Levels. Mine were the best, his weren’t so good. His dreams of becoming a pilot were ruined, he was resentful and angry. His mother was a harpy, didn’t help. She died last year, but her influence might never. And I was off to pursuing my dreams in Manchester and he had to settle with Bath and… after that every time we called each other, I felt guilty telling him how happy I was, and he was trying to make it look like becoming an accountant was fantastic. I was supportive but… every time we saw each other I saw his envy. He became cold, distant… very jealous, very possessive, became to push for sex but didn’t happen. That’s when he began to be… emotionally manipulative, I guess.”

“An abuser. You taught me that yesterday,” said Strike, with the tone of a smug student who wanted to prove he’d been paying attention, that he’d been a good student. Robin smiled softly at that.

“Glad you learned it. I didn’t realize for years, actually not until a few months back, talking with Ilsa and Vanessa… anyway,” she cleared her throat. “Things weren’t going well, and he was acting like I was the best thing he had, and like I had to subordinate to him, he wanted to make himself a bigger deal than he was… I now realize he was just very insecure, he probably thought I’d leave him for a cop, a fireman, someone more successful or something. He began to tie me on a short lead, you know? And I began to fall out of love, wanted to leave him. Then my shit years came and I was really, really in a dark place, couldn’t leave him. And so I became dependant on him. At last, I was less than him, my studies ruined, he didn’t feel inferior any more, so he came with all his love, his patience, his sweetness… and while I was low and vulnerable he began turning me into a trophy wife, without me noticing. Before I realized he’d forbidden me from having a job, seeing my friends, etc. And I stopped having professional dreams really. Life was just about survival. He convinced me the best I could have was him, our kids, a house I’d take care of… and so I took it. Then I realized he was cheating and I didn’t love him so much any more and… I think a part of me was done with the whole thing, so I looked for a detective, found you… the rest is history.”

They didn’t stop driving until Harrogate, by which time it was lunch time, and while they enjoyed tea, pastries and sandwiches, Robin researched in her phone. Strike was enjoying the place Robin had taken him too, where they made his tea creosote just like he liked it, smooth and strong, to really waken him up. As Robin investigated for the blogs she’d mentioned earlier, Strike’s phone rang and he answered it, seeing it was Elin.

“Hi Elin, how are you?” he said as gracefully as he could, turning his back on Robin a little. Robin raised an eyebrow, but concentrated in her own phone to try and give him some privacy. His stump was much better, but it wasn’t convenient for him to go walking if they had to walk around Melrose looking for Laing later. “Good, yes, I’m okay… No, work trip, I’m on my way to Scotland for the investigation. An SIB friend’s gonna help out a little. Yeah… I’m not sure, I think a couple days maybe… y’know, with the leg, can’t advance too fast and I need to check some leads in Scotland. Can’t be around Denmark too much anyway with all the press… yeah… that’s nice. Okay… yeah, you too, bye.” He hung up and turned to Robin.

“Found it,” said Robin, and ignored his expression of a teenage boy caught doing something nasty to show him her phone screen. “This is a message board full of people like Kelsey. A ‘Nowheretoturn’ asks ‘Does anyone know anything about Cameron Strike?’ ‘W@nBee’ tells them you’re a veteran, and they say they heard you did it to yourself, to which ‘W@nBee’ answers that no, you were in Afghanistan.”

“At last someone with some common sense.”

“Can’t find more in these boards for now though… don’t know. Anyway, I’ve also looked into acrotomophiliacs—,”

“Acro what?”

“People who are sexually attracted to amputee, who get specially turned on by things related to amputation,” Robin explained. “Like some of the people who send you letters.”

“And I’m not allowed to call them nutters,” Strike rolled eyes.

“I think,” continued Robin, ignoring him, “that the killer wasn’t necessarily acrotomophiliac though, these people don’t seem attracted to causing pain or to violence, they just accept it as a means to an end, but would much rather be amputated by a surgeon under general anaesthesia, you know? And I would say the killer is someone who enjoys death, violence, someone sadistic, someone brutal and merciless, perhaps someone who gets turned on by causing severe harm, who keeps in their freezer parts of his victim just for the joy of it. It doesn’t fit in the profile… but the victim could’ve been one of these people, and the killer might’ve fished here to look for someone who’d be easily vulnerable so they could be close to her and kill her.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Strike, nodding. “Then it could be both Brockbank and Laing. Both are sadistic enough, and violent.”

“And both had access to the knowledge of your mother’s tattoo. I looked online. She did have it tattooed publicly online, it’s not hard to find.”

“Robin Venetia Ellacott,” Strike looked at her, astonished and amused. “Where you looking at photographs of my mother naked?”

“Only one, only briefly,” said Robin, blushing hard, and Strike laughed at her shyness. “Y’know Jack reminds me of her? She was so beautiful…”

“Not me? I don’t remind you of her?” Strike contoured as if posing for a photograph ‘sensually’ and Robin laughed. Strike chuckled. “Not so much but… you’ve got her exact same eyes,” Robin admitted, blushing even harder. Strike smiled softly at her, crinkling his freckled nose a little, and Robin found herself staring. “You’ve both got so many lashes, so dark… and the same green eyes… it’s like a forest.”

“That’s the best compliment I’ve ever received.”

“I believe that,” said Robin and, breaking the aura of intimacy that had formed, she added, “didn’t your school mates call you pubehead?”

“Oh fuck’s sakes, can’t be bloody nice with you,” Strike said jokingly, and Robin giggled.

Back in the car, Strike asked Robin for permission to have a fag, and fell asleep midway through the second, which forced Robin to gently punch his arm before the burning cigarette could burn his lips. Grateful, Strike finished smoking in silence and then perched to keep an eye out for the ocean. For a few minutes he looked like an impatient and excited young boy, stretching his neck to look over Robin, the cars in the opposite lane, and the bushes beside the road, and then he startled Robin.

“There it is!” Robin eyed him, confused, and saw him grin, his eyes past her, so she looked in the other direction and saw the ocean.

“Fuck’s sakes,” Robin muttered under her breath, her heart racing from his sudden loud voice. “You nearly gave me a heart attack… ocean man, had to be…”

Strike laughed.

“Cheer up Robin! I’ll tell you when I see horses.”

Robin snorted a laugh and nodded.

“We’re nearly in Edinburgh. I sincerely hope you can take Scottish accent because I’m slightly null…”

“Really? But you’re from Masham!”

“Capital of Scotland!” Robin joked, rolling eyes, and Strike half smiled.

Chapter Text

Chapter 15: Scots-land.

It was raining and the sun was beginning to set when they finally reached Edinburgh, and they found Hardacre, five foot eight, amiable-looking, with thinning, mouse-coloured hair, carrying a large umbrella as he stood near Edinburgh Castle waiting for them. Robin parked, grabbing her umbrella from the back and Strike, who liked the rain on his face and didn’t think it was raining that much, simply exited the Land Rover and greeted Hardacre with the American half-hug, half-handshake, that had permeated even the armed forces, like the old friends they were.

“Hardy, this is my junior detective and friend, Robin Ellacott.”

“Nice to meet you Lieutenant,” Robin smiled, shaking his hand, and Hardy grinned at her.

“Oh, just call me Hardy! Shall we go then?”

“Should I stay back?” asked Robin, unsure. “To make it less suspicious?”

“Don’t worry about that Robin,” said Hardy. “If anybody asks I’ll just say you’re Oggy’s girlfriend! Totally his type.”

Robin blushed, and tailed behind as the men did some catching up, their friendship going back to the Brockbank case.They entered the castle through a wooden side door, following Hardacre along a chilly, narrow stone-flagged corridor and up a couple of flights of stairs that weren’t easy on Strike’s leg. Prints of Victorian military men in dress uniforms hung at unequal intervals on the walls. Robin found herself both excited and touched to have been allowed inside into SIB territory, specially since sometimes, people they needed to talk to had relegated her, and only let Strike into their conversations. She was automatically fonder of Hardy, who had seen her like Strike, and deemed her worth of the same respect.

A door on the first landing led into a corridor lined with offices, carpeted in shabby dark pink, with hospital-green walls. As they walked past a wall, Robin’s attention was captured by the many uniformed men and women who had a framed photograph there. On top of the dozens of photographs, a lettering said ‘Those who came before us’. Most photographs reflected grey and white-haired men and women, but then Robin saw someone very familiar.

“Oh dear,” she gasped, and both Strike and Hardy turned to look at her. Robin was smiling softly at one of the photographs. It depicted a younger Strike, possibly in his late twenties, handsomer and fitter than Robin had ever seen him, even in the many photographs of Lucy or Nick and Ilsa’s houses. He wore a dark blue jacket, which Robin knew they called ‘Blues’ uniform or No 1., and which his father had explained, when she was little and watching Royal Family events in the TV, the military wore for ceremonial occasions. Strike, in this case, wore it neatly and elegantly, with epaulettes with red underlining, and his hat also had red details on top, as scarlet was the RMP colour. Two crosses of medals decorated his chest. One was a plain silver cross with a circular medallion in the centre, and the mounting was a dark blue cloth. The other medal had a stripped mounting cloth, white, purple and white, from which hung a different cross, silver. Strike also had a serious expression with a hint of a soft smile, his eyes kind. His hair was very short there, mostly hidden under the hat, and he was clean shaven and handsome.

“Ah, the good old days,” Strike joked. “What’s this, Hardy?”

“It’s the wall of honour, a motivational thing,” Hardy shrugged. “They put those higher-ranked SIB who no longer work in the army and have some story of honour to motivate the future generations.”

Robin’s eyes went to the golden plaque under Strike’s photograph. It said:

‘Sergeant C. B. Strike (2005-2015). Awarded the George Cross in 2009 and the Military Cross in 2015. When facing extreme danger, he put others before himself and was recognized for his conspicuous courage, gallantry and selflessness.’

“You didn’t tell me you had two medals,” Robin commented.

“And not just any medals, two of the biggest ones,” Hardy added, patting Strike’s shoulder.

“Medals aren’t important. Shall we continue?”

Strike could have easily settled down at any desk and returned to work in no time, such was his familiarity with his surroundings. They walked through a room full of desks occupied with a variety of investigators, most of whom were in plain clothes, but some of whom wore military uniforms with red caps. As they passed by, Robin noticed many turn to look at Strike, whispering and pointing discreetly, or elbowing each other and then nodding towards Strike. He was like a legend.

Hardy ushered them into his office, with photographs of his children decorating the room, and after tapping at his keyboard a little, Hardacre moved away.

“Oh, look at that, my computer is open, so irresponsible of me,” Hardacre commented. “Tea, coffee?”

“Tea, cheers,” said Strike, sitting at the computer.

“Same, thanks Hardy,” Robin stood behind Strike, reading over his shoulders and taking pictures of the screen with her phone.

They saw Brockbank’s full record, a man of Strike’s same age, but a month younger, who had given an address in Barrow-in-Furness. He was now drawing a nice fat military pension.

“Manchester,” Strike pointed in the screen. “Found him in Google then.”

“Last address is Barrow-in-Furness though.”

“Here’s the tea,” Hardacre arrived, handing them mugs and sitting on a chair, reading a file of his own. “Shouldn’t be leaving things open in the computer, someone could come and look at veterans’ psych reports…”

“So careless,” Strike smirked, taking a sip of his tea and opening Brockban’s psychiatric report, although it didn’t reveal much, and nothing Strike didn’t know. Alcoholism, PTSD, TBI.

“Aphasia, dysarthria, alexithymia… the man’s proper buggered up,” Robin whispered by his ear.

“You’re gonna have to translate later, how d’you even…?”

“Psychology,” Robin murmured. “Got photographs, move on to Laing before someone comes in.”

“Here’s his mother’s address in Melrose, we’ll go there. Anti-social and borderline personality disorders, likely to present continuing risk of harm to others… what d’you think, Milady Psychologist?”

“Sounds like a real handful,” Robin half smiled at the nickname. “Like somebody I know.” She added, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Couldn’t possibly know what you’re talking about,” Strike closed the computer and Robin put her phone back in her pocket, both walking to the door, finishing their tea quickly. “Thank you very much Hardy.”

“Worth your visit?”

“I saw your ugly face, that’s worth the visit,” Strike shook his hand and Hardy grinned, then also shook Robin’s hand.

“It was so lovely to finally meet you Robin.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” Robin grinned. “Thanks a lot.”

When Strike and Robin returned to the car, they checked the watch. It was nearly six o’clock in the afternoon now.

“D’you think we should head straight to Melrose or Barrow? It’s about one hour to Melrose, I’d say about three to Barrow.”

“No, by the time we get to Melrose it’ll be too late to find Mrs Laing, and it doesn’t sound like it’ll have a ton of bed and breakfast, does it?” Strike scratched his beard in thought. “Let’s find a bed and breakfast, we can sit, read what we got calmly, and make a plan, have proper dinner, go to bed early. You’ve driven a hell of a lot today, you deserve a break. Tomorrow morning, we’ll head to Melrose, then Barrow-in-Furness, and if we’ve got nothing else to do, we’ll begin the road back to London.”

They arrived at a little red-carpeted bed and breakfast as the rain fell harder. The receptionist behind a small desk was a slim, middle-aged man with small glasses.

“Good evening,” he greeted them. “How can I help you tonight?”

“Hi, we want two doubles,” said Strike, and the man nodded, looking it up in the computer.

“One room, two double beds,” he murmured as he browsed availability.

“No, no,” Robin corrected. “Two double beds different rooms.”

“Two rooms with two doubles?”

“No,” Strike took a deep breath to keep himself from snapping. “Two separate rooms, and in each room, one bed. Double, if possible.”

With the keys in hand, Strike and Robin climbed the stairs, carrying their bags, and found their rooms where one next to the other in a small second storey landing.

“What a remarkable demonstration of self-restrain,” Robin commented with amusement as they walked. Strike rolled eyes.

“Finally someone values the hard things I do.”

Robin snorted a laugh.

“See you in my room when you finish freshening up?”

“Yes, gimme ten minutes.”

In his small room, Strike went to the bathroom, washed the tiredness off his face, removed his coat, and, bit chilly despite the heating, grabbed a thick jumper from his bag, which he put on. Then he pushed the room keys in his pocket and, locking his room, moved on to Robin’s, knocking on the hard wood. He was surprised when Robin opened the door and she’d thrown her hair in a messy bun and had removed her coat and jumper, standing in a tank-top that required for Strike to make a conscious effort not to ogle her breasts.

“Jesus, aren’t you cold?”

“Cold? With the heating?” Robin frowned, moving to let him in. “It’s August, it’s hot.”

“It’s twelve degrees out and raining!”

Robin looked at him like he was an alien and Strike was reminded she was from the North.

“Are you really that cold?”

“Apparently I’m the only hot-blooded human here,” said Strike, and he saw they had identical rooms, although mirrored so that what was in the left for him was in the right for her, and Robin had set her laptop in a little corner table, connecting her phone to it. “Should we take a look then and head to a pub for dinner or d’you still have food?”

“No, we’re gonna have to do that,” Robin sat with him in front of her laptop.

Usually for work Robin dressed in office attire, which often required long-sleeved blouses, or mid-sleeved, thighs if she wore skirts, or long trousers, and nothing with too much cleavage. Now, however, she was in casual attire, and Strike was having a hard time not to noticing the milkiness of her skin, the galaxies of freckles on her arms and chest, and just how much bigger her breasts looked now with that tank top. Willing himself to be professional and not act like a teenage boy, and to not make her uncomfortable, Strike nailed his eyes to the screen and vowed not to remove them from there.

“So,” he said, “gimme the psychological goodies.”

“The punch you gave Brockbank basically buggered him big time, but he was already trouble from before. I’m no neurologist, but he’s a man who, being in the army and knowing the procedures, still felt the need to attack you with a bottle before you’d even said anything,” said Robin. “He was an alcoholic and had PTSD, which as you probably know is quite frequent in military, police, fire squads, even doctors. I’d say he had PTSD before he was an alcoholic, which worsened with his subsequent experiences in the army, plus a surprising mistrust for any authority that wasn’t his own. After you hit him, if he developed serious seizures it would’ve been hard for him to find jobs, lead a normal life, which would’ve worsened his PTSD and alcoholism probably, if he wasn’t getting proper therapy. And PTSD and alcoholism tend to make a person aggressive and violent, which would’ve worsened with the TBI. TBI causes harm in two ways. First, there’s the obvious damage caused by the injury in itself. You get aphasia which means he struggles to find the right words, dysarthria which means disordered speech, and alexithymia which means difficulty understanding or identifying one’s own words. The first two are purely medical, the third could also be psychological, it happens to psychopaths for example, people with autism, children, basically anyone who hasn’t been taught about emotions and emotional management. If Brockbank had it from before, united to PTSD and whichever aggressiveness I bet you he had, we could be talking about a proper psychopath, but that’s pure speculation. If he developed later due to TBI, he’s still extremely dangerous, but then again, if he suffers serious seizures and is under a lot of medication, he might not be physically fit any more to commit serious crimes.”

“D’you think he could be faking aphasia and dysarthria?”

“Yes, but I don’t think he’s faking it. I think he truly is bad with TBI.”

Strike, who liked to think he was faking, frowned.

“Why?”

Robin sighed.

“It’s not psychologists jobs to diagnose those things but… he was moving a lot. Barrow, Manchester, Market Harborough, Barrow, in a very small space of years, which suggests he struggled to settle down, and that could be because his TBI was so bad he struggled to land a permanent job. Why would somebody fake symptoms just to lose every job they get?” she commented. “Also there’s the fact that I suspect if he was faking it, the specialized doctor would’ve caught him. Wouldn’t it be like when you watch people on TV, who obviously aren’t bilingual, pretend to act bilingual? They do things like mixing languages in one same sentence, when in reality is not like that, you know that, you speak Latin and don’t struggle mixing languages in one same sentence all the time. When you fake things like that with language… I think it’d be too easy to tell it wasn’t genuine.”

“All right,” Strike nodded. “I agree Brockbank is dangerous as hell. What do you think of Laing? Quite a psycho isn’t he?”

“Well his psychiatric evaluation is already a handful. Strong indications of anti-social disorders could include difficulty to establish emotional relationships such as affection or care for anyone, incapability to feel love even, suggests he’d be very independent, highly individualistic,” said Robin, thinking of her studies heavily, “someone who doesn’t do team work, someone who works better solo and leads a solitary life with no attachments.”

“Fits the man I knew.”

“And personality disorders… could be a bunch of things. Bipolar disorder, someone you can’t trust because one day he’s behaving one way, perhaps chirpy and friendly, and suddenly he becomes as opposite as highly violent,” Robin continued. “The psychiatric said he’s likely to present continuing risk of harm to others and I fully agree. Someone with this evaluation should’ve never left prison. Never. And specially after what he was caught for doing. The fact that the Army ever even admitted him baffles me, shows how strict the psychotherapeutic controls are.”

“You’d be surprised the amount of psychos who work the high ranks of the military or the police,” said Strike, and sighed, eyeing the photographs. “Laing was extraordinarily good at making people like him, I thought that was good acting, but d’you think it could just be the personality disorder? That he truly can feel happy one moment and lose it the next?”

“Could be…” Robin looked at the papers she’d photographed, and then frowned. “These things… they strike me of child trauma quite heavily. These are adults who got worse later in life, who didn’t have a youth record that would make their army applications automatically be denied, people who yearned for authority and power and who for your own experience were visceral, controlling, and disregarded any authority but their own. Often, adults who behave like this were sufferers of child trauma, like Bristow, whose child trauma was simply being the least loved child, and it prompted him to kill three people, and he thought himself invincible and superior, enough to hire you thinking you wouldn’t catch him, when he was already getting away. Laing and Brockbank went beyond, they didn’t cause violence for a logical reason, but for the joy of it. Brockbank’s a paedophile, he enjoys hurting children… makes me think he suffered paedophilia. And Laing… he’s vicious, doesn’t care about the consequences of his actions, needs to dominate, highly competitive in the ring… he could’ve had to struggle in his childhood with competitiveness, possible the youngest child of many male siblings, I’d say a lack of a positive paternal influence, probably issues with his mother too.”

“You got all of that for that single line of psychiatric evaluation?”

“Yes? Well, and for the stuff you said too!”

“I didn’t tell you a word about his family and I skipped through that part fast because I already knew it, so there are no pictures.”

“Did I nail it?”

“Robin, Laing is the youngest of five brothers, his father wasn’t very present.”

“Woah, I’m good.”

“Psychology’s loss is my fucking win,” Strike smiled and, in a good mood, got up. “Great so basically if any of them was really involved with the leg, we’re in serious danger.”

“That’s right. That puts you in a good mood?”

“No, but dinner does!”

Chapter Text

Chapter 16: Melrose, town of tales

The next morning and after a better night of sleep and a big breakfast, Strike and Robin stopped to get more sandwiches, biscuits and tea for the way and hopped back in the Land Rover, the day sunnier now, to drive to Melrose. Going through his second fag of the day, Strike eyed Robin, who seemed to permanently carry bags under her eyes lately, albeit a bit less bigger today. At least her eyes looked perfectly rested. She wore her jacket today, and a high-collared t-shirt.

“How would you psychoanalyse me?” asked Strike out of curiosity.

“I wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I did, you’d feel uncomfortably vulnerable and begin building walls with me again that I’ve needed seven months to take down. Counter-productive,” she added with a little smile.

Strike snorted a laugh.

“Come on, entertain me a little. Would you say I’ve got childhood trauma?”

“Yes,” said Robin.

“What would give it away? What do I do?”

Robin tried to hide and smile and sighed of slight annoyance mixed with amusement.

“Big trust issues, a long-admitted struggle to stablish normal relationships with children, emotional intelligence issues… etc., etc., etc.”

“Now you’re just showing off.” She chuckled, eyes on the road. “D’you psychoanalyse Nick and Ilsa?”

“Not actively,” replied Robin. “It takes some time to sit and think about it, it’s not like… reading people’s darkest memories at first sight. But I can tell Ilsa’s role of always standing in the first line in war, push for justice, her determination and relentlessness of a lawyer… well, she obviously comes from a family of more siblings, probably was most undermined, probably because she was the youngest girl, the one with glasses and more nerdy which usually get more bullied… the more you undermine someone, the more they feel a need to punch back and become people you can’t ignore any more, which she is. And Nick’s a calm, problem-avoider, relaxed man, but I bet if you messed with his family, he’d bark hard. Probably because he was a big brother, used to a position of looking after others, but also with parents who were good guidance and protectors, so he doesn’t feel a permanent need to be ready for a fight, lets himself be more relaxed.”

“You’re a little scary sometimes.”

“You asked me for it.”

“Because it’s fun,” Strike ate a biscuit, watching her like he was watching a film. “So having a ton of siblings changes personality that much?”

“Depends on how the dynamics go, but yes, it could.”

“So how many siblings would you say I have?”

“That’s hard because I already know about your siblings, so I can’t be objective,” said Robin, eyes still focused on the road. “I can say it fits that you grew with Lucy and never had to take care of Harry.”

“What about my four Rokeby half siblings?”

“Doesn’t influence at all, ‘cause you never grew up with them. Is sharing the developmental ages which influences a lot.”

“Then what about you? Three brothers, right?”

“You know me, doesn’t take a psychologist,” Robin smiled softly. “Only girl, often undermined, need to prove myself, blah blah blah,” Robin shrugged. “But also is crystal clear I have younger brothers, because I’m a natural caretaker and conflict-avoider, but I know how to put someone in their place when needed. Too many hours babysitting.”

Strike smirked, staring at her attentively, oddly fascinated.

At last, they reached Melrose, and Robin parked in a car park beside the abbey. Towards the south east was the triple peak of Eildon Hill, which they stared at devouring the first sandwiches of the day and drinking tea off disposable glasses Robin had gotten, while Strike had another cigarette. Then, they set to look for the Wynd, the home address Laing had given the military.

“D’you think it’s wind as in breeze or wind as in clock?” asked Strike as they walked.

“Pff… there are Scots, could be a third, unthinkable option,” joked Robin. “How’s your leg?”

“Better, thanks to you.”

They strolled down the sunshine, the rain having stopped early in the morning, walking to the central square. A round stone in the square’s pavements showed them the town’s old Roman name, which was Trimontium, for, as Strike explained, the triple hill.

“Latin,” he said. “Tri means triple, montium means mountain or hill. Like… montaña in Spanish.”

“Montaña,” like any Brit, Robin struggle with the unfamiliar ‘ñ’, making him chuckle. “Where did you learn Latin?”

“One, it hurts me it’s not taught in Primary School standardised across the UK, two… Ted gave me an odd fascination for Catullus.”

“Who?”

“Poet, Latin.”

“Oh, poetry? As in sweet, romantic poetry?” Robin looked at him, surprised he was that type.

“No, as in dirty, sexual, not suitable for the table, poetry,” he replied, and Robin chuckled.

“And that’s the Strike we know and like.”

A neighbour by the Wynd informed them Mrs Laing no longer lived there, but up the road in Dingleton Road. To Strike’s sea-born nature, it was amusing to find the only pub was called the Ship Inn, and at last after a walk up hill that got Strike to sweat, they finally found one neighbour who knew Mrs Laing and knew in which door did she live. It was a clean and respectable bungalow.

“Wait,” Strike stopped suddenly, “what if he’s here?”

“Then we know he’s not in London sending us a leg?”

“You seem remarkable calm,” he commented.

“That’s ‘cause I know if he’s going to hit any of us, it’ll be you,” Robin smiled warmly, and Strike snorted a laugh, rolling eyes and pressing the doorbell.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, the neighbour who’d just spoken to them came closer.

“She’s doolally.”

“She what?” asked Robin, confused.

“Doolally.”

“Y’mean demented?” asked Strike, and the neighbour nodded. Then Strike looked at Robin and teasingly murmured. “Wouldn’t you have loved it if he’d just said nut?”

Robin rolled eyes, but smiled softly.

“Not the same thing.”

The door opened, and there was Mrs Laing. Small, sallow-faced, old. She glared up at them with a kind of unfocused malevolence that gave Robin chills.

“Mrs Laing, I’m looking for your son Donald,” said Strike politely.

“No!” she shouted, and slammed the door shut.

“Bugger,” said Strike under his breath without thinking, and Robin smiled softly, knowing she was rubbing on him. “Worth the day trip, d’you think?”

“D’you want me to try?”

“You do next one. If she’s demented, won’t be much help anyway.”

With a smile of determination, Robin turned in her heels and walked resolute to the neighbour who had helped them, a warm smile plastered across her face, while Strike trailed behind.

“Good morning Sir. This is Cormoran Strike and I’m Robin Ellacott, we’re Private Detectives from London.”

“You put her son away!” the man exclaimed victoriously, pointing at Strike. “My wife and I are friends with Margaret Bunyan, mother of Rhona.”

“Rhona as in… Donald’s wife?” asked Strike.

“Ex wife,” he nodded. “Margaret never forgot how you helped her daughter, she follows everything you do, she’d love tae meet you. Wha’ for are you wanting to talk to auld Mrs Laing? He’s nae done something else, has he, Donnie?”

“We just want to talk to him, we think he might be able to help us with something we’re investigating,” explained Robin in a friendly way. “However we’re struggling to find him… you’ve been so kind before helping us, is there any chance you might know where Donnie is? Does he live with his mother?”

“Och, no, he came a few years back, but I dinnae know if he’s come since… I dinnae think so, small town, we’d know.”

“Right, and you said Mrs Bunyan would love to meet Cormoran? We’d be happy to meet with her, if you tell us where and when.”

“I’ll ring her, she’s in Darnick, next village.”

“That’d be very helpful,” said Strike. “Thank you.”

“Tell her,” said Robin, “tell her we’ll meet at the Ship Inn for lunch in an hour, if she’s available?”

“Sure she will be!”

“Right, thanks!”

“Smart thinking,” said Strike as the two walked back to the pub, while the man rushed to his house next to Mrs Laing’s, to call. “She’s more likely to talk to us there, with a happy stomach.”

“I thought so, if she’s anything like you,” said Robin with a teasing smile.

“Oh, you bribe me with food when you want me talkin’, don’t you?”

“Guilty as charged.”

They exchanged a warm smile, and once they arrived at the pub, they sat down and got beers. Refreshed, they killed time strolling around Melrose, contemplating the beautiful landscapes as they strolled, with two hours to spare, to the River Tweed, where they found a bench to sit and enjoy the sun. Robin opened her jacket, enjoying the warmth, and when she closed her eyes to look up to the sun, Strike saw how the sunlight reflected on her blonde eyelashes, making them shiny, like her long hair, which was up in a high bun. She was just bright like the sun.

“I read about those medals you got, last night,” commented Robin then, and to his surprise, she looked up to him. “Extreme bravery and gallantry… did you get them both for saving that comrade when you got blown up? Anstis?” She’d met DI Richard Anstis, the man Strike had saved, when they had been working to resolve Owen Quine’s murder. The relationship had ended poorly when he had refused to listen to them and had then been ridiculed publicly. It had been Wardle, instead, who’d gotten all the merit.

“No,” replied Strike, and took a deep breath before continuing. “I got one for that, the Military Cross. When Anstis recovered enough, he told everyone that I had saved his life. That I had been the only one who noticed we were being set up and that, instead of saving myself only, I had shouted for the driver to stop, I had tried to save everyone… and that only in the last moment did I notice we weren’t going to stop, and I had grabbed him, the only one of us who had just had a baby, and thrown him to the back of the vehicle with all my strength, with disregard to my own well being because I went second. Consequence is half his face looks ugly, but I nearly died, because after the amputation I developed sepsis, still bugs me sometimes actually, never fully went away. I was weeks in coma, he told everyone that’s what I had done. He pushed for me to get the Cross. Told everyone I deserved it, that I’d been brave, I hadn’t panicked, and I had prioritised his life over my own so he could meet his baby, very gallant of me apparently, which is what that medal awards.”

“You sound like you disagree with him.”

“Honestly when I was aware of my situation enough to realize what he’d been saying, it felt surreal. Truth is I didn’t notice we were being set up, my Mum told me, should I be awarded for being a medium?”

“That’s not why they rewarded you,” Robin reminded him. “Not for being the first to know, but for your reaction in the course of one critical minute, or a few critical seconds.”

“I don’t even know why I saved him, I didn’t have time to think. I could’ve grabbed Gary Toppley, he was closest to me, the youngest of us all… I think perhaps my hands went immediately simply to the sound of the only voice, Anstis had just been talking… I followed his voice. And I was the highest ranked of us, they were my troop. I was supposed to put them first. I just did my job.”

Robin smiled softly and nodded.

“Wouldn’t expect less of you than to be humble about it. What about the other medal?”

“Before that, you got to tell me something about yourself, I feel like lately all I do is satisfy your curiosity,” said Strike with a little smirk. “So tell me, why does your car stink of gymkhanas?”

Robin giggled.

“That’s ‘cause I did plenty!”

“You kiddin’!”

“My Mum’s side of the family own a farm. A tiny family farm, some of my cousins work there, my brother Stephen, his wife’s our vet… my uncle is now its leader, he inherited it, because my Mum wasn’t very interested in owning it, she just goes to help out when she can. Anyway, the farm makes profit through horse riding gymkhana competitions, skill ones, not races, and through selling eggs and milk from our cows, sheep and chicken, and wool from the sheep too, some of the best products in Yorkshire I assure you. Nothing to do with the eggs and milk we have in London. And we also have small fields of agriculture, mainly for the family and Masham, and in the last three decades or so, my uncle, who was a jockey with my Mum when they were much younger, before kids came, developed a horse riding academy just behind the farm. He trains people to compete on gymkhanas, learn how to ride, rents horses for touristic rides across Masham, to make some extra profit, since the farm is tiny. So all my siblings, cousins and myself, we all learned to ride like we learned to walk, we all had our preferred ponies and adult horses. For me, it was Angus,” said Robin with a faint smile. “That old grumpy bastard was a giant Clydesdale Highland, born the same year I was born, ironically. So we grew up together, I was the only one who could mount him, he was a stubborn bastard with anybody else.”

“You’re pretty good at charming grumpy giants,” said Strike with an amused smile, lighting another fag as he thought of his resemblance to the horse, which made Robin laugh.

“I suppose so. Anyway, I won a ton of competitions. All of that ended when I came to London,” she shrugged. “And the biggest stinking smell of the Land Rover is actually our family old dog, Rowntree.”

“Don’t you miss it, riding?”

“Sometimes… but it’s like riding a bike, I’m never going to forget it,” said Robin. “And whenever I yearn it too much, Masham is not that far. I’ll go back for Christmas, it’ll be great. So, about George’s Cross? What’s the story of greatest heroism?”

Strike’s soft smile dropped and Robin wondered whether she’d made a terrible mistake asking. She was just curious, fascinated about his life, and feared going too fast. But then, he spoke, seemingly comfortable with her.

“I was twenty-four, Corporal Cormoran Strike at the time,” he recounted softly, the memory surprisingly clear in his head. “It was December 2008, I got the medal the next year but it all happened there. I had been in Iraq for ten months, during the war, training Iraqi soldiers to investigate, we weren’t like in active battlefields… that’s not SIB work. I had gone to a small village full of civilians and allies, we were using it as a refuge for the children and the wounded, mainly, they were evacuated from active war zones. We had set a small field training tent for our mission, desk job in that moment, and nearby there was a field hospital they’d step up. A bomb went off there, all of the sudden,” he recounted, his eyes fixed on the river, lost in the memory, and Robin’s eyes widened in horror. “Most of them were children. We immediately stopped what we were doing to help out, evacuate at full speed, but then insurgents appeared everywhere, and we were suddenly outnumbered. We had been caught completely by surprise… my superior was shot dead, and it was chaos everywhere, I couldn’t see the rest of our squad, nobody was giving me orders any more. So I spotted a military vehicle abandoned, I began to grab survivors, children, over my shoulders and put them in the vehicle, some colleagues saw me and followed my lead. We were mostly RMP, and that’s essentially police, we can hold our ground for self-defence but… in active combat on a war, we’re not that good, aren’t that equipped. All I had in the moment were two guns, the others had even grenades, they were blowing us up. So I began to shout like I was a Major or something, shouting orders. People weren’t even checking who was shouting, so I said to evacuate, to get out of there, children first… convinced some of our guys to get into the vehicle I’d filled up with wounded kids and get the hell out of there. I stayed behind to coordinate, make sure we got out as many as we could, while trying to dodge death myself. I was out of bullets when I saw a higher ranked officer on his knees, they were about to slit his throat. I threw my gun like a stone, knocked the insurgent right on the head, unconscious. I grabbed the officer and ushered him to the last vehicle, and on the way, I found a grenade that hadn’t detonated. I knew it might blow in my hand, but if it blew-up there… it was still in the middle, could kill the last people trying to get out. So I grabbed it with my bare hand and threw it against the insurgents and it blew up. The force of the explosion knocked me unconscious, and I woke up on a field hospital the next day.”

“Fuck…”

Strike took a deep breath and nodded.

“As the days passed and an investigation issues, apparently a lot of people were talking about the crazy youth who took control of the situation when our leader was killed and nobody was taking over, who guided everyone to safety, who rescued children and colleagues, and who stayed behind the last one, and nearly killed himself to get a grenade away from the last who were evacuating. Eventually word ran that the crazy one was me, the young corporal RMP. Everyone hates RMP on principle, because we’re the ones who arrest our own people if needed, but a lot of people began to say they wouldn’t be alive if it wasn’t for my leadership and my bravery, that we would all be dead, that it was chaos and we needed someone to tell us what to do, and I did it successfully. Six months later I was back in London and the Queen was awarding me.”

“Wow… you’re… wow.”

“It’s absurd, Robin. I risked my life because I had nothing to lose,” Strike shrugged. “Tracey Montgomery, a fellow SIB and my girlfriend at the time, was in the other side of the world and we’d been fighting and I thought it was over, my family would be fine without me… I didn’t feel an urgent need to live, not like now, y’know? I just thought between me and I child, a child takes priority. And you know what’s the most absurd thing that happened?”

“What?”

“I see the dead,” he smiled dryly. “I wasn’t sure who was alive and who wasn’t, I thought there were far more survivors than there were. I urged dead people to run and evacuate.” He began laughing, darkly, and Robin observed, baffled, but then she snorted a laugh.

“It is a bit absurd, yes,” Robin conceded. Then, as they fell into a comfortable silence, she added. “I think you deserve both medals, though, for whatever it counts. I think you’re the bravest man I’ve ever known… and when you stand out for something good, it should be recognized.”

Strike’s dark green eyes fixed on her for a long moment and then he nodded, pursing his lips a little in thought, unexpectedly glad he’d had this conversation with Robin, above all people.

Chapter Text

Chapter 17: Hard realizations.

Margaret Bunyan arrived at the Ship Inn just a few minutes after Strike and Robin had found and sat in a warm, cosy corner, and were surveying the menu. She was small and fragile-looking, bespectacled, and the first thing she did as she shook Strike and Robin’s hands was comment, over and over, how thankful she and her husband, who hadn’t been able to come, were that Strike had helped their daughter, how highly they thought of him and how much they admired him and followed his career. As Strike stammered shy words of polite thankfulness, blushing a little, Robin smiled small and remained quiet, listening to themselvesAt last, the conversation turned to Donald Laing.

“He was back four or five years ago,” said Margaret Bunyan. “Had to force his way into the bungalow, she’s got Alzheimer’s now. But his brothers came and threw him out, four older brothers, hard men. Jamie knocked him senseless,” she drank from the orange juice they had invited her to. “Someone even called the police, but the brothers ran Donnie out of town, they don’t want him near their mother. We were terrified for Rhona, he always said he’d find her.”

“Did he?” asked Strike.

“Och, yes,” Margaret lamented. “She lives in Glasgow now, got a job in a travel agent’s… but he still found her. But he’d been ill, wasn’t the same. Some kind of arthritis… Rhona said he’d gotten very fat. But her fiancé, Ben, he’s a policeman, they’re married now, and then he kicked Donald out. They can’t have children because…” she started crying. “That bastard stuck a knife in her…!”

Robin’s eyes widened in horror and she rushed to offer Margaret a pack of tissues from her purse. Strike frowned lightly.

“They breed German…” Margaret blew her nose, murmuring a thank you to Robin that was muffled by the tissue. “German Shepherds now…”

As hungry as Strike and Robin felt, the hunger had vanished after that information came, and they sat back from their plates. Strike decided to change the course of conversation a little.

“She and Laing had a baby though, right? He must be a grown child now, right?”

“He died…” and to his horror, Margaret began crying again.

“Excuse me, I’m gonna…” Robin moved and went to get a glass of port, which she returned with and put in front of Mrs Bunyan on the table. “Here, drink this.”

“Thank you, thank you,” Margaret gave her a tearful smile and took a long sip of it. Strike remembered Aunt Joan always regarded pot as medicinal, and he briefly wondered if it was something of the elderly, something Robin’s parents did too. “It was c-cot death, he was always sick… Donnie telephoned from jail and threatened to kill Rhona, accused her of…” she took another long sip of port, and dabbed her eyes, taking a deep breath. “Ben’s been keeping an eye, tracking him down. Apparently Donald went to Gateshead, and never bothered them again.”

“Good,” Strike nodded. “Laing and Rhona married young, isn’t it?”

“Too young… she was fifteen when they started dating. We didn’t like it, hadn’t heard anything good of him… a young girl said he’d raped her, we tried to warn Rhona… but she was so stubborn always. But all the Laing brothers were always trouble with the police and all, and still, they hated Donald, there was a rumour… that he wasnae the father’s. The parents were always fighting… the rumour said Donnie was of a policeman, and Mr Laing never liked him at all. He was the wildest of them all, big… got into rugby sevens, but they kicked him out, no discipline, he was a vandal and sadistic. Then boxing. He could be so charming though, when he wanted to, but if you pissed him off… Walter’s barn was set fire after he sacked Donnie. But Rhona didn’t listen, said he was just misunderstood, that we were narrow-minded.”

“So Rhona never saw how bad he was, until he hurt her?” asked Robin carefully.

“No, we told he she was making a mistake, when they married in secret… but she ran with him to Cyprus. They lost a child, miscarriage… and then… you know the rest,” Margaret buried a hand in her purse and pulled out a small stack of photographs held together with an elastic, which she handed Strike. “There, so you know how he looked last… I keep them just in case… Gateshead, that’s where he went after he found Rhona in Glasgow.”

After she was gone, Strike and Robin ate their fish and chips and then sat thoughtfully. Strike dug in his coat and pulled out the folded road map, opening it on the table. While he drew routes with his finger and thought of what to do next, Robin’s phone rung and she excused herself to attend it, hurrying outside. Strike checked his own phone, and saw Wardle had texted him, commenting he’d seen a ton of press at Denmark Street harassing him and asking he was still there. Strike answered where he was and why, and they agreed to meet whenever he was in London. Next, his phone buzzed with a call from Elin, so he answered it only to maintain an unsatisfying conversation in which she lamented he wouldn’t be back for her Radio Three violin concert, because his trip was going to drag longer.

When Robin finally came, she looked pale and a little tearful, but Strike assumed it was just the weight of the story they’d heard from Mrs Bunyan.

“Family all right?” asked Strike, assuming it was her mother calling.

“Yeah… so what are you pondering? Visit to Gateshead?”

“If you have no hurry to return to London, and considering our two clients aren’t so urgent and we’ll lose them anyway if we don’t catch this guy soon… I would like to drive to Gateshead now, yes, and then Barrow-in-Furness. If we have time we’ll get to Corby, otherwise tomorrow on our way to London, is not to far.”

“Corby?” Robin asked, confused.

“I saw a Donald Laing in Corby when I researched online,” said Strike. “If we find him in Gateshead then there’ll be no need, anyway.”

“Okay,” she nodded. “Yes, we should do this. Whenever you’re ready, I’m good to go. You tell me the route?”

“Count on it.”

For the nearly two hours they required to get to Gateshead, Robin was exceptionally quiet and serious, eyes on the road, determined and concentrated. Strike, who wasn’t feeling too chirpy either after chatting with Mrs Bunyan and hearing the tough story of Rhona, focused on staring at the map on his knees and giving Robin accurate indications as they drove south, luckily, through a sunny day that made the beautiful landscapes a nice consolation.

After an hour surveying Gateshead, they had two neighbours who told them Laing’s gone to Corby, so they slumped, tired, back in the car. Before Robin could keep driving, though, Strike’s phone rang and it was Laing. The first thing he said into Strike’s ear was to put him on speaker, that he needed to talk with both he and Robin urgently.

“They found the rest of the body. They haven’t ID’d her yet, not formally, but they think she’s a twenty-four year old woman from Ukrainia, whose landlady found her dismembered in a dridge-freezer in her own flat, right leg’s missing.”

Robin’s stomach closed.

“Where’s the flat?” asked Strike.

“Conigham Road, Shepher’d Bush. Ring any bells?”

“Oh no,” said Robin suddenly. “That’s the address of the girl who wrote to you saying she wanted to cut off her own leg!” she said horrified to Strike.

“Then you were right, he found her in online chat boards for… what was the word?” asked Strike.

“Acrotomophiliacs. People who feel they should be disabled in some way,” said Robin, supposing Wardle would need the explanation.

“That’s a good theory,” said Wardle.

“But that woman didn’t have a Ukrainian name,” said Robin. “It was something like Kelsey, Kylie?”

“Yes, Kelsey. I think she was using a fake name,” said Wardle. “I think she was a prostitute, so… wouldn’t want her real name out. Anyway, Strike, I need you here at the office, we found letters, fake ones pretending to be you writing to her, at her flat. Signed wrong, as Cameron, but my boss would rip me a new one if I didn’t interrogate you here.”

“I’m sorry Wardle, we’re really far, even if we started driving to London now, we wouldn’t be there until tomorrow. We’ve got an old Land Rover, can’t make it go too fast,” Strike lied. “But you can ask me anything on the phone, and I promise you as soon as we hit London, I’ll go straight to you, bag and all. Or I could talk with another copper if you got friends up here?” he wanted to make it clear he wanted to collaborate, if someone was trying to set him up.

“Fine, we’ll wait until tomorrow. But be here as soon as you can, please. So you didn’t send any letters back, neither of you?”

“Cormoran didn’t even look at them until we got the leg and I insisted,” said Robin, “he dismisses the crazy letters all the time, and I file them just in case, but none of us ever replies.”

“Exactly,” said Strike.

“Well the first letter this murderer wrote pretending to be Strike says he indeed arranged the removal of his own leg, and the story of the IED was an elaborate cover-up. Then the killer agreed to help her with her own encumbrance and asked when they could meet face to face. There was an agreement on July 31^st at 7pm in a Whitechapel building, which suggests she wrote back to you.”

“No,” said Strike, and then he remembered his vision. “That day was my brother Harry’s birthday, I took him to shoot paint balls, you can call him in St Mawes and ask him yourself. Plenty of witnesses. He’d come to London because we had our first niece in July, our sister Lucy gave birth, she lives in Bromley and can confirm too. Harry turned fifteen, and as a minor he came with his adoptive parents, my Uncle Ted and Aunt Joan, and they can witness Harry and I made the plans at the hospital days before, after meeting our niece, so I’ve got a solid alibi Wardle.”

“That’s great to hear! Nutter should’ve invented better.”

“Also,” added Strike, as they sat in the car with the ignition off, “I know it won’t stand in court, but I think you’ve got the wrong woman Wardle, I think the body is not that Ukrainian woman. Remember the vision I had, it was a young teenage girl, and I could see Whitechapel written on a board in bright lights through the window before the girl was asphyxiated to death. Pretty sure that’s our victim, if you say they met in Whitechapel.”

“She goes thinking she’s going to meet you, thinking you will help her get rid of her leg, and meets her killer,” said Wardle. “Gotta say, this was well planned. Did you get any more letters from Kelsey?”

“No, we sent you everything we had,” said Robin. “It was months ago.”

“All right, I believe you, someone’s trying to frame Strike, but it doesn’t hang together. With that alibi and the evidence against him not hanging together, my bosses won’t nag me if Strike doesn’t appear here for a few days. Will tell them you’re willing to speak with any cop in the North or videoconference with us from a police station over there if we need you to. But I should tell you this; be careful. This woman was brutally stabbed to death, look over your shoulders wherever you go. Now, Does the name Oxana Voloshina mean anything to either of you?”

“No,” they replied at once.

“It was the Ukrainian woman’s real name, she provided real ID and claimed to be a student when she signed the tenancy agreement. Seemed to have good English…”

“I think she’s not a prostitute, Wardle,” said Robin. “I think you’re wrong. I think you don’t have Oxana, and you should find where she is, because if a dead teenager appeared dead in her flat, she could be in serious danger too.”

“Not much faith in me, uh?” Wardle asked with amusement.

“Just the police. Didn’t do great with Mrs Leonora Quine,” Leonora Quine, their previous victim’s wife, had been unfairly accused of his murder by DI Anstis, and she’d actually spent time in prison before Strike, Ilsa, Robin and Wardle managed to get her out.

“That’s all right. Would it be okay if we switch to video-call? I want to show you photographs of the body parts, see if any of you recognise her. Perhaps you’ve seen her around, if she was stalking Strike? Any of you?”

“Sure,” said Strike.

“It’s okay if you don’t look Robin,” said Wardle as soon as his face appeared on screen, Strike holding his phone for them both.

“She should look, we work the same jobs, she’s got as much of a chance of having seen her as me,” said Strike. “She’s not just some secretary, after all.”

Robin took it as an unexpected compliment, and the reservations she was having vanished. She wanted to be brave and tough like him, to be able to look at those photographs, to be equals with him, at least professionally. But when the photographs appeared in the screen, the head best preserved because it was in the freezer, other parts slightly rotten, she nearly threw up, covering her mouth with her hand and opening the window to get fresh air. She couldn’t stop looking in horror, even as her intestines liquefied. Beside her, Strike looked horrified himself.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, scowling in shock. “That’s… woah.”

That wasn’t encouraging. The severed head sat on what remained of its neck, staring blindly at them, its eyes so frosted their colour was invisible. The mouth gaped darkly, her brow hair was stiff and icy, her cheeks full and chubby, acne all over her face. She looked young.

“I don’t…” Robin shook her head.

“She’s the woman I saw in my vision,” said Strike, horrified. “That’s the woman I saw. The teenager. Her eyes were brown.”

“That’s what I thought, for what you had described, nobody has called identifying her yet,” said Wardle. “Perhaps the portrait wasn’t so good, our digital designers will do a better one with this. She has a 1D tattoo on her wrist.”

“One Direction,” said Robin. “It’s a pop band. My cousin likes it, they’re young boys, were in The X Factor seven years ago. Popular amongst the youth. If she looks this bad,” Wardle appeared back at the screen, watching them attentively as he listened, “how come nobody heard she was being…?”

She gulped awkwardly.

“Converted house full of students, always loud music, people coming and going all hours… they smelled something bad, that’s when the landlady was phoned to come check. Poor thing’s in hospital, got a heart attack when she found this.”

Half an hour after Wardle had hung up, the Land Rover hadn’t moved a bit, and Robin was still gone. As soon as the call had ended she had walked out into the parking lot excusing herself in a small voice, wandered off the side of the road behind some bushed, Strike watching her hair from the car, and she had doubled over behind the bushes, likely throwing up.

For half an hour, Strike watched her while having a couple cigarettes standing by the vehicle, his back supported on it, and when he saw her finally crutch down, her arse, part of her back and part of her hair visible out of the bushes while the rest hid behind them, Strike opened the car to retrieve her tissues, grab a disposable glass, fill it with tea from the thermos, and then he walked with both things, closing the car behind him, out of the parking and to Robin.

“I’m sorry I made you look,” said Strike, truly apologetic. “I truly thought it could be useful. Should’ve looked myself first, in case I could identify her without you.”

Robin’s ponytail had gotten a bit dishevelled as she heaved, and when she turned around to look at him, she was pale, clammy and sweaty. Strike handed her the tissues and the tea and for a few moments, she looked away, freshening up, using the tea to wash her mouth and spit behind the bushes, where Strike couldn’t see -and he stood far enough to give her privacy- and then she stood up, a little faint from having lost all the food in her stomach, drinking the rest of her tea and taking a deep breath before looking at her.

“No, I would’ve wanted to see anyway. I would’ve insisted,” said Robin. “I’m sorry I…” she gesticulated awkwardly behind her. “I know we’re on a tight schedule…”

“It’s fine, really. Wardle’s going to try to keep this under wraps more, and you heard him, we’re not on a rush any more, he’ll probably confirm my alibi with my family and then they’ll back off for a bit. And I’ve lost my own appetite, so I get it. The only reason I’m not throwing my guts out is because I’ve become a little desensitized over the years, hopefully you’ll never have to.”

“Yeah…” Robin nodded, finishing her tea and hugging herself. “So someone’s trying to frame you.”

“No… I think it’s weirder. Terrorism, trying to put the wind up us, disrupt our lives. Now I get called into the Yard, we only have two clients left, and I’m pretty sure we’ve been followed around in London. This psycho hacked a woman to bits, I’m honestly worried… can’t be the first, can it? One wouldn’t automatically become an expert in butchering someone in the first attempt, right?”

“Right…”

“The killer had pleasure doing this Robin. Sadistic maniac with a grudge against me who likes making them bleed… could be any of Brockbank and Laing, but I don’t know if either has actually killed before. Could be, perhaps… it does tell us the kind of danger we’re up against. Look, we could… you could stay in Masham, we’re not too far, are we? I can grab the train to London…”

“I’m not sitting this one out,” said Robin firmly. “If someone’s trying to kill any of us, or scare us away or whatever… I want to catch him, not sit at home doing nothing,” her eyes had gotten uncharacteristically fiery and angry now.

“Look, if Laing’s that bad with arthritis, it’s either Brockbank or we got it all wrong and is someone else,” determined Strike. “Brockbank is a big guy, TBI or not, if he was capable of hacking someone to bits like this it means he’s recovered some over the years, he’ll do purée with you, Robin, no self-defence course… he’s a soldier! He’s been trained to kill people bigger, more cruel and far more dangerous, armed to their teeth!”

“And if it’s me who he wants, he’ll find me in Masham too, and kill my whole family!” Robin pointed out with an angry roar and tearful eyes, conscious, for the first time, that her own family might be in danger too. “Look at Laing, he found Rhona in Glasgow. If I hide in Masham, half my family is there Strike, my parents, three brothers, the youngest is just turning twenty-four this week! If the monster who did this gets to the farm, which is right next to my parents’ house, it’ll be my uncle and aunt too, my cousins, their kids, my months’ old niece!” she was so angry, Strike was taken aback, specially when she stepped towards him, jabbing a finger in his chest. “And then what Strike?! Half my family dead, ‘cause you decided I couldn’t continue working! Well I’m safer in London, there’s less at stake in London, Max isn’t even at the apartment half the time filming ‘The Musketeers’, and it’s a fifth floor anyway…! So I’m not stepping back! I’m not relenting! I’m going to help you catch this killer even if it is the bloody last thing I do, because my family’s lives matter more to me than your feelings!!!”

Her voice had been raising exponentially by the minute until it got hoarse and she backed down, hugging herself and pacing away, seemingly crying quietly. Strike was so baffled, so taken aback, he didn’t know if he should be angry, worried, or surprised, or even all of it at once. He wondered briefly if Robin was on the special time of the month, but then shook his head, deciding he wasn’t about to be the most sexist boss in the world, and he took a deep breath, lighting another fag and giving it a long drag.

Chapter Text

Chapter 18: Under pressure.

For a long moment, Strike and Robin stood at a distance from each other, between the parking lot where the Land Rover remained parked, and a handful of bushes and trees, by the side of the A167, in the middle of the city. They had had to ask first in the council hall and then, when they’d been told the neighbourhood where Laing had lived, ask around for another long time until they found neighbours who told them Laing was long gone, one of which mentioned Corby. Now, after what felt like the weirdest fight he had ever had, Strike eyed Robin’s back, finishing his third fag in the last few minutes. She had made him think of Lucy, his nephews and his new niece, in London, and fear the killer would touch them. Robin had Annabel, her eight months niece, to think about.

Not for the first time Strike was in a situation where a woman was furious at him and he wasn’t sure how to resolve the situation. That morning, Elin hadn’t been happy either. Usually he waited for them to eventually turn around an apologize, but some women never gave in first. Ilsa, for example, unless she was absolutely certain it was all her fault, which wasn’t usual, or unless it was with Nick, to whom Strike had seen her apologize profusely and sincerely, wrong or not, after any odd row they’d ever had in his presence, which in over two decades had been such a small amount of times, Strike could have counted them with one hand. To Strike, Ilsa had almost never apologized first. Then again, it had almost never been her fault any fight they’d had. He had a feeling Robin would be the same, and for her, he’d apologize first; he liked Robin, deeply, and enjoyed working with her and had to see her daily. They were in a tense situation of life and death, stuck together, he couldn’t let their team crack under pressure. But he wasn’t sure exactly what for.

At last, he took a deep breath, stepped on his remaining cigarette and threw it in a small dumpster nearby where Robin had previously thrown the disposable glass, before walking towards her. She seemed lost in thought now, her eyes sadly lost in her feet, her face pale, her blue-grey eyes reddened from crying. Her nose and lips were a little swollen and red too, from the tears.

“Listen, Robin—,” he begun softly, but she interrupted, looking at him and this time speaking gently, hoarse.

“I’m very sorry, I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that, it’s inexcusable, I know, you’re my boss after all and I overstepped. If you don’t want me to go back to work, fine, but respectfully, I won’t go to Masham, if you’re telling me I’m in such danger. I’ll uh… I’ll speak with Max and ask if he and Wolfgang can go with his boyfriend for a few days, since I’ve nowhere else to go and no money and shouldn’t be endangering people in a bed and breakfast… at least if the killer finds me it’ll be just me,” she said determined, sounding strangely calm.

“No,” said Strike, but not too firm, wanting to keep a tender tone. “Listen, you are completely right. Close to our families, we endanger them, so we’re going to stay away from London as long as we can. We’re going to Barrow-In-Furness and Corby, take our time… if police have anything to argue, they can come talk to me. And when we get to London, we’ll see, okay? We’ll make a new plan. But you’re right, you need to stay working, he might be following us but if he felt it was safe to attack you while you work, you’d be dead already, and you’re invaluable to the team, we’ll catch him faster with you in it. Waiting at home… it’ll be like asking to be killed,” Robin seemed relieved at his decision.

“Thanks, Cormoran. I’m sorry, we’ll… I’m fine to drive now, we can keep going.”

“Before we keep going,” said Strike, putting a hand on her shoulder softly. “I know there’s something you’re not telling me and I know you’re not all right— save it,” he added as she opened her mouth to make excuses, “I don’t appreciate lies any more than you do and I’m a detective. If you were all right, no amount of disgusting photographs and pressure would’ve made you snap at me like that, I know you, you’re far too professional, you respect me far too much you’d sooner stomp on your own feet, and I’ve been seen those eyebags grow day after day for several days now, I know you’re emotionally exhausted and I appreciate all you’re doing and how properly you’re focusing on the job and staying useful for the investigations and focused and brilliant as you are, I know it’s not easy. I’ve done this since I was way younger than you are, I know when personal life sucks, it gets particularly hard to stand the most life-threatening and high-pressure situations at work. And a teenager is dead, caught in this grudge, I feel guilty too, it’s not just you. I know whatever it is you’re going through— I know when it’s the right time, you’ll tell me, because I’ve always told you everything, and we’re a team, and we trust each other and we’ve always been there for each other, and you know you can count on me. But until then,” added Strike, both hands on her shoulders now, staring at her right into her sad, surprised eyes, “I’m here, Ellacott. I’ve got you, I’ve got this. I’m sorry if I hurt you somehow, but I’m not going to let anything happen to your family, I promise you. If it makes you feel better, we’ll tell Wardle to send someone to patrol around the farm now and then, just to keep an eye out. And you are not losing your job just because some killer is trying to get under our skin if I’ve got any say in it, okay? We’re going to get out of this mess, and we’re going to be okay, and at the end of this… a dangerous people will be unable to cause any harm ever again. Keep your eyes on the price.”

Robin nodded and she released a deep sigh, moving to hug him. Strike hugged her back, gave her a gentle squeeze, and a kiss on the top of her head. And then, before anybody could do something more than they’d regret, Robin walked off back towards the Land Rover.

For what they had researched, Noel Brockbank’s pension had been sent to an old family address where a Holly Brockbank now lived in Barrow-in-Furness. When they arrived at the address at past six in the evening, delayed by the mostly useless visit to Gateshead, Wardle’s call and the subsequent much-needed break, and they were still hoping they’d be able to locate Holly and talk to her, hoping she’d know where Noel was, and if it was possible he’d been around London sending legs.

Thrice during the nearly three hours long road trip to Barrow-in-Furness, Robin’s phone rang, and she ignored it, only to check who’d rung whenever she could stop at a red light or a traffic sign, but never making any particular expression or comment about it, or calling or texting back. After the second time she’d silenced it, so they’d just heard it buzzing in the purse in the back seat, where Robin had thrown it.

“Could Holly be Noel?” asked Robin when she finally parked at a narrow street facing a pub in Barrow, all of a sudden. “Sex change?”

Strike snorted a laugh at the mental picture.

“God I hope not. Six foot eight, high heels, with a cauliflower ear,” he couldn’t help giggling. “God helps the man who has to put up with that…”

“Oh sod off,” Robin said kindly, with a hint of amusement. She was visibly more relaxed after they’d talk. “A sister or a wife then, well if it’s a wife we’ll know at least he’s far from Brittany then, right?”

“Hopefully,” Strike nodded. Then his phone buzzed. “Wardle again… What’s up mate? Awful needy today I see.” Strike’s smile faded and he listened for a long moment. At last, he hung up and turned to Robin. “Her name is Kelsey Platt. Sixteen, lived with her older sister and brother-in-law, parents died years ago in a car accident. Oxana has been in Donetsk, back home, for two months, family wedding and also the holidays, wasn’t planning on returning until September. Kelsey’s sister saw the police portrait on the news, the papers… she says Kelsey had nailed a summer job and had been staying at a classmate’s house all summer, because they lived closer, but Kelsey hadn’t introduced them. Apparently Kelsey wasn’t very communicative, a teenager, always on her own… which is why the family didn’t report her missing, they thought she was with her friend and when she didn’t answer calls, they figured she was busy studying and working or something. The sister works a lot, and so does her husband, a fireman, so they didn’t see the photograph until today. Wardle thinks Kelsey was lying, because nobody has reported a missing employee or a missing friend, he thinks she went to Oxana’s flat, because they were classmates at an afternoon course… Wardle is hoping to talk to Oxana soon, she was unavailable before and they could only talk to her mother, who doesn’t know much.”

“Poor Kelsey,” Robin sighed deeply. “Well… how do we find Noel Brockbank?”

“Let’s ask that neighbourhood,” said Strike, and they strolled purposefully to a middle-aged worker who was smoking in what seemed like a factory uniform. “You do it,” he added with a murmur, “you’re charming!”

“Good evening sir,” said Robin politely.

“Londoners?” the man took a long drag of his cigarette. “Wha’ brings th’all the way to Barra?” Strike saw with amusement how Robin seemed to need a moment to understand, and he decided to help a bit.

“Looking for our old friend Noel Brockbank, but nobody’s answer at home. We thought perhaps you knew him, you knew where he might be… we want to surprise him,” said Strike.

“Noel? Not Holly?”

“Oh we’d love to see Holly, if she’s around,” said Robin with fake but realistic enthusiasm.

“She’ll be at work noo… Bak’ry awwer in Vickerstown. Not sure if it’s too late… Or, tha can try the Crow’s Nest, she’s usually there.”

“Thanks, so kind of you, we appreciate it,” said Robin with a smile and the man half smiled, tilting his hat as a salute and nodding before leaving down the road.

“See? You’re charming.”

“So what do we do?”

“I think we should try the pub, at this hour it’s only a matter of time. You stay in the car, I don’t want to give any Brockbank a chance to—,”

“You can’t interview her, she’d recognize you, she’ll tell Noel. But I know how to do it.”

“He’s a nutcase, he’ll—,”

“Cormoran,” Robin gave him a stern look, but she had a shadow of amusement, “I have a plan.”

Strike had never thought that there would come the day when he would hate how smart and brilliant Robin was, because he hated the plan so much, but he had to admit, an hour later as Robin emerged out of a supermarket’s restroom wearing a summer dress and a professional jacket she’d dug out her bag, that the plan was brilliant. Robin was now adjusting her make-up and brushing her hair staring at her reflection in the rear view mirror, and Strike observed her impatiently. They’d moved the Land Rover to a car park behind the Crow’s Nest, where Ferry and Stanley Roads met.

“Be extremely careful,” said Strike with pleading eyes. “And at the slightest sight of trouble, you will please…”

“I know,” Robin pocketed a brand new stack of cards they’d just had made, and adjusted her jacket. “Good thing I decided to bring this along, I thought perhaps there’d be dress code at the SIB… anyway, I’m ready. Wait here, don’t move, don’t let anybody see you.”

“Easy peasy I’m only over six foot,” said Strike ironically and Robin rolled eyes but smiled small, leaving the car.

A couple minutes later Robin texted him she was indeed at the pub, so he waited patiently, eating biscuits out of pure nervousness and anxiety, and then a while later, Robin texted Strike again to inform him Brockbank wasn’t in Barrow nor with family, that Holly was his younger sister and was drunk, and that Holly was about to go for a cig, so he should lie down. Strike did so and watched Holly smoke at the far distance, a female and fat version of Noel Brockbank.

An hour later, Robin and Strike sat together at the Land Rover, in the outskirts of Barrow, drinking McEwan’s and having fish and chips. Robin had told him everything Holly had confided to her, thinking Robin, or better said, Venetia Hall, was going to give her a big fat economic compensation for all the trauma she’d experienced due to Brockbank. Robin had been right; their father had sexually abused both twins, then Noel had done it to her, she had serious PTSD.

“So his wife left him,” said Strike, who still looked impressed and astonished of Robin’s good job, making her feel more flattered. “And Holly says he hasn’t seen the kids since… then Brittany should be safe?”

“Hopefully. But now we know he hasn’t forgotten, he still hates your guts, blames you, and is still abusing little girls, is more recovered, holding down jobs and lurking around little girls,” said Robin. “And we don’t know where he is. Went to Manchester, but he left and Holly didn’t know where else he’s gone. He gives her his pension to keep her quiet.”

Her phone buzzed and Robin checked it, but again, ignored it. Strike frowned.

“Who have you been ignoring all day?” Strike asked. Robin looked like a deer caught in highlights.

“I’ve lots to tell you, don’t I?” she commented, and sighed. “But before, we need to figure out our plan for tonight. I’m knackered, can’t drive much longer or I’ll risk an accident, and we shouldn’t stay in Barrow, in case you’re seen by any friends of Noel… if he’s so angry it wouldn’t surprise me he’s told everyone about you, and those guys are all huge.”

“We could go to Lancaster, is not too far.”

“Or,” said Robin, “we could go to Masham. We could spend the night at my parents’, leave in the morning. Nobody’s followed us here so chances are we’re safe to go there, as long as we’re not going from London, and not staying long.”

“Masham?”

“It’s a bit over two hours from here, and we won’t spend the money we don’t have in another bed and breakfast and more food in the street. We’ve been gone for nearly two days,” said Robin, “we’ve spent a bunch of money in gas, food, drinks… and Stephen, my big brother, he has his own house in Masham, so his room is free for you, I bet it’s clean and neat. We could arrive there by ten or so, have a proper dinner if you’re hungry, go to bed, and tomorrow morning I can ask my Mum to borrow some more food and fill up the tea thermos, and then we go to Corby, it’s about three hours south from Masham, almost a straight line. We could be in London by dinner time.”

Strike pondered her plan. They were down to two clients who weren’t paying much, and they had spent quite the amount of money. And Masham didn’t require deviating from their route to Corby and London.

“All right,” Strike nodded.

“I’ll call my Mum,” Robin phoned her. “She’ll be excited… hi Mum! All good, listen, how do you feel about a surprise visit uh?” she smiled, and Strike could hear Linda Ellacott’s excitement. “Excellent. Cormoran and I came to Scotland for work yesterday, we were on our route back to London, two hours from Masham now and thinking where to spend the night and I thought, let’s hit Masham, uh? Say hi to everyone. Just for the night though, we really ought to leave in the morning but… yeah… I thought so. Is Stephen’s room available for Cormoran? Wonderful, thanks Mum. Oh, there’s no need… well, if you insist… yes, I’m sure Cormoran will love it. Thanks Mum, love you, see you soon,” she hung up and smiled at Strike. “I hope you’re hungry because Jon’s birthday falls mid-week so they’re using tonight, being Saturday, to have a big dinner to celebrate, so they’ll be eating a little later. They’ll start without us, but Mum’s going to make sure they leave some cake for us, and some lamb, if you’re not full?”

Strike’s stomach growled, despite the fact that he’d just eaten a large fish and chips, and Robin, who wasn’t really hungry, chuckled.

“I… really like lamb,” Strike muttered, embarrassed, and Robin laughed openly, which made him smile. He appreciated her on a good mood, specially if he was responsible.

“All right, we’ll talk there, okay? Better hurry up now, knowing my Mum, she won’t go to bed until she sees us safely inside. You’ll spend the night at Stephen’s room, lucky you he’s the cleanest of my brothers, and the most responsible, you’ll feel right at home.”

“Shouldn’t we bring something? If it’s Jon’s birthday and since they’re inviting me and all?”

“I brought Jon’s present with me, just in case we could pass by,” said Robin, “it’s in my bag. And…” she looked thoughtful. “Well, it’s an unplanned trip, it’s not like we can buy anything now, everything’s closed.”

“First pub open we see, I pass by and buy a couple bottles of Whiskey, uh?” Strike suggested. “D’you think they’ll like that?”

“Sure,” Robin nodded. “Mum’s family’s originally from Scotland. My great-grandparents, long dead. But they still value a good Scotch, good idea. Should be easy around here.”

Robin began to drive, sometimes a little too fast if she saw the road deserted and no controls, which didn’t make Strike as nervous as it would had it been anyone else, because he knew Robin was a Fernando Alonso and wasn’t going to crash, and he knew she was tired and trying to get there as soon as possible before she fell asleep somewhere.

It was quite dark when they finally went through the new Masham, two bottles of Scotch brand new between Strike’s foot, and Strike lamented in the darkness it was hard for him to appreciate the town’s beauty, excited as he was to get to know his friend’s home town. Robin, however, moved in a way that convinced Strike she could’ve driven the way blind, if she had wanted to. At least, they arrived to a little square just in the outer part of Masham, with an authentic, cute rock water well in the middle, round and with a little roof, a stone floor, and a few parked cars in front of a large, stone, grey house of two stories plus, if Strike had to guess, attic. The windows in the ground floor were all illuminated with light from inside, and they could hear noise from partying. There were only a couple of houses more, smaller ones, in the square, but they all looked to be in silence, lights off.

There was a lamp post turned on by the well, and after they gathered their belongings, Robin led them to the bigger house, which had a thick entry door after a couple steps illuminated by a couple wall lamps. Robin pulled a large old key from her pocket, inside a key chain with other keys, and opened the door. Nearly at once, a large dark Labrador barked and rushed to them, forcing Robin to move aside, setting her bags on the floor of a small hallway, to squat down and fondly pet and hug who could only be Rowntree. Strike let himself in, closing and locking the door after himself, and smiled softly at the scene. Rowntree was jumping up and down, then putting his front paws on Robin’s shoulders and, while she withstood his weight, licking her face and wagging his tail energetically, while Robin rubbed his thick hair lovingly.

“Hi big boy, did you miss me?” she was saying, smiling and using the same sharp and tender tone people used with kids. Strike observed that the house seemed empty, and the noise of party and conversation came from the back. “I know, I missed you too handsome, hi… yeah… come on, let me introduce you to my friend Cormoran,” she stood up, cleaning her face with her sleeve, and Rowntree noticed Strike, rushing to be pet. Strike, who was fond of dogs and worked with them in the army, patted him gently with a heavy hand on his head.

“Hi there,” said Strike with a small smile. “He’s huge.”

“He is, but won’t bite, he’s a total sweetie. Dad got him when we were teens hoping it’d scare off intruders, you can imagine the fail that was,” Robin snorted a laugh. “He won’t hurt a fly, he’s just old and gets super excited sometimes. Where’s everybody Rowntree? Probably outside… well, I’ll lead you to your room so you can leave your stuff if you want?”

“Sure, thanks.”

Strike followed her and Rowntree up a staircase that divided in two halves, and that left them in a larger hallway with six doors.

“That’s the bathroom,” Robin pointed to one of them. “My room, then Stephen’s,” he’d be sleeping right next door then, “my brothers’ rooms in front, and my parent’s at the back,” Robin pointed out. “But Martin lives in a little flat at the Square now, so he won’t spend the night, and Stephen, Jenny and Annabel will return to their house later too, so it’ll just be us and Jon. There’s also another bathroom downstairs by the kitchen if you need to, and my parents have their own, so…” she shrugged. “You won’t have to compete so much to get your turn.”

“That’s okay, in my uncle’s house in St Mawes we only have one bathroom, and we’ve been five there at times, more when my sister’s been with Greg and the boys,” said Strike. “Sometimes I had to sleep on the sofa and all. This house is great Robin, your parents must make good money.”

“Oh, not really,” Robin opened the door to her room, threw her bags in, and then opened Stephen’s room and guided him inside. “It’s an old house, the wooden floors creak constantly… my Mum’s grandparents bought the land like a hundred years ago, built a little cottage and a stable for the horses. Then after they died, my grandfather inherited the area, and he took down the cottage and the stable, and instead built the farm, which is behind the house, we’re separated by the lands of pasture only, the stable there, and this house, and the other two in front. He sold the smaller two to neighbours and then built this one big, so he could rent rooms and make extra money. But my family’s actually pretty humble we just… well, things were cheap in the area then. Next to London…” she shrugged. “Anyway, this is all yours.”

Strike nodded, looking around. It was a small room no doubt, but big enough for a double bed, with a portable crib empty in one corner, a bookshelf half emptied out, a couple bedside cabinets, some shelves, and a large closet. Stephen kept his walls white, very few photos, and not many personal belongings. Strike imagined he must’ve taken most of this things to his own marital home.

“Very nice,” said Strike sincerely. “It’s so kind of him to let me stay. How do I know which one is him, to thank him?”

“About as huge as you, everyone in the family is quite large actually… strong, fit, wide-shouldered, square jaw, beard, looks more like me. Martin and my Dad are the only brunettes, and Jon looks as young as he is, so it should be easy for you. I’d say Stephen looks a bit like the traditional idea of a Scottish warrior, but actually very tender.”

Once Robin had organised things in her room a little and grabbed Jon’s birthday present, and they’d both had bathroom trips, Strike took the bottles of Scotch and they walked back downstairs, then to a small door behind the stairs, that led to a well-illuminated, wild little backyard. It was cobble stoned, surrounded by a half-length wall of rocks covered by ivy, with a couple large trees, and what seemed like a little shed on the far side. At the back, a little fenced door led to miles of land for the animals, the pasture, Strike imagined. The backyard was well-lit, with some little lamps on the walls and candles on the large table at the centre, and Strike saw they arrived for the end of the party, judging by the way everyone seemed well-satisfied and relaxed, their appetites satiated.

Chapter Text

Chapter 19: The Ellacotts.

Everyone stood up excitedly to hug Robin and shake hands with Strike, and he was warmly welcomed and introduced to everybody. Robin had been right; it wasn’t hard for Strike to tell who was who. Michael Ellacott, her father, was a large and broad bespectacled man who reminded Strike a bit of a handsomer version of Ted. Brunette and with clean, tender features, his hair was sprinkled with bits of white, but still kept most his colour, and he looked to be in his late fifties, like his wife, which meant they’d probably been parents young. Michael was a Maths professor at the University of York, and he was indeed large, clean-shaven, with dark eyes and dark brown hair, and large hairy hands, the warmest of smiles set towards his only daughter. Linda sat next to him, a shockingly near-identical version of Robin, but older, with bits of white roots in her hair, slightly shorter, and a little plump. The rest, from the blue-grey eyes to the round cheeks and the kind and tender demeanour, was all Robin’s in the former jockey.

Next to Linda sat Uncle Hamish, an older, manly version of Linda, with short, mostly white hair and a bit of a moustache and goatee, siting between his younger sister and his own wife, Aunt Lily, a blonde. Hamish and Lily were the big managers of the farm now, the main owners, but looked as humble and down to earth and the rest of the family, and judging by their calloused hands, they worked the land hard. The birthday boy, Jon, sat by his father and who he introduced as his girlfriend Waves, from Waverley. Jon had studied sciences at the same university Robin had gone to in Manchester, graduating the year before, and he was now a young paramedic, twenty-four the following week, who didn’t make enough just yet to move to Ripon, the nearby city where he worked, and where his girlfriend, a fellow paramedic, lived. The two would return there for the night, Strike had no doubt, to celebrate privately. Jon had a party hat over short strawberry blonde hair and looked a lot like Robin, with stubble, and a bit too slim. His girlfriend Waverley was as friendly as sympathetic as him, a brunette who hugged Robin as they were introduced -apparently the relationship had formalised shortly after Robin had returned to London after Easter- and gave both she and Strike big plates of cake.

Robin and Strike themselves took seats where everyone opened up and dragged chairs to make space for them, between Waverley and Stephen, who was just as Robin had described, and who happily told Strike there was no need at all to thank him when Strike profusely thanked the Ellacotts’ hospitality and particularly his, and handed them the Scotch, which was welcomed into the table with enthusiasm, even if everyone already looked tipsy. Stephen was a farm worker, a jockey in his free time, and a riding teacher at the academy, and his wife Jenny, who sat with him and who apparently had married him three years before after ‘many years’ together, was a veterinarian at the farm, although she attended all of Masham as well. Jenny was brunette too, with blue eyes, and held in her arms the sleeping baby that looked uncharacteristically like her Aunt Robin, in Strike’s opinion, which made him fond of the baby automatically as he was told everything about her birth and how the poor thing was now teething and had cried herself to sleep.

Martin, who Strike knew to be only a year younger than Robin and to work at the local pub, the only sibling aside from Robin who had dropped out of his education -and the only one whose reason didn’t seem to spark as much comprehension and understanding as Robin’s secret one- and in his case, had only studied for as long as it was strictly mandatory, sat between Stephen and Cousin Katie. He had dreams in the music industry, wore his brown hair mid-length in a little bun, and told Strike with enthusiasm, as if Strike worked in the music industry just because his father was a famous musician, that he was quite the decent guitarist and singer, but that his band still didn’t make enough to drop his job at the pub.

Katie was Robin’s favourite cousin. They hugged tight for a long moment, exchanging murmured words, and looking like sisters, and Katie, who Strike was told worked at the local Primary School teaching geography, cupped her cousin’s face in her hand smiling broadly at her before kissing her cheek hard, Strike getting to hear her say she was so happy to see her, and so happy she’d dumped Matthew. Strike hoped whatever had been weighting on Robin would leave her now, in the company of a family that clearly adored her.

The only other guests at the small birthday gathering where Katie’s husband Thomas, who sat between her and her mother, and the baby boy in his arms, a six-month old blonde little guy called Ewan, who was sleeping wrapped up in multiple blankets. For a few minutes as Strike and Robin devoured cake and began their new glasses of whiskey, the other eleven filled the table with conversation and laughter, commenting on anecdotes and going down memory line to recount some of birthday boy’s best stories. Strike was warmly included as an old friend, with the family frequently including him in conversation, and enquiring on his and his family’s well-being, and commenting how much they’d heard of him, how grateful they were he was ‘such a lovely friend to our Robin in London’ and how much they admired the work they did.

“Returning to London tomorrow then?” Katie asked her cousin, who had just finished her piece of cake, and looked ready to fall asleep. “I’d thought you’d come here for a bit, with the leg you were sent?” she added with a hint of worry.

“Oh, we came North to follow some leads about that and now… well, we ought to collaborate with the police in London, anyway we can. I’m not of much use up here,” said Robin casually, and Strike could tell she was trying to stay confidential. “Besides, if he wanted to kill me so much, he would have done it already. It’s been days, and it’s not hard for him to know where I work, so…” she shrugged. “I guess he was just trying to scare us, that’s all. One of my closest friends in London is a cop, so I’ve got backup in any case.” She was trying to keep her family calm, make things seem less horrible.

“We saw in the news it was a little girl, sixteen,” commented Uncle Hamish, leaning back in his chair holding his glass of whiskey. “They don’t know who did it then, do they?”

“We’ve got good friends in the police,” Strike was stretching the truth a bit, but he understood Robin’s need to protect her family, “and I’ve got some in the military too, looking into this. They’ll know who did it soon, their list of suspects is quite short for what we’ve heard. We checked some ourselves but it all leads back to London, so we’ll continue there. It seems like the victim had sent me letters in the office, she had some mental health issue… anyway, we never wrote her back, but the police want to ask us about that tomorrow at Scotland Yard, which is why we don’t want to get entertained here too long. We’re very thankful it was okay to stay here in such short notice.”

“Well this is Robin’s home still, and you’re welcomed here any time too, Cormoran, after all you’ve helped Robin,” said Linda kindly. “Consider this your home in the North!”

“Thanks a lot, Linda. I appreciate it.”

“How’s it going with Matthew, Robin?” asked Stephen. “We saw him around a few weeks by, was here on holiday I suppose. Looked miserable, which can’t say made me anything but happy.” He added with a little smirk.

“It’s not going,” replied Robin. “We’re broken up, and London’s big enough for the both of us to do our lives without seeing each other, ever.”

“Isn’t he going to try and win you back?” asked Aunt Lily, surprised. “As if he’s going to find anyone better!”

Robin snorted a laugh and shook her head.

“He’s with Sarah Shadlock now I assume, I don’t care,” said Robin. “He’s been texting and calling… he’s the one,” she added to Strike, blushing a little, “who kept texting me all day. He’s begging to have me back, but I’m ignoring him completely.”

“Good for you,” Strike nodded. “Guy’s a jerk.”

“Well said,” Martin nodded. “Have you met him Corm?”

“Only briefly, I helped Robin gather her stuff when she left him,” replied Strike. “He was just… well, not good enough. Nobody who cheats so much is good enough. One little mistake, once… dunno. But what he did wasn’t justifiable at all.”

He imagined the family knew Robin had originally hired him to investigate it, so there was no need to pretend he didn’t know the extent of what he’d done.

“Couldn’t have said it any better,” said Michael with a nod. “What a brat… plenty of fish in the sea. Plenty of young men in London, with manners and faithfulness, Robin. You just wait.”

“I have been dating, Dad,” said Robin, and she blushed hard when a bunch of eyes turned to her filled with surprise. Strike, who knew only from Ilsa and Lucy, and who otherwise had heard nothing or seen nothing, was the first one surprised she’d easily admit it.

“Have you?” Katie smiled. “There you go! Just test the waters, have some fun.”

“I— yes. My police friend…” Robin blushed a little harder, specially because Strike was there. But now he’s here as a friend, not as your boss. “She recommended me a good dating app made for women to feel safe. Nobody contacts you if you don’t, and you don’t have to give any photos or real name or any information you don’t want to give. I’ve met some guys there, nice ones, just gone on a couple dates, nothing serious. There’s this nurse, Cormac… he’s a real sweetie, so I’m sticking with him for now, don’t like to talk to more than one at once.”

“Cormac, uh? A nurse?” asked Linda with avid interest.

“Yeah, an ICU nurse. Works at a popular hospital down town, St Mary’s.” Strike didn’t know why, but he suddenly felt very jealous.

“That’s where the royal kids are always born!” commented Linda. “Must be good if he’s there.”

“I think so,” Robin nodded. “Anyway, we’ve only met a couple times over the summer… he works insane hours at the ICU, tons of night shifts, and I’ve my own crazy hours. But he’s very understanding and he doesn’t bugger me at all. We talk on the phone more often, texts me at least once a day just to check I’m doing okay,” she was glad to talk of the one thing in her life going well right then. “Sometimes we grab breakfast before work too. Anyway, he’s very nice, but yes, nothing serious yet. I’d rather not, for now. Just getting to know each other, that’s all. And he knows my relationship with Matthew ended badly, so he doesn’t push or anything, and it’s not like I need a man, I’m perfectly happy spending some time single after so many years with Matthew.”

“How long did you date him, if I might ask?” asked Waverley.

“Since high school,” said Robin. “Met when we were kids. His family lives near, that kind of thing, same school class and everything.”

“Oh, then it specially sucks, when you thought you knew him well,” Waverley sighed. “Boys are crap sometimes.”

“Not me!” said Jon with half a smile, and they laughed.

“Well not you, but you save lives for a living, it’s different,” said Waverley blushing. “I’m sorry, for a moment I thought you two…” she added to Robin and Strike, who both blushed.

“Oh no, no,” said Strike.

“We’re… he’s my boss and friend,” said Robin. “He’s got a girlfriend anyway, right Cormoran?”

“Yes,” Strike nodded. “Not that there’s anything wrong with Robin, I just— well obviously—,” he was only digging his grave, so he sighed. “I’m in a serious relationship.” That, again, was stretching the truth a lot, for what he and Robin knew. Robin’s phone buzzed in her pocket, and it was so quiet out there, under the many stars and without the rumble of the big city, that even the vibration against her leg was loud. She pulled out her phone and stared at her ex’s name on the screen. “You should answer or block him, or he won’t stop,” said Strike. “I can talk to him if you want.”

Robin meditated it for a moment.

“Got an idea. Be right back.”

She walked away, back into the house, and answered the call.

“Fucking finally! Robin—,”

“You’ve left several dozen calls and missing messages every day for weeks, and if you ever try to contact me again, I will call my lawyer Ilsa Herbert, I will call DI Vanessa Ekwensi of the Metropolitan Police, and I will have you arrested for harassment,” said Robin quickly, before he could say anything else. “The police can hold you under custody for at least twenty-four hours until I press charges, and in that time, I will take a video I have of you and Sarah Shadlock fucking at The Chelsea Harbour Hotel in mid January, and send it both to Sarah’s husband Tom Turvey and to your boss and their boss, and their boss’ boss at your company. Got it?” she said coldly and firmly.

There was a long silence and when she was about to hang up, he spoke, his tone conciliatory.

“Robin, I’m sorry I bothered you,” he began to cry. “I-I j-just… I love you! I c-can’t s-stop thinking… about you, ‘bout us…” he sobbed out.

“Oh please Matthew, those are the lyrics of ‘Just a dream’ by Nelly, d’you think I live under a rock?” she retorted.

“I mean it! I haven’t cancelled anything for the wedding… Sarah and I are done! It’s you that I want! Y-you’re the love of m-my life, you can’t do this to us!” he cried out. Robin narrowed her eyes, her blood boiling.

“Don’t you dare pin this on me, it was you who cheated, it was you who went to Sarah for consolation as soon as I was raped, and kept having an affair with her for four and a half years Matthew, this is entirely and solely your fault.”

“But I’m sorry!”

“And I don’t care! I don’t care how much you think you love me or want me, I don’t care about your feelings, I don’t care the fuck you date and the fuck you do with your life! I have my own life I love, I don’t love you, I don’t care about you, I don’t want you! And I have a boyfriend now, for God’s sakes, who’s twice the man you’ll ever be!”

“You what?!”

“You think you’re the only one allowed to have some fun? Cancel the wedding or pay the expenses of a one-sided wedding with only you at the altar, I don’t give a shit Matthew, but contact me once more, or anyone in my family, do one thing that bothers me, and I’ll ruin your life.”

“Are you threatening me now?”

“Damn right I am if that’s what it takes to get rid of you forever!” Robin shouted. “I’ll have Strike dig up all your bloody crap, he’ll be happy to! I’ll show Tom the three hundred photographs of you and Sarah snogging over several days, considering he’s higher-ranked and has more antiquity at your company, I know who your bosses are going to choose when Tom gives them an ultimatum, he or you! And once the videos of you fucking your colleague’s wife appear in the emails of every employee and boss of yours, I’d be surprised if anybody hires you ever again.”

“You do that and I’ll—!”

“You what?! Go on. Do the fuck you want Matthew, I’ve got a clean record you’ve got nothing on me, and I’m an open book, I’ve got nothing to hide, my loved ones know me, my boss knows me, nothing you could do or say would affect my job, my friendships, my life… fuck you Matthew. I’ve got cops who are some of my closest friends, you cause me any harm, and you will regret it for the rest of your miserable life.” She hung up and blocked his contact.

She took several deep breaths before returning to the table. She was knackered.

“Everything okay honey?” asked Linda with a worried frown.

“Yes, Mum, it’s just Matthew,” she shrugged. “But he won’t bother any more. The bloody tosser hadn’t cancelled the wedding, expecting me to go back, and then he started threatening—,”

“He threatened you?” Strike couldn’t help himself, turning to her with fire in his eyes. “What did he exactly say?” Robin was taken aback. What she was seeing in his eyes was new.

“I uh… I don’t know, he began the classical sentence ‘you do that and I will’ and I cut him off, didn’t hear more of it. Told him next time he does one thing that bothers me I’ll ruin his life. I still got the videos and the photos that you took when you were investigating him, with Sarah and then fucking her, and Sarah’s married. Her husband works in Matthew’s company, is actually a more antiquity employee, with a higher salary, rank and reputation, a friend of Matthew’s direct boss, he got Matthew the job,” Robin explained, and Strike seemed to soften, seeing she had it handled. “So I told Matthew I would send it all to Tom, and to Matthew’s boss and colleagues. I know them all, Matthew always insisted on having them over for dinner, and on bringing me to his stupid work events, parties, colleagues’ birthdays and weddings, and their company rugby games, trophy wife he was making me, so I got tons of contacts and he knows it. They wouldn’t believe my word, but they can’t deny photographic evidence, he knows it.”

“Well done sister,” Stephen said triumphally.

“God, that beat your birthday present,” added Jon, to whom Robin had bought concert tickets for his favourite band in Yorkshire.

Strike and Robin were still looking intently into each other’s eyes.

“Well done,” he said at last. Robin knew he was thinking of his abusive ex-brother-in-law. “Let me know if he tries anything, will you? Perhaps he doesn’t believe you’ve got it in you, and I’m sure Wardle would be happy to make him a visit just to make it clear you’re serious.”

Robin nodded slowly.

“Thanks, yeah, Vanessa’s been telling me she’ll do it too.”

“Well we better go home,” said Stephen. “Little one’s knackered and honestly so am I. Happy birthday again brother and, it’s so nice to see you both and finally meet you, Cormoran. We’ll be happy if you drop by anytime,” he shook Strike’s hand and moved to hug his sister. “When are you coming back, Christmas?”

“Yeah, hopefully.”

“Good,” Stephen kissed her cheek. Meanwhile his wife followed in goodbyes. “Take care, uh? Let me know if you need anything.”

Slowly, the table began to empty until Strike and Robin offered to put the dishes away in the dishwasher and clean out the table so that everyone could head to bed already. The only ones remaining in the house, after all, were Robin’s parents, who went to their bedroom, which left Robin and Strike alone. They’d been working to clean in silence, and Robin knew she could not push back the inevitable conversation any more, no matter how tired she was. Matthew would tell him if she didn’t, and after all, it seemed like now it was important to say.

“Fancy a last drink in front of the chimney?” offered Robin, holding the remaining bottle of whiskey. She usually didn’t drink much, but they’d truly had a day. Strike, who knew she was preparing for a hard conversation he’d long been feeling was looming, nodded.

“Good.”

Chapter Text

They sat together each on one corner the sofa, sitting room closed, Rowntree snoring by the chimney drowning any sound of their conversation, each slightly facing the other with a space in the middle. Strike waited patiently, knowing sometimes just waiting was all it took to get someone talking.

“I should have graduated in July five years ago,” she said at last. “That May, there was an alert around campus about a sexual predator who’d raped five other students, none of which had been able to provide any proper evidence,” Strike frowned slightly, not liking where this was going. She was staring at the fire, drink in her hands, talking slowly and collecting herself every moment. “I knew I had to be careful, but we’d just passed some big exams and we were so close from graduating that when my friend in another dorm suggested we’d have small party, just a few of us, I agreed. Still, I left early, wasn’t even seven… everyone was teasing me for leaving so soon. I had had a couple drinks, nothing much, and I was comfortable around campus, felt safe after three years, specially once I made it into the main building. He got to me before I saw him coming.”

“No…” he murmured nearly inaudibly.

“I lost my virginity right there, behind a stairwell,” Robin took a deep gulp of her whiskey, shutting her eyes close, and when she opened then again, they were watery and filled with pain. Strike couldn’t take his eyes off her. “He grabbed me by the neck against the floor, called me whore over and over while… so I memorized his voice. He wore a Gorilla mask, and it was pretty dark but… I could see his grey eyes, a small patch of… vitiligo behind his ear… I uh… it was twenty minutes of my whole life, it’s nothing big but…”

“Of course it’s big,” Strike murmured. “Robin, that’s horrible.”

Robin took a deep breath, and nodded.

“I forced myself to relax and… I played dead,” she was being raped and she forced herself to relax? To be numb so he’d think he’d strangled her to death? Strike was astonished and horrified. “He got scared and he tried to shake me awake, but I forced myself to stay calm. I’d been suffering strong anxiety through university, so I’d been practising a lot of relaxation tricks, including one divers use to stay minutes without breathing. So I did that. I forced by body to breathe in a way that… he wouldn’t feel my heartbeat,” she took a deeper breath and released. “I didn’t realize I was making him decide to get rid of the body,” Strike’s eyes widened and for the first time in his life, he found himself feeling like he couldn’t keep listening to such a horrible story. Like at last, there was something he didn’t want to know. Still, he found himself too paralysed to speak. “He slammed my head hard against the floor, I guess to make it look like I’d fallen to my death if anybody found my body and… knocked me out. The next thing I remember is waking up… buried alive.”

Finding it hard to breathe, Strike leaned over, putting his glass on the coffee table, and forced himself to take a deep breath. Robin’s voice had turned so small, so low, and Strike was for a moment sure that she hadn’t told that many details to anyone, ever.

“I was in uh… a trash bag. He was a university employee in the cleaning department so… he grabbed one of those big bags and cleaned the stairs and… I had a massive brain bleed, so the details there are a bit… confusing but…” she nodded slowly. “I remember it was pitch dark, and the feel of plastic, the smell of sand and dust, the weight on my face… being extremely dizzy. But I could hear traffic… faint but… I figured I couldn’t be in too deep. I tried rolling to the sides and… found it wasn’t like… hard soil, it was just sand… I tried to sit up, or get on my knees and after a bit of effort… it was like when you bury your legs in the sand at the beach. Takes a bit of effort but if you insist and the sand’s not very compacted you can… well, I felt myself manage to wiggle free, felt my upper body make it out and… I dragged the rest like… a worm or…” she released a shaky breath and a silent tear fell out of her eye. “I guess I was lucky I’d been going to the gym. Once I knew I was out, I broke the plastic bag digging my nails and… made it out. I found myself in a construction side, they had done a massive excavation so I had to climb… don’t know, ten metres up or so, the sand kept moving and dragging me down. But I was feeling faint and I knew if I stopped… I’d be as good as dead. And then I didn’t know where I was. Didn’t get out of campus much, hardly knew Manchester… but I still had my phone on me, so I activated GPS, figured where I was, called 999. That’s the last I remember. I woke up in hospital a week later, had had brain surgery. Took me… a year to really remember what’d happened, using hypnotism and therapy… then I began to have clear memories, dreams… the doctors said the hit on my head, the bleeding and the swelling hadn’t affected my memory, which was impaired only by PTSD, only concentration, emotional control, language, perception of touch, learning difficulties… but after another year, I’d recovered enough to start working. Anyway, the moment I had clear memories and my doctors could testify my memory wasn’t impaired with TBI, I told the police everything with detail. They’d taken samples from me… semen samples… my description got them to arrest Anthony Trewin, who was thirty-three years older than me. I was so specific with details of him, his voice… and his DNA matched the semen. He’d moved to a high school shortly after attacking me because the university had put more security, and he’d done it to other students in the school, minors, while I was struggling with my brain and unable to remember. I got him a life sentence. And once he’d been arrested, other victims came up saying he was familiar, perhaps they identified the voice, or the eyes… so… and a year and a half later, I began working in Ripon, Human Resources, and the rest is history. That’s why my family doesn’t nag me about dropping out of school like they nag Martin. I had no choice. I was agoraphobic for nearly a whole year, and even if I hadn’t been… my brain wasn’t right. Couldn’t even read my favourite works, listen to music… everything hurt,” Strike stared, speechless. “And what Matthew did is so unforgivable because it started while I was still in hospital.”

“How do you…?”

“Matthew admitted it when I confronted him you were there, remember?”

The memory of her words came suddenly to Strike’s mind, with the force of a truck. STOP LYING! I saw you with Sarah Shadlock, every day, for weeks! When did it start, Matthew? In Uni, like all my friends said?! Oh no… it was then… It was then. Matthew had known. He hadn’t denied it.

“You’re right…”

Robin nodded and rubbed her eyes.

“I was in the hospital for a whole month. He dropped everything to be with me the first couple of weeks, first of which I’d been out of it, but then he had to go back… and Sarah was his friend and classmate, we’d met over the holidays whenever he had come to Masham with his uni friends. She was always grabbing his arm, touching him, flirting quite openly… and Matthew always loved being the centre of attention, and whenever women turned to look at him, even in my presence, he’d turn to them, wink, make them blush. It’d always make him smile.”

“Jerk…”

“I know. Which is why I had been planning on leaving him. I didn’t want to lose focus while studying but I had had enough, you know? Only that after the attack… I couldn’t.”

“Shit Robin… fuck. Fuck…” Strike shook his head. “I can’t believe… which prison is he in?”

“Wakefield.”

“That’s not nearly far enough.”

“Could send him to China and it wouldn’t be far enough,” Robin finished her whiskey. “Anyway, I only wanted you to know because… I realize we’re not just colleagues any more, and you’ve told me some pretty hard things and I know I can’t just ask and ask and never give nothing of mine. But also…” she rubbed her face tiredly. “I did self-defence courses with Lieutenant Louise Reid, of the Army. She does a monthly course for women annually, so that we can make sure nobody hurts us like this. It’s a good course, I know my stuff, I am capable to defend myself in the line of work. And this is not the first time, if I’m even the dream victim for this psycho, that someone tries to hurt me. I testified in court then, caught the bad guy then… I’m happy to do it twice. But I know what Rhona felt when Laing sexually abused her. That’s why it got to me so hard. It gets to me hard when I have to hear Holly Brockbank speak of how her own twin brother and her own father abused her. It gets to me hard when I have to hear what a child like Kelsey went through. ‘Cause I know rape, I know what if feels like to be fighting for your life against someone and know the precise moment in which you realize there’s nothing to do. I know what asphyxiating like Kelsey asphyxiated feels like too. And I don’t think that makes me weaker,” said Robin, and she turned to him with tears in her eyes. “You are a large, intimidating man, and as much as you’ve suffered. You will never truly, hundred percent understand what women like your own mother, Lucy, Brittany Brockbank, Holly Brockbank, Rhona Laing, myself… what it feels like to fear rape, murder… not in war where you’d expect it and maybe be half prepared, but in what should be safe spaces. School. Your own house. Your own campus… your own city. All because of men. And I’m not criticizing you Cormoran, I wish more than anything you never have to suffer anything else ever again… but there’s a study some psychologists made, in which they went on social media and asked both men and women, as a survey, what they’d do if they could have a world without the other sex. You know what they said?”

“No,” Strike whispered.

“Men said stupid things like… playing video games all day, going out with the boys, party as hard as they want without any jealous girlfriend… women had the saddest answers. Having a stroll calmly under the stars. Going to dinner or to a friend’s after dark. Going to the movies alone. The same things why you tell me no work after dark, to go home before it gets dark, to not go alone… but you would never tell the same to a male employee.”

“Robin I…”

“Don’t pity, Cormoran,” Robin smiled sadly. “It’s not your fault. You’re a great guy, one of the best I’d say. But I just want you to understand, all right? To know no matter what you do, I’ll always do everything, even if you fired me, to protect the vulnerable, specially women, specially young women. That I’d risk everything if I thought it’d save just one from a guy like Trewin,” her voice broke, and she sniffled, taking a deep breath as more tears fell down. “And that for me… it’s always going to be personal, not money. For me… for any of us women… they hurt one of us, they hurt us all, because we all know the fear, even those who haven’t been abused. We share a collective memory of anger, of fear, of mistrust towards men, one we’re born with, embedded with out whole lives… and we’d all risk it all to help a sister. Even a woman as despicable as I find Charlotte for example I… I’d risk my life to protect her from someone like Trewin or Laing or Brockbank, I would, without a second thought. I believe most women would. Because the moment we turn out backs against each other, the moment we can’t count on our own gender… then in who can we count? Police?” she snorted a dry laugh and shook her head. “In this life you’ve got to fight your own battles, and I pick mine, with or without your permission, okay? And I’m sorry in advance if that ever hurts you or the agency or… but I owe myself to us women, more than to anyone else. My loyalty lies first to me, then to women and my family… then to you, then to the rest of my friends, in that order. You understand?”

Strike nodded.

“Yeah. I’m sorry Robin I… I had no idea.”

“I don’t like talking about this, because it makes people treat me different,” Robin shrugged. “But they shouldn’t really. I’m stronger and tougher for what happened. It made me learn self defence, it made me braver and smarter, it made me trust myself more and learn advanced driving and… be more of a fighter.”

“I’ll do my best not to treat you any different but I’m honestly… impressed,” said Strike. “Not impressed that someone hurt you so badly, unfortunately I’m quite aware of the trash of this world. Impressed that you saved yourself like that. I know concussions, never had one of the big ones but… shit the small ones were the worst, or so I thought. Can’t imagine doing what you’ve done. I don’t think I would’ve been able to… you were what? Twenty?”

“Hadn’t turned twenty-two actually. My birthday’s in October.”

Strike nodded.

“I know soldiers who wouldn’t have been able to do that,” said Strike, flattering her. “Honestly, I see you with new eyes now but just ‘cause… I thought you were just a skilled junior detective. Now I know you’re a proper warrior. But I am not surprised, though… if anybody could put that stunt, it’d be you. I haven’t forgotten how you saved our lives from that car accident going to Devon for the Quine case, how you fought for Leonora and Lula, how you weren’t afraid of the killers… you’re a tough one, Ellacott.” She snorted a laugh and rubbed the tears off her face. “Is that why you haven’t sleeping? PTSD? This brought back the memories?”

“Yes and no,” Robin sighed. “Like I said I had anxiety in uni and it never really went away, comes and goes. After what happened with Matthew I began to feel okay through the day and then unable to fall asleep at night. Got worse after we found the leg,” she explained. “Then I began having nightmares, PTSD ones, yes. But I have some medication I take, so that whatever I sleep is as restful as possible and then, naps when possible. If I felt too tired to work, I’d say so, I’d never get on the wheel if—,”

“I know, I’m not afraid you’ll crash us tomorrow, just… checking on my friend. So that’s how you know so much of TBI, even the parts that psychologists aren’t taught about. You suffer it yourself, still?”

“At times,” Robin nodded. “Lucky for me, I never got as bad as Brockbank. It was worse… down there… don’t even know if I can have kids, as a matter of fact,” she took a deep breath. “Yes, I changed completely in the beginning, had no emotional control, my personality was a mess… it felt like I was having the worst, most perpetual period mixed with drugs and menopause of my whole life, I must’ve been such a nightmare to deal with… but I had great doctors and good follow ups and it helps that my own brother was getting into medicine things. Had a bit of therapy, tons of neurosurgeons looking into my brain now and then… eventually I managed to be myself again, as much as I could. Now it’s just the occasional strong headache, and I get mentally tired faster like… I’ll actually be unable to read, concentrate or speak properly if the week’s been too rough and I haven’t rested enough, specially if combined with headaches. Sometimes my eardrums get super sensitive and I have to turn all sounds off for a few hours until it passes away… and there’s… well, I snap sometimes, you’ve realized. Gets a bit hard sometimes to… keep emotions under control. Matthew convinced me to take some meds that made me a bloody zombie, surely I was super calm and relaxed and I thought that was good but… came off them after we broke up, couldn’t think properly so… now I have to learn to control myself without being drugged all the time. It’s not good for the liver anyway, and I much prefer alcohol.”

“Okay well… we should go to bed, you have a lot of driving to do tomorrow. But Robin,” Strike scooted closer, and put an arm around her shoulders, “anything you need, you have to tell me. If you don’t feel well, if it gets too much, if you need a break… I won’t think less of you, okay? I won’t. But you’ve seen how much stubbornness helps me, and how much better I felt when I let you help me, and it can go both ways. We can help each other, we’re a team, we’ve got each other’s backs.”

“Thanks Cormoran,” Robin leaned into him and hugged him with an arm around his belly and his face into his shoulder. Strike wrapped both arms around her. “You have no idea how much I value you.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Strike kissed the top of her head. “Go to bed. I’ll clean up, check the doors and windows, and go to bed myself.”

“You don’t have to…”

“I want to. Now go, if you want me to trust you to drive tomorrow.”

Before he went to bed that night, Strike couldn’t help but carefully peek into Robin’s room, not wanting to scare her. But the woman was in bed, tossing, murmuring things, and didn’t wake up as he stared at her dark figure from the door, not walking in. Closing the door and walking next door to Stephen’s room, knackered beyond belief, Strike couldn’t help thinking about what his mother had told her in a dream over the Christmas holidays about Robin. They could help each other. They needed each other.

Chapter Text

Chapter 21: Corby.

Strike let Robin sleep in that morning. He himself wasn’t awake until nine, and when Robin awoke nearly two hours later, he’d already spoken to Wardle on the phone, enjoyed breakfast courtesy of Linda, had a good hot shower, and was feeling refreshed enough to go out on a walk by himself around Masham. Robin called him, anxious she had woken up so late for their plans, as he contemplated the horses of her family strolling around the fields, but Strike reassured her it was okay to take her time, to eat calmly, shower, take her own time without a rush, that he was enjoying exploring Masham, the river, the local pub, the farm, her world. When he came back in the house with the morning paper, he found Robin showered and dressed, her hair still damp, having breakfast while chatting with her morning in the kitchen.

“You guys could stay for lunch if you’re not in that much of a rush any more,” said Linda hopeful, and Strike accepted another mug of tea, sitting with them and reading the paper, happy to see Robin looked significantly more rested. Their talk seemed to have taken a literal weight off her shoulders, and in all honesty, he felt better too.

“Oh, no Mum, we really shouldn’t,” said Robin. “I’ll refill my tea thermos, pack some food for the way—,”

“I already did,” said Strike with a soft smile. “Figured, since I eat the most of us, anyway…”

“Ah, that’s good, thanks. Well, then we can leave when I finish eating and brush my teeth,” said Robin. We still need to make it to Corby before dark, so we have better odds at finding our lead… and then make it to London to talk to the police. Be up for work tomorrow morning.”

“You guys don’t ever enjoy a break?” Linda commented, impressed.

“We really can’t,” replied her daughter. “We’re down to two low-paying clients that nobody’s caring for while we’re out of London, and Kelsey Platt’s killer enjoys killing, could do it again if we don’t hurry up. Besides, at this rhythm we’ll lose every client and our jobs… we’ll rest when this nightmare is over.”

“Yeah, my sister’s been nagging me to take the boys to do something fun, they miss it,” Strike commented casually, going through the sports pages. “I promise free weekends when this is over, Robin.”

“Not like I have many hobbies outside work to devote them to anyway,” said Robin. Her phone rung, but this time it made her smile. “Oh, it’s Cormac. Would it be all right if I…?”

“Go ahead, we have time Robin, really,” Strike nodded to her, realizing perhaps he should be calling his own girlfriend.

Once they got in the car, after affectionate farewells, and Robin began driving, Strike half smiled and turned to her.

“So you’ve got a boyfriend, uh? Kept that secret good, Ellacott.”

“Oh sod off,” she smiled, shaking her head. “I might’ve exaggerated a bit to my family, because they’re always worried and I wanted to give them some good news but… yeah, sort of a boyfriend.”

“Sort of a boyfriend? Have you kissed?” Robin blushed and nodded. “Have you gone out and called it a date?” she nodded again, eyes on the road. “Sex?”

“Oh, no… but you know why now,” Robin replied. “I go slow in that department. But we talk a lot, he’s… great yeah. He’s just gotten home from a night shift, wanted to hear my voice for a bit, know how the trip was going.”

“Aww, sweet!” he teased, and she blushed furiously.

“Well, we agreed to meet for dinner on Friday, his place. He cooks amazingly and never expects… you know. He likes talking, sharing music, reading poetry… good listener too. We’ve got some sort of open relationship but since I don’t like seeing more than one guy at once, and he doesn’t like seeing more than one women at once… I guess we’re unofficially exclusive. I heard him call me his girlfriend a couple times on the phone, so…”

“Good for you, Robin. You deserve someone good. You should bring him by one day, and I’ll give him the talk, since Stephen’s not around to do the brotherly duty.”

“What talk?”

“Y’know… don’t you dare hurt her because she will have your head in a pole,” said Strike, and she roared in laughter. He grinned at her. “So when did you meet him?”

“Oh, we began talking… must be June. We’ve managed about a dozen dates, I think when we met it was late June, yeah.”

“A dozen dates and he hasn’t tried to get in your pants,” he whistled in admiration. “Got yourself a real gentleman.”

“Why are you so interested in my relationship but keep yours super quiet? If Elin hadn’t appeared by the office once, I doubt I’d know you have a girlfriend.”

“Oh well… I’m uh…” Strike shrugged. “Bit of a mess when it comes to personal stuff. Either I share nothing, or I suddenly can’t shut up,” Robin snorted a laugh. “To tell you the truth, I think I’m going to break up with her as soon as I’ve got five minutes.”

“Wow, why?” Robin tried not to sound excited about it.

“You now, remember I told you I was only interested in the sex? Well, it’s the truth and I don’t feel good about it, fucking conscience. I love sex, Robin,” he blushed slightly, and Robin snorted a laugh. “I get why you can’t, I absolutely do. But you’re right, men are privileged and… I’ve always enjoyed a very healthy sexual life. Can do without, of course, and for six months after Charlotte I forced myself away from women except for that Ciara and it was just once but… I crave the company. Just… not having an empty bed at night, even without sex. I like just… snuggling with someone. The physical intimacy, being wanted and desired, being found sexy in spite of the leg, being cared for… but then they want to introduce you to their families, friends, introduce you as the boyfriend, move somewhere with you, that kind of thing. And before, fine. I lived with Charlotte, I lived with Tracey, happy times. But this summer I’ve realized, between the women I’ve slept with that…” he shook his head. “I’ve been finding that very difficult lately, Robin. I kind of… I’ve gotten obsessed with my independency a little.”

Robin nodded, understanding.

“I feel the same sometimes. Like it’s great having someone when we want to, but all the time… too much.”

“Exactly.”

“I guess it’s a normal phase after long, failed relationships. Give it time. It’s what Ilsa, Lucy and Vanessa always tell me, give it time.”

“Considering they all have successful lives and relationships, perhaps we should listen.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Speaking of… well, things in general,” said Robin while she drove south to Corby. “I’ve been thinking, and I think I know why the killer sent a leg specifically.”

“When do you even…? You were eating a fucking croissant and thinking of a leg?”

“No, I was in the shower. Multitasking, Cormoran,” she teased. “Anyway, want to hear it?”

“A psychology theory? Always, let me get my biscuits…” Robin snorted a laugh as Strike prepared as if gathering popcorn for a movie. “Go on, please…”

“Whatever body part he’d sent, he’d achieved the same thing right? Police and press all over us, business compromised, we’d be shaken up… doesn’t matter. But he cut her leg just where yours was amputated, it was a direct reference. What does your leg mean to him?”

“Christ knows,” said Strike, watching her and munching a biscuit.

“Heroism, no hear me out,” she added, when he was about to retort. “You’re a decorated veteran, two of the highest decorations, your injury is a legacy of war, of Afghanistan no less, if it was a tomb, I’d be the tragedy of a fallen in action, but instead you get a scar and a life, which represents adversity overcome. In every mention of you in the press they mention your leg and your decorations as much as who your parents are, that amputation is tied to fame, achievement, honour. But now he wants to denigrate your injury, take that away from you… he’s jealous! He wants to tie what’s been used to admire you to something horrible, to make people stop seeing you as a hero, and diminish you, make you be seen as someone who received a part of a dismembered teen. He wants your recognition and importance.”

Strike finished his biscuit and sat in thought.

“Y’know what I keep thinking this whole investigation?”

“What?”

“Whittaker would be my main suspect, if he was alive. But he’s dead. Could he do this from the dead? Is that even possible? I mean he nearly slit your throat from the dead…”

“I’m fairly sure we’re dealing with a living killer, Cormoran.”

“You’re right, I’m just losing it… I’ve got an idea, Robin. Market Harborough, Brockbank was there for a bit, wasn’t he?”

“But not any more.”

“But Holly told you he was a bouncer for an erotic massage place, right? So perhaps they’ve got his contact details of his current address.”

“I’m listening.”

Strike looked into the road map.

“It’s just before Corby, it’s in our route. Let’s go there, I’m gonna call… Holly gave you the number for the place, right?”

“Yes, it’s just in my left pocket,” said Robin. “Dig, I’m driving.”

“Sure?”

“Sure,” carefully, Strike moved a hand to her thigh, and into her pocket. She had to squirm a little so he’d have easier access, both hands gripping the steering wheel, and he had to ignore the feeling of her warm thigh through the lining, but at last he had the paper.

“Okay, I’ll call… Thai Orchid Massage. Perhaps I can talk to one of their girls, book a session.”

“Don’t enjoy it too much, Cormoran.”

“Bugger off,” said Strike with amusement, and she smiled, hearing the word she usually used. After a couple minutes, he had shyly booked a one-girl session with a dark Thai woman, blushing to his ears while Robin tried not to laugh.

“What’s so mortifying, that I’m here or that you’ve got to discuss your sexual desires with some receptionist?”

“All of it?” Strike snorted. “Not that I discussed anything. First option she gave that I thought might be Brockbank’s type. I’ll need a cashpoint.”

“Well, we’ll stop by one when we get there.”

Once they arrived to their first destination, Robin awaited for half an hour in the car, having a sandwich and texting Cormac, who’d woken up, while Strike went for the massage parlour. When he came back, he looked moody, and Robin resisted the temptation to tease him, handing him a lager instead.

“Two hundred and thirty quid for an old mobile number. Brockbank was sacked,” said Strike, putting his belt back on and handing her a paper with the number, “this Ingrid, from Essex, recognized me. Said Noel is obsessed with me, she knew his friend John too, went to school together. Ingrid recommended Noel for the job and John got her to rent a room at her place for Brockbank too. Ingrid says he was always ranting about the army, me, his son he’s obsessed with and says he can’t see, the baby he had with Brittany’s Mum in Germany. Ingrid told me that the manager, this older woman who directs the place, found Brockbank with her six year old granddaughter on his lap, touching her down her skirt, fired him. Ingrid says good riddance, he owes her money, but she likes me, was flirting, and agreed to give me the old number she has of him. Doesn’t know if he still uses it, wants nothing with him any more.”

“You didn’t have to… give her more than money, right?”

“Jesus, no. I’ve got integrity, thank you very much.”

“Touchy,” Robin couldn’t help but feeling relieved. “Should we call then?”

“No, we might have just one chance, we need to give it proper thought. Let’s head to Cor— oh,” Wardle was calling him again. “He had no novelties this morning, hold on… Wardle?” he put him on speaker.

“We know more about Kelsey. She was doing a City and Guilds childcare at a vocational college, she met Oxana Voloshina there. Kelsey lived in Finchley, but Oxana says she didn’t get on with her family and asked to stay with her for a bit, so Kelsey wrote to you from Oxana’s address. The sister is a mess, but recognized Kelsey’s handwriting in the letters, knew she wanted her leg gone, we got DNA matches for official ID too. Sister’s husband is a forty-five year old retired fireman, knackered lungs and when Kelsey was killed, he was travelling. Gonna need you here guys, routine formal statements.”

“We’ll be there today,” Strike compromised. “We’re driving to London as we speak, call you when we arrive.”

“Great, thanks.”

In Corby, Strike guided them to the address of a Lorraine MacNaughton he’d found online, linked to the only Laing he’d found there. They arrived to Weldon Road late in the afternoon, well after lunch, and once Robin had quickly gotten Lorraine’s angry dog from trying to bite Strike’s stump and shown the dog such firm hand the dog seemed to admire her and behaved, Lorraine was happy to speak with them.

Laing had lived with her, robbed her and walked out with her jewellery, including inherited stuff with emotional value. Police didn’t find him. She provided them with an updated photograph of Laing, and Strike found he’d changed so dramatically, he would’ve never recognized him. His tattoos were the same, but he was so swollen and fat his neck was no longer visible, his features were disorted, and he had psoriatic arthritis, bad, had to stop work and had skin damage. The hair and eyes were the same, but Strike could no longer seen the young boxer who’d once bitten his face.

Lorraine and him were together ten months, and he could be moody, but she didn’t think he could be violent. But someone had robbed the elderly neighbour next door and killed her, after Laing had left, and Strike and Robin suspected he had done it.

Wardle found Kelsey Platt’s messages in the board Robin had mentioned days before, just as they drove into London, when he called again. Turns out Robin had already seen those messages, and shown them to Strike. After talking with Wardle in Scotland Yard, routine things, Robin dropped Strike off at Denmark Street, and went home. They spent the Sunday resting but on sunny Monday, Robin had news.

“One, I’ve been followed,” said Robin, putting her coat in the rack while Strike made tea. “Big, wide, reversible jacket, dark reversible beanie… couldn’t see the face. Anyway, I’ve got the pocketknife and the two rape alarms, mine and the one you insisted I’d have. But the exciting thing is I went over the board Kelsey was posting in and she exchanged emails with these two,” she typed quickly in her computer to show him. “I’ve already called Wardle to investigate if they really met.”

“Right, okay,” Strike nodded. “Good job Robin.”

“Oh, bad night?” Robin looked at him, disappointed by the lack of enthusiasm.

“Had a row with Elin, had to leave her over the phone and then had a guilty conscience and couldn’t sleep… but well done. Hazel Platt, Kelsey’s sister, phoned me this morning, wants to meet me.”

“When?”

“Today. I let Wardle know, he’s fine with it. I’d ask you to come along but I really need you taking over the other surveillances if I’m gonna be gone… you OK with it?”

“Sure,” said Robin, nodding. “Don’t worry, I’ll hold down the fort. How long will you be gone anyway?”

“Not much, should be back by the afternoon, but if I’m followed I might run late. Got a doctor’s appointment as well, check up on the stump, NHS gives appointments whenever they fucking please.”

“Before you go, there’s something I wanted to show you.”

“That wasn’t it?”

“No! I think I’ve found Donald Laing.”

Strike stared at her, blank.

“You… what? How?” Robin motioned for him to come closer to the screen, typing away. She put on a JustGiving charity page, and there was a picture on top.

“Bloody hell that’s him!” said Strike, so enthusiastically Robin jumped. Laing stood on a cramped balcony, unsmiling, with a crutch under an arm. He had short bristly hair, darkened over the years, no longer red like a fox’s pelt as Strike had remembered. He was clean-shaven, his skin pockmarked, and was less swollen but still quite fat. Behind him, there was a large, blurry building black and silver. The message in the page was simple:

‘Donald Laing Charity Appeal. I am a British veteran now suffering from psoriatic arthritis. I am raising money for Arthritis Research. Please give what you can.’

The page had only a few months, and had raised nothing of the thousand pounds he was hoping for.

“I thought it was the Gherkin at first,” said Robin, pointing to the building behind. “But the pattern is different.”

“Good bloody job, Robin, you’re shining bright an early this morning!” Strike smiled and she blushed. He looked really pleased. “Well since you’re in such a roll, I want you to do something else, whenever you can,” he dug in his pocket and handed her Brockbank’s number. “Keep the Venetia Hall, personal injury lawyer thing, I think it’s our best chance, and it worked flawlessly with Holly didn’t it?”

Robin put her phone out to add the contact, elated.

“Will do. D’you think you’ll see Kelsey at her sister’s house? That maybe she hasn’t… crossed?”

“I hope so,” said Strike with a nod. “If she can just tell us who killed her, we’ll at least know who to keep an eye out for and then it’s just a matter of finding evidence that will stand in trial but in the meantime… memorize their faces, Brockbank, Laing. Make sure next time someone’s following you, you can try and guess which of them is, but hopefully now I’ll get him to follow me, whoever he is. Let’s bore him at the NHS.”

“Good luck.”

“You too, have a good day.”

“You too!” Robin saw him leave and then smiled to herself, leaning back in her chair.

Chapter Text

Chapter 22: Friendly nudges.

Strike had started off being quiet and reserved, Robin knew if she hadn’t been directly attacked by Whittaker she might still not know about his ability to communicate with the dead or his past with his mother’s last boyfriend, of what he still hadn’t said much anyway, but she really appreciated how much he was opening up to her. She tried to give back, to offer the same amount of openness and information, because after the Owen Quine case, she had really gotten to understand their lives sometimes depended on one another quite heavily, and they needed full openness and trust. He needed to know who she dated, where she went to, who was pissing her off, because if anything happened to her, that’d be essential for him to find her. Likewise, the more Robin knew about Strike, the more she could do if he ever found himself in deep trouble. Neither had that much trust in the police as an institution, only each other and their cop friends, who were still very limited with bosses breathing down their necks.

Shortly after Strike left, so did Robin, who had a ton of hours to put in surveillances and tailing with their only two clients left, and she was surprised to return at five to the office, despite it being the closing hour, and not find Strike there yet. But she wasn’t worried, she knew the NHS could take a lot of time, specially with the way his stump had been, and plus Hazel’s interview, and he had to spend a lot of time commuting to completely different corners of the large city anyway. If anything had happened, she felt she’d have a hunch. Putting some water to boil, Robin made herself some tea before Googling background office noises. She skipped the first five pages, which she deemed most popular, and selected a random noise. Instantly the office filled with the sounds of a busy office. Then, Robin rang Brockbank.

There was a long time before anybody answered, but when someone finally did, it was a shrill toddler’s voice.

“HELLO!”

“Hello?” Robin replied, cautiously.

“What’ve you got, Zahara?” asked a woman in the background. Then a noise. “That’s Noel’s sweetie, he’s been looking for it.” The line went dead, and Robin’s heart was racing. There was a toddler. With Noel. A child rapist.

Her phone began to vibrate again, Brockbank was calling back. Taking a deep breath, she answered.

“Venetia Hall from Hardacre and Hall, how can I help you?” she said with a polite, chirpy voice.

“What?” a woman asked. “Did you just call this number?” she had a London accent. They had to be here.

“Yes, I am looking for Mr Noel Brockbank. I am a lawyer specializing in personal injury compensation. Is he your husband?”

“What?” Robin gave the same story she’d given Holly, about wanting to compensate for the injuries suffered by Strike. “Money for him?”

“If the case is successful, I’d need to talk to him.”

“How did you find out about him?”

“We came across his records while researching—,”

“How much money?”

“It depends. Do you know how could I talk to Mr Brockbank himself?”

“I’ll get him to call you. This number, yeah?”

“Yes, Venetia Hall, anytime is good, we’ve been trying to locate him for a while.”

“Yeah, all right. Bye then.”

Robin texted Strike she’d called and had important info, and after a few minutes he texted back.

‘Are you at the office or home? I’m about to get in the underground.’

‘Office, will wait!’

Forty minutes later, as Robin enjoyed their success, a second mug of tea, and had updated all the files for the day, now sat on the sofa, Strike finally arrived, looking tired and limping a little, with a pharmacy bag in hand.

“Hi there, how did it go?”

“Worse than for you I see.”

“How d’you know it went well for me?”

“You’ve got that glint in the eyes you get,” he gave her a small smile and she grinned, pointing to the kettle.

“Just made.”

Grateful, Strike poured himself a mug and flopped down with her on the sofa. Wordlessly, he removed his prosthesis, releasing a sigh of relief, and then turned back to her, mug in his hands.

“Okay, impress me.”

Robin grinned.

“Couldn’t talk to Brockbank, but he’s either married again or with a girlfriend I think, because I spoke with a woman who appeared to live with him and who assured me she would get him to call me back, I told her anytime, that the company had been really wanting to reach him, so… when he calls, I’ll be ready. She said she was at work, she had a London accent, so he might be working here.”

“Both Laing and Brockbank being in the area,” Strike pursed his lips in thought.

“There’s one problem though.”

“Ah, should’ve asked bad news first, got elated too quickly.”

Robin nodded, suddenly serious.

“The phone was first answered by a little girl, Cormoran. Couldn’t be older than four, five, judging by her voice. Her name’s Zahara, I think Brockbank lost his phone, Zahara found it, and her mother took it, for the impression I got. And we know what he does to little girls… I don’t think her mother knows.”

“Shit… fuck,” Strike cursed, suddenly anxious, dragging a hand down his face. “I’ll tell Wardle, okay? We’ll find her, as fast as we can, but hey, if her mother was with her during working hours it means she doesn’t get to be alone with Brockbank much. Let’s try to be hopeful.”

Robin nodded.

“Can’t wait to find him. I don’t give a shit if he’s a murderer or not, he’s going down.”

“Remember Robin, we need objective evidence that will stand in court.”

“Holly’s testimony, yours—,”

“Neither valid in court. Mine is just my word, and I doubt Holly will want to confront him. Unless one of his victims directly testifies, he’ll keep getting out,” he said gently.

Robin puffed. She knew it, she’d been there.

“I’d settle with getting him away from Zahara.”

“I know it gets harder when you stablish personal contact with a victim but Robin, this is important, okay? You scare him away, we’ll lose him and he’ll be free to go do it to somewhere else, time after time. I already fucked it once, don’t you do it too now, okay? We need to corner him, keep him where we have him, and I promise you I’ll work to gather evidence. But if we talk to Zahara’s Mum and he finds out, he’ll run, he might even kill her, we’d put them in danger, and we can’t talk to a minor without parental consent by law, Ilsa will rip us a new one before a judge does. So right now our only option is…”

“Finding Brittany,” said Robin. “Get her to testify… if Brockbank gets arrested, Zahara’s Mum will have to believe us.”

“That’s one option, but she’s gone under the radar, I tried but… my best bet is if she got rid of him, she’s done everything to make sure he can never, or anyone else for that matter, find her ever again.”

“Right… I still think we should at least contact Brockbank’s mother, as a last resort. Brockbank works, she’s alone with her daughter right now, if we could explain to her, get her to believe us, she’d convince her daughters to tell the police what he’s probably already done to them.”

“And then we lose him for murder.”

“But he’s hurting—!”

“Robin,” he interrupted, giving her a stern look but keeping a soft voice, and Robin puffed again. “I know. It’s hard. But you don’t want me to give you special treatment, right?”

“Obviously.”

“So don’t make me. It’s hard for me too, I assure you but… Kelsey deserves justice too. If he gets arrested too soon, he’ll go down for just a few years, not every child rapist gets life, specially if we can’t prove he has a long history of it. If we get him for Kelsey… it’s life. Life in prison, Robin. That’s what we need. We can’t change the hurt he’s already caused, but we can make sure once we get him, Zahara can go the rest of her life without ever dealing with him again, just like you.”

“All right,” Robin nodded. “But as a last resource, could we consider…?”

“Very last resource.”

“Okay.”

Just then, her phone suddenly rung. It was Brockbank. Strike made a gesture of zipping his lips and put his mug down on the floor, not wanting to make any sound. Robin answered, putting it on speaker.

“Venetia Hall.”

“You th’lawyer?” a thick Barrovian accent inquired.

“Yes, are you Mr Brockbank?”

“Aye, tha’s righ’.”

Robin hastened to tell him the fictitious story she’d created for Holly of the compensation that might await him if he were happy to meet her. Once she finished, he said nothing and the silence became threatening. Robin held the nerve, thinking Venetia Hall had the self-confidence not to rush to fill a silence, no matter how unnerved she, Robin, felt. Venetia wouldn’t.

“An’ where did you find ou’ abou’ us, eh?”

“We came across your case notes while we were investigating—,”

“Investigatin’ wha’?”

Robin was suddenly extremely thankful for Strike’s soothing presence, his thigh pressed against hers, because she felt the air of menace.

“We were investigating similar non combat related injuries to other servicemen,” said Robin calmly. More silence.

“So wha’ do I ‘ave ter do then, eh?”

“Could we meet and have a chat about your history?”

“I though’ you’d read our ‘istory?” her arm hairs stood up, her heart pounding. “A cun’ called Cameron Strike gave us brain damage.”

“Yes, but it’s important to get a formal statement—,”

“Take a statemen’?” a dangerous pause and then. “Sure you’re no’ a horney?” Robin, being a northerner, understood the Cumbrian word for policeman. But Venetia Hall was a Londoner.

“Not a what, sorry?”

“Police,” he said aggressively.

“Police?” she went for a tone of mingled disbelief and amusement. “Of course not. I called to help, but if you’re not interested…”

“All right, I’ll mee’ you.”

“Excellent. Whereabouts are you?”

“Shoreditch.” Definitely London.

“So when would you like to meet?” suddenly a loud wailing downstairs startled both Strike and Robin, a child’s wailing. Robin saw Strike turn to her sharply as if wondering if it was a living being or not, if she could also hear. But he couldn’t move to check what was the source, as he’d cause more suspicious sounds.

“Wha’s tha’ noise?”

“Forgive me, is just my son, I’m at home— Matt, darling,” she faked as if she was talking with a little boy. “Would you please…?”

The child conveniently began to wail more downstairs, the sound distancing, and an uncomfortable silence settled down.

“Mr Brockbank, so when would—?”

“Do A know you, little girl?” the line went dead.

Robin released a long breath she’d been contained and looked at Strike, eyes wide.

“The fuck was that?!” she couldn’t help barking.

“I thought it was a dead kid,” Strike shrugged. “Mr Crowdy downstairs is a digital designer. Shouldn’t be here any more but I don’t know, perhaps he has a wife and kid who came to pick him up? First time in a year I’ve been here. Then again, at this hour I haven’t been here that much.”

“Fuck off,” Robin puffed, but not towards him, face in her hands. “Did you hear how menacing he sounded? I swear he could’ve been breathing down my neck. How can any woman think that’s great for their children?”

“You’d be surprised,” Strike lit himself a fag. “My mother dated her fair share of… well, you’ve felt what Whittaker can do, and he’s not even alive any more.”

“Anyway…” Robin took a deep breath and picked her own mug from the floor, taking a deep sip. “Sorry I fucked our one chance.”

“It wasn’t you. You improvised perfectly I think, but probably he figured it was Brittany. Perhaps she’s contacted him, threatened him… she should be… late teens, early twenties now. Perhaps she’s been trying to put him away, and he was predisposed to believe it was her. Don’t worry Robin, we’ll catch him, and now we know he’s in Shoreditch, that’s huge.”

“So… how was your day?”

“Well first off, I think I located Laing. I was thinking in the tube, and the building you showed me sounded familiar. Thing is Elin had been going through a divorce, looking for a new place, she’s pretty rich. And she was showing me buildings for forever, one of whom was that one, I’m pretty sure,” Strike dug in his pocket, going through his downloaded photographs from his chat history. “Here, see? Strata SE1, London’s most desirable residential property. He lives right by the Strata, Elephant and Castle, and we know he needs money so he’s clearly not in the good buildings, if we go online and look at buildings with those good views to the Strata, how many can it be affordable enough? Not many right?”

“We could locate him pretty well,” Robin nodded. “I think I’ll head there tomorrow, just take a look, try to find the right view, see if I see him around. Just in case the internet’s not updated, like you taught me.”

“Good girl, the student surprises the master,” Strike looked quite elated, and she couldn’t help feeling happy about it. “Well Hazel and her husband Ray were absolutely heartbroken, as you can imagine. Both big people, both quite affective, apparently. Ray broke his bag trying to get a family out of a boarding house on fire, wall gave way, his ladder fell three stories.”

“Bugger!”

“Yeah, but he’s not one for disability pay and stuff, wants to work, but his lungs aren’t good, back not good, some age now, nobody wants to give him a job. But get this, Hazel told me Kelsey was a big liar, constantly lying, the three years she’s been living with them, she’d lie about anything, even with no point, even about the day it was or whatever. She’s twenty-five years younger than Hazel, apparently they’re half sisters, same mum, Hazel’s father died, her mother remarried and had Kelsey, then their mother and her Dad died in a car crash three years back. Hazel took Kelsey in, they didn’t get on, but Ray’s good with children so they got quite along.”

“Do they have an alibi?”

“Yes. He was with three men at a stag weekend, had photos, Hazel was at work. Hazel wanted to talk to me about the letters, get an idea of what Kelsey was up to… what could’ve happened, trying to make sense. She said Kelsey invented a boyfriend, Niall, like one of those One Direction people you said,” Robin nodded, understanding. “Apparently he was her favourite. She said he was eighteen and got a motorbike, that she met him at a counsellor, at a waiting room, that his parents were dead too. But Ray and Hazel never saw anything of him, and Ray advised her to let it go if it kept her happy. She gave me this,” Strike dug in his pocket, and pulled out a photograph. “Ray,” he pointed out, “three friends at the stag weekend in Shoreham-by-Sea when Kelsey was killed, this one’s Ritchie, a friend of Ray’s, has some injuries, leg in a surgical boot, had just had a motorbike accident. Ray thinks that Kelsey saw him and thought she could fake she had a traffic accident to get rid of her leg. She’d get rid of it, then say she and the boyfriend had a motorbike accident.”

“It would’ve been an excellent theory,” said Robin.

“Agreed. However, the evidence shows us—,”

“That she had ditched that plan in favour of asking you for instructions, so it’d be better done than in an accident, I know.”

“I don’t know if I should stop congratulating you and start congratulating me for training you proper.”

“Oh bugger off,” she half smiled. “So why was it so hard to believe that Kelsey had a boyfriend? She wasn’t bad looking, and she was sixteen.”

“That’s what I asked, and apparently police checked. No boys in her childcare course, never a boyfriend in school, she went to the counsellor, then church up the road with a youth group, no Nialls there. Darrell runs the group, apparently he was upset, but police doesn’t seem to suspect him, Wardle would’ve mention it. Ray thinks he’s gay anyway.”

“And how much did Hazel and Ray know about Kelsey’s issues with her leg?”

“More like issues with her brain,” said Strike. “Hazel didn’t want a word about it, apparently it’d be going for a few years, Hazel called it attention seeking. Apparently Kelsey was a survivor of the car accident that orphaned her.”

“Oh, survivor’s guilt?” Robin frowned, saddened.

“That’s what Hazel was told from the counsellor. Ray got to talk a lot about it with Kelsey, but apparently he’s sweet and patient, didn’t get angry like Hazel, who thinks her sister just wanted to be in a wheelchair, pampered, centre of attention. She found her diary a year ago, and was scandalised for her findings, and personally, I agree with Hazel. The diary said things like she wanted her leg cut off to be in a wheelchair and be pushed to the edge of the stage, watch One Direction and have them make a big fuss of her for her disability. Hazel is a nurse, so she thought it was disgusting, considering some of us don’t get a choice.”

“She’s taken, Cormoran,” Robin joked playfully, and Strike rolled eyes. “So did she think you cut your own leg?”

“Asked me, but wasn’t surprised when I told her the truth, said she would’ve told Kelsey just that if she’d asked, but that Kelsey kept saying her leg felt wrong, that it had to come off like some tumour. Ray tried to talk sense to her, telling her about his own hospital experience. Kelsey didn’t talk about the chat group either, me… didn’t have friends, wasn’t popular, lied to everyone she knew so the kids bullied her, hardly went out, Hazel doesn’t know where she went with this Niall.”

“She needed serious therapy,” Robin lamented sadly, not in the mood to clear the air with a light joke any more. “Did you lurk around the house, bathroom trip?” she said bathroom drawing comas in the air, with a tiny tight-lipped smile. Strike snorted.

“You know it. Fucking obsessed with One Direction, but I didn’t see her, perhaps her parents… helped her cross, I don’t know. Touched everything with gloves, got nothing paranormal. The police had already been there and taken anything interesting, but I found this,” Strike pulled a small evidence bag from his large coat pocket, which he was still wearing, showing ovoid capsules in mustard yellow labelled Accutane. “For acne, turns out.”

“Bugger,” Robin released a deep sigh. “Any… Ouija or something you could think of?”

“Wouldn’t stand in court.”

“I know. But it’d satisfy my curiosity now.”

Strike snorted a laugh.

“Go home Robin. You’ve done an excellent job today.”

“Thanks,” Robin finished her tea.

“And how did the other cases go, surveillances and all?”

“Pretty good, got what we needed for today… was followed, but only the last couple hours. Just a figure with a dark jacket and a beanie, could only see his back, but seemed to be everyone I looked, so I exchanged lines quickly in the tube, got rid of him on my way here.”

“Smart. I know who you’re talking about, I saw someone like that around the corner at the underground. Tried to follow but he vanished quickly, guess he noticed you weren’t with me. And if he’s so interested in you—,”

“I know, I’ll be careful,” Robin held the pocket knife he’d given her and pushed it back into her pocket, putting on her coat. “I almost forgot, what did the doctor say?”

Strike puffed, slumped on the sofa.

“Same old, rest it, gave me a new pomade that’s supposed to be better.” He shrugged. “Perhaps it’ll grow the leg back!”

“Miracles happen,” Robin joked, half smiling. “See you tomorrow, take care.”

“You too!”

Chapter Text

Chapter 23: Heart in hell.

On Thursday, the girlfriend of one of their clients who they’d been tailing, dumped him, so they lost the client, but not without a large final payment that relieved them for the week. On the murder investigation, Wardle interviewed the two people in the online chat board that had spoken to Kelsey about the need to get rid of a leg, and about Strike, both both had alibis and insisted they never even met Kelsey.

The following morning, Robin came to the office a bit earlier, having been unusually quick to get ready in the morning, and picked the office mail for Strike before getting to the office in the second storey. She could hear Strike moving around his attic upstairs. She dropped the pile of mail on her desk, hung her coat, put water to boil for tea, and began going through the mail, sorting out the letters. Strike had finally paid off the total debt of the loan his father had, through a lawyer called Peter Gillespie, given him and been nagging him about for months, so most of the mail was just tax invoices, and then, suddenly, Robin realized she was leaving a blood fingerprint on the white envelopes.

“What the…?” she stared at her fingers. The tip of her right index and middle fingers were blood stained. Frowning, she looked for a cut, but nothing hurt or looking to be bleeding, so she looked around the envelopes, her heart thundering in her throat. At last she saw it. One of the final envelopes was leaking blood, just a tiny bit, down the back. It had ran through the envelope. It can’t happen again… She dropped the envelope on the desk as if it had the pest, and rushed to wash her hands. “CORMORAN!” she shouted at the top of her lungs looking up. “CORMORAN! QUICK!” she heard the steps rush upstairs, a door barge open, and had just finished drying her hands when Strike burst into the office, looking ready to crush someone’s skull, fist raised in the air.

He’d clearly thought she was in trouble and hadn’t bothered to finish getting dressed. His shirt hung open, revealing a large expanse of monkeyish mass of dark chest hair over a wide, spongy chest, his belly a little protruding and equally hairy. Robin couldn’t keep her eyes from wandering in a second, blushing, noticing he had moved so fast he was in boxer shorts, dark ones, revealing a hairy, barefoot leg, and another in the prosthesis.

Strike looked around, confused.

“Wha…?”

He hadn’t even shaven yet.

“There,” Robin pointed to the envelope. “I think there’s something inside. There’s blood.” Strike scowled deeply.

“Blood?”

“Stained my fingers while going through the mail. Noticed there was quite the bunch of blood in one envelope, leaking through… felt something solid inside.”

She was just looking more rested these days. Strike advanced slowly towards the desk, stumbling a little because his false foot skid a bit if it was bare, making Robin wonder how he hadn’t fallen down the stairs with the speed he’d come down, reached to grab evidence gloves, and Robin tried to keep her eyes off what seemed to be a firm arse.

“Fuck… fucking shit…” she heard Strike murmur.

“What is it?” Robin asked with a small voice, casually filling their tea mugs.

“A toe.”

“A— what?!” she knew it was a body part, and had caught the whiff of something rotten, so she oughtn’t to be surprised, but still, it was as shocking as if a small part of her had been hoping for a broken red pen leaking ink.

Robin had moved to look before Strike could notice and block her view. He’d cautiously opened the envelope, dragged out a blood stained postcard of a Jack Vettriano painting of a blonde holding a teacup, and as he examined it, Robin saw the toe peeking out of the envelope, the nail painted just like the ones of the leg they’d previously received. Her stomach clenched painfully.

“It’s addressed to you,” said Strike, his voice low and his expression filled with astonishment. “Central London postmark, sent yesterday,” he showed her the image of the postcard, half blood stained, and then turned it around. The killer had printed in capital letters the words ‘SHE’S AS BEAUTIFUL AS A FOOT’. “Another Blue Öyster Cult title.”

“The fuck band is that with those song titles?” Robin couldn’t help herself, looking stricken and ready to vomit. Strike snorted, nodding.

“And that’s what my Mum liked. Mediums, nothing’s creepy any more,” Strike sighed. “Phone Wardle, will you? I’ve got blood in my hands and my phone’s upstairs.”

While Robin obeyed, Strike looked at the finger up close, slid the card back inside, and dropped the gloves to the trash. He gestured upstairs while she was engaged on the call, signalling he had to get dressed, and she nodded.

When he returned, it was to force her to take time off.

“We have just one client, you’re barely at the office anyway with your laptop there to help you with research, I can do surveillance and tailings of one client, and this was addressed straight to you Robin, you’ve been repeatedly followed, this guy wants you cut up in pieces, and I’m not gonna risk it,” said Strike fiercely in the inner office, dressed-up, shutting Robin’s arguing off. “I don’t need you in this building! I don’t need you to risk your life just to tail some silly thing for a case, which I could perfectly well do! We’ll close down the office, let the killer get bored to death.”

“But Max—,”

“Tell him to go with Damien,” said Strike, cutting her again. “Robin, someone sent us a leg, and sent you a toe, he couldn’t be louder and clearer. D’you want to be in pieces?”

“No!”

“Then listen to experience,” Strike sighed. “Look, Brockbank’s still working as a heavy or a bouncer, I’m sure, probably in the sex industry, so better me as a man, around prostitutes, lurking there than you, I can do him and our only client easily myself, go home, narrow sex parlours for me while I take care of our client. Keep a record of any expenses, I’ll reimburse you. Just leave for a couple weeks Robin, let’s see if he calms the fuck down, okay?”

Robin had argued, protested, all for nothing. Now, with a police patrol in her street 24h, she sat cradling a glass of wine in Max’s sitting room, laptop in her hand, Max and Wolfgang gone for safety to Damien’s house. Max hadn’t liked to leave her alone, but it was best that way. She had just had a video-conference dinner date with Cormac, after telling him how he couldn’t come to her flat nor she to his because she’d been followed and the police was watching out for her.

“So what is it that you’re working on?” Robin turned to his face in a corner of the screen, the rest occupied with the message board Kelsey had been in. After dinner, she had asked whether it was okay for her to do some work while they chatted, and he had been happy to stick around. The often did this too, just sit in comfortable silence, glancing at each other or talking a bit while doing their own chores, as if they were in the same room. Cormac himself had opened a book and was ‘studying’ a little. A nurse, he said, never stopped studying.

“Our victim had friends in an online messaging board and I’m trying to get them to trust me in hopes they’ll talk to us,” explained Robin.

“How’s it going?”

Robin puffed, and he smiled softly. She had to admit he was handsome as hell, but not her usual type, not like Matthew. He was hairier, with a rounder face, bearded, with brown hair and blue eyes below thick, unruly eyebrows. His hair curled a little, was always sort of messy, and he usually had hair in his neck too, rarely shaving it because it irritated his skin. He wasn’t as slim as Matthew either, although tall, a big man, and he was actually tremendously shy and easy to make blush, which Robin found adorable. He also had a bit of funny ears with earlobes that turned in a way that, he confessed, had made him vulnerable to bullying as a child. Robin liked them, and when she’d confessed such fact, he’d blushed so hard his ears had gotten so red, and his eyes had illuminated, smiling broadly like a happy dog.

“It’s hard to convince them I’m not press. How’s your studying?”

“Ugh, checking the last scientific advances on blood coagulation. Why don’t you try telling them that, even if you were press, you couldn’t use anything they gave you without telling them your true identity, because it’d be illegal and you’d lose your job? Not sure if it’s true but can’t hurt to try, can it?”

“That’s good!” Robin scribbled the message for the guys she was talking with and grinned at Cormac. “Thank you Cormac, smart guy.”

“Just tryin’ to keep up with ya,” he grinned. “Have I told you already how beautiful you look today, in spite of the rough day?”

“Only a couple times,” she blushed, giving him her full attention. “I wish you were here.”

“Me too Robin… as soon as that creep is caught, I promise you, I’ll take you somewhere fun, anywhere you want. We could go horse riding, and you teach me!”

Robin grinned, and allowed herself to fantasize on the life once this nightmare was over, with him.

“I’d love that.”

“Then we’ll do that. I’ve learned that when times are rough, sometimes you just have to set your eyes on how nice it will be. Like… on your birthday, I’ll take you dancing. You can party with your friends or whatever, but then I’ll take you dancing all night, we’ll go to some concert, we’ll drink beer, we’ll make out under the stars, I’ll buy you a bunch of roses and everything. And we should go to one of those escape rooms, get our friends together so our gangs can meet each other! With your detective skills, we’ll win in a beat!”

Robin laughed at his enthusiasm.

“I’ve never gone to those. Are they fun?”

“Are you kidding? You’re going to love it. I went to one for a friend’s birthday, and we divided in two groups of five, competed to see who got out first, and who didn’t bought the winner group dinner. My room was Alice in Wonderland themed, we had to solve a chess riddle, I loved it. My inner nerd came fully out. And I’d love to see you in action. I’ve also heard, but never gone to, that there’s something in London, what was the name…? Can’t bloody… well, I’ll figure it out. It’s a company that does immersive movie experience.”

“How so?”

“You tell them which movie you like, can be James Bond, all sorts of cool stuff,” said Cormac. “And then, they sort of kidnap you for the day, to get you into the experience, like you’re inside the movie for the entire day. I heard it’s really cool, I think you can bring loved ones too. We should try that.”

Robin agreed.

“When all of this is over, we will,” she promised.

“You’re not super scared, are you?” asked Cormac, a little worried. “I know it can’t be easy to be in your shoes these days…”

“I feel safer knowing Cormoran’s on the case but…” she sighed. “I’m afraid for my loved ones. The people we can’t protect… and Zahara. God, that poor girl…”

Robin had only told him about the case without much detail, saying that a suspect was a paedophile with access to little Zahara, who was in danger.

“You’ll fix it all. I’m sure.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Well because you’re Robin Effin Ellacott,” he smiled. “What can’t you do? And you got a good sidekick for what I’ve heard, so…”

She giggled.

“More like he’s the expert and I’m the sidekick.”

“Nonsense, he’d be lost without you,” he said warmly. Suddenly, she had an idea.

“I know it might be soon but… well, Cormoran’s sister Lucy got engaged recently over the summer, she’s already told me I’m invited because we’ve become friends over the months but… well, invitations are not due yet, too early. But she’s been encouraging me to find someone to bring as my plus one and… it’ll be next year, I could be getting ahead of myself but since you said to focus on the positive future…”

“I would love to go with you.”

“Yeah?” she looked surprised.

“That’s what you were going to ask, right?”

“Yes!” she grinned. “I wanted you to come, if we’re still together.”

“Tell me the date as soon as I can, and I’ll ask for the day off in advance, or prepare a good fake illness,” he said happily. “I really, really like you, Robin. Maybe it’s too soon but… I just really care about you, you know? When we’re together, even if it’s just like this… it feels warm. Like home.” Robin beamed at him, her eyes getting unexpectedly tearful. “Shit, did I say something wrong?”

“No, no… I just really care about you too,” said Robin, blushing, and rubbed her eyes. “I must say this summer’s gotten so hard these past weeks and if it weren’t for you… I don’t know. Cormoran’s not always the easiest guy to be around, but you… you’re my silver lining.”

His eyes lit up, and she saw him stretch a hand in her direction, and knew, he was touching her face on the screen.

“Here’s to being each other’s light in the dark, Robin.”

“For as long as possible,” she nodded, beaming at him.

On Monday morning, Robin woke up feeling happier than she had in a long time. Cormac had had the weekend off, and after one of their usual romantic dinner dates through video-conference, given her current state of reclusion for her safety, they’d unexpectedly gotten into horny conversations. They had never done anything past kissing, not even shirtless, but somehow it had gotten to the point where Robin, who didn’t usually tend to herself or felt any arousal, had been super aroused and had an exhilarating orgasm with two fingers inside herself, her thumb in her clit and her free hand cupping one of her breasts under her pyjama, while Cormac talked to her, bringing her over the edge just with his voice, without even talking dirty or using obscene words like ‘whore’, ‘slut’ or anything like that. He’d made her come with words of affection, tenderness and sweetness, and she, who had never done anything alike, never even phone sexed, or sexted, or spoken dirty, had followed his guidance to make him cum too, afterwards. They had only looked at each other’s faces, nothing else, clothes on, but Robin had seen him throw his head back in pleasure, losing himself, his shoulder moving fast as he touched himself, and he had come undone. Afterwards they had still talked about an hour, shared their favourite bits of the day -a thing Cormac had gotten her into doing, to go to sleep on a positive note every day- and the things they deemed to improve the next day, had laughed, had spoken words of affection, and Robin now felt like her soul had been touched. She realized, while having breakfast and noticing that she hadn’t thought of Matthew all week, that she was falling for this guy.

Robin had sent Strike a scrupulous list of everywhere Brockbank might be working in, while secretly pursuing her own line of enquiry, Cormac had helped her rehearse what to say to Strike to get him to allow her back to work after three days out, and now, she was preparing to head back to the office. Wardle had told them over the weekend that the severed toe had belonged to Kelsey’s remaining foot, and Robin, knowing no one else was dead, wasn’t willing to let anybody else be added to the list.

Chapter Text

Chapter 24: Transabled.

Strike wasn’t happy with her argument.

“—and I’d much rather help catch him that wait home, wasting police resources, playing right into his hand and kicking my flatmate out of his own house!” she finished her convincing monologue, that had included an ultimatum saying that if he wasn’t going to let her work and run the same risks as him, then she’d take up on an offer Wardle had once joked with to get her to work in the Met. Vanessa had even written her a recommendation letter, and it seemed to chicken Strike out.

He glared at her for a long moment, he’d shouted at everything, but she never backed down. She held his gaze, unperturbed, determined.

“All right… you’re back to work.”

She beamed, and he stared with the perfect Grumpy Cat imitation.

“Oh cheer up, I’ve got a lead!”

“Do you? Why didn’t you—,”

“What am I, amateur? Needed something to bargain.”

“You little…”

“I’ve made contact with one of the people on the BIID forum who was talking to Kelsey. Cormac helped me convince the bloke to talk to me—,”

“You’ve been flirting with these nutters without knowing who you’re messing with?!”

“I told you I’d been there, Wardle was impressed! Kelsey’s Nowheretoturn—,”

“He’s way ahead too, he’s already figured it’s a dead end, now he’s working on Devotee, some guy who—,”

“I know about Devotee, he’s nothing to worry about.”

“Which you know because?”

“Uhm, let me think,” Robin said sarcastically. “Three years of psychology studies, several hours stopping to chat and get to know this guy while pretending to have their same disorder, countless hours researching acrotomophiliacs… it’s just a paraphilia hardly ever associated with violence, Devotee just likes to masturbate at the idea of wannabes, just because someone is creepy it doesn’t mean they’re a murderer.”

Strike gave her a surly look, and went to make tea, accepting his defeat. To console himself, he almost comically stuffed a biscuit in his mouth, which he munched while glaring at Robin, who kept talking cheerfully ignoring him.

“Anyway, remember the guy who told Wardle he’d never met Kelsey? Liar. He talked to me once I earned his trust, he met Kelsey.”

“Yeah? How do you know?”

“He’s told me everything. He was terrified of the Met, none of his loved ones know his obsession with getting rid of his leg, was afraid of things becoming public. But once he was sure who I really am—,”

“YOU TOLD HIM THE TRUTH?!”

“Best thing I could’ve done! Jason’s absolutely desperate to meet you, he believes you cut off your own leg yourself because Kelsey convinced him of it, he wants to talk to you to know how to do it! So now he’s more than happy to talk to us.”

“Jesus fucking Christ! Mentally ill, bloody sick in the head…” Strike didn’t have enough biscuits to calm himself at the moment.

“Actually it’s not clear whether BIID is a mental illness or a brain abnormality—,”

“Whatever. Why should we even—? What do you think he knows that’s worth our time?”

“He met Kelsey, he’s nineteen, works in Leeds, his aunt lives here so he’s going to come as soon as he can and he’s going to tell us why Kelsey was so sure you’d cut your leg. Think about it Cormoran, if the killer was the one to convince her—,”

“—Jason might know who the killer could be.”

“Exactly.”

“Well until we know when Jason’s meeting us, you keep pressuring him, start ringing those brothels to try and get a lead on Brockbank, and stake out Wollaston Close, I figured that’s where Laing lives, somewhere there. Keep a low profile, nothing after dark, and if you get followed again get the hell out and set off your rape alarm. Give me the other half of those numbers, we’ll divide… and I’ll take care of our only client. Check in regularly.”

Strike did his best to keep Robin in safe places as much as he could, busy places, safe and sound.

He could remember what it felt like to hug her. She was nowhere near as beautiful as Charlotte, who had had the kind of beauty that made men forget themselves mid sentence, that stunned them into silence, a beauty that had been over the front covers of every main magazine when her engagement to Jago Ross had been announced publicly, the wedding announced for February. Robin was very sexy, for sure, but men weren’t stuck dumb in her presence. She seemed to make them more loquacious. It was as if Charlotte’s beauty scared men, while Robin’s, comforted them, because Charlotte’s beauty was the same of a snake, fascinating yet dangerous, and Robin’s was more like a puppy, someone you wanted to get closer to.

Yet he missed her horribly when she wasn’t around. Her face, her voice, her presence, being around her… he loved every bit of it. But he’d be insane to want to have an affair with her, and it wasn’t like Robin wasn’t that type. She was the marriage type, in Strike’s eyes.

Robin wouldn’t have been out of place in the SIB. She had taken advanced driving courses, self-defence courses with a soldier, surveillance courses… she had nearly died but had saved herself and made the man who had wronged her pay big time, and even when she’d been concussed pursuing killer Elizabeth Tassel just a few months before, and Strike now knew just how bad she must’ve really felt considering she’d be recovering from the major TBI sustained in her early twenties for years to come, she had only consented to a week off work. Robin was the same person who had reacted so nicely to his medium secret, who had recovered from any initial panic to efficiently assist him and take care of him in any situation, who on occasion had saved his life and vice versa, who improvised so successfully to interrogate suspects that she got information not him and not police could get, Robin was full of kindness, generosity, determination, resourcefulness, courage, intelligence, initiative, brainless… she would’ve made an incredible SIB.

When September came, weeks had passed where work had kept Robin and Strike from seeing each other much at all. With Lucy’s birthday on the fourth and Ilsa’s on the nineteenth, turning thirty and thirty-three respectively, it would’ve made perfect sense for the friends and family, Robin included, to gather together and celebrate both birthdays at once with a huge party, like other years, before Robin came into their lives, had happened. Lucy and Ilsa were like sisters, having grown very close and fond of each other particularly after Lucy had moved to St Mawes permanently just before her thirteenth birthday and they’d spent their teens growing up together, so neither minded at all to share birthday month and celebration, specially now they had children in similar ages to play together, for their amusement.

This year however and given the circumstances, it was nearly cancelled. Someone had stabbed a hooker down in Shacklewell and cut off two of her fingers on the first day of September, and the woman had survived by miracle, stabbed in the abdomen, with a punctured lung, and saved by two students who heard her scream. She had described a big, beefy white guy with a hat and a hat jacket, a northerner by his accent, with upturned collar, but was too high with medication to say much more. The next day, Robin had a lead on Brockbank, figuring out he was working for a strip club off Commercial Road, and she was still spending hours in Wollaston Close, suspecting Laing wasn’t there and Strike knew it and that’s why he kept her there, while he stalked the strip club. So Ilsa and Lucy agreed they ought to postpone things, hopefully so that when they celebrated the killer was in prison, and decided to go week by week, depending on how things were looking. For now, the celebration was to happen at Lucy’s in Bromley, on the third Saturday of November, the sixteenth, as far from danger as possible. Robin and Strike had agreed they should be able to get there without being followed, cleverly using public transport and the Land Rover, combining to mislead anybody who followed them. Robin, who’d just formalised her relationship with Cormac, appearing on Lucy’s birthday at the office with a new bracelet around her wrist and a beaming smile, so happy she was nearly not touching the ground, would be introducing her boyfriend to everyone for what Ilsa and Lucy were very excited. Strike found it stupid.

“Have we called Lucy to congratulate her yet?” Robin inquired chirpy that morning. “I sent her a bouquet of flowers, a card and a book I think she’ll like.”

“You what?” Strike panicked. “Any idea how you make the big brother look when you do that? I texted her and… I’ll buy her a card. I’ll tell her I’ve got her present saved for the party, to see her face when she opens…”

“Have you?”

“Well I will have to now, won’t I?”

Robin snorted a laugh. She was in such good mood, like Strike hadn’t seen her all summer, and it both annoyed him and made him happier.

“Y’know what’s good? We’re meeting Jason and Tempest, both of the people Kelsey was interacting with, on Saturday. They’re both coming over. She’s a big activist for the transable community, super overwhelming, but Jason will only feel safe with her.”

“Ugh.”

“They want to go to the Gallery Mess café at the Saatchi Gallery. Has great disabled access, Tempest is in a wheelchair.”

“For fucking—!”

“Promise!” said Robin, cutting him. “You will behave, Cormoran.”

She was giving him a warning finger like he was a little child, and he exhaled loudly.

“But they—!”

“Cormoran,” warning tone, reminding of Joan.

“She’s not even—!”

“Cormoran…”

“How can I—?!”

“Cormoran!”

He exhaled loudly again, his nostrils flaring, and she raised her eyebrows at him, like chastising silently.

“Fine.”

On Saturday, Jason and Tempest became easy to spot among the tastefully dressed clientele. He was young, had a long nose and a hoodie and jeans, and seemed easy to scare and intimidate. Tempest had a dyed black bob and thick spectacles, physically opposite in her paleness, dumpy and doughy, with a black t-shirt and sitting on a wheelchair. Tempest carried the confidence and calmness Jason lacked, and had already gotten herself a glass of wine. She beamed and stretched a hand to shake Robin and Strike’s hands, encouraging Jason to do the same as everybody was greeted, introduced and they sat down, Strike and Robin in front of each other, Strike next to the woman in a wheelchair with a surly look, eyeing Robin as if saying ‘can’t believe you’re making me do this’.

“The staff here is wonderful, the most helpful,” said Tempest cheerfully. “I’ve told Jason not to mind what he orders, he didn’t realize how much you’ll have made with so many high profile cases, the press paying for the stories and all.”

Strike took a deep breath, feeling himself particularly susceptible, and tried not to think of his plummeting bank balance, his bedsit over the office, and how the killer had already fucked their business.

“We try,” he murmured.

“So Jason,” began Robin, but Tempest talked over her.

“He’s so nervous, hadn’t really thought of the repercussions… but seriously, we’d like your assurance up front that we won’t be in trouble for not talking with the police, it’s not like our information is so important. Kelsey was just a poor kid with problems that we met once, and of whom we hardly knew anything. We’ve no clue who killed her, and our community is so prosecuted, I’ve had death threats! I should hire you to investigate them, ha ha.”

“Death threats?” Robin asked politely.

“I run a website, I’m like a Mother Superior, ha ha. Everyone confides in me, so I’m the one to get attacked by ignorant people, but I don’t mind fighting other’s battles, right Jason? Anyway, we need to guarantee we won’t be in trouble.”

Strike eyed Robin. How was he going to have any power or authority on the matter? They had lied to the police and concealed information, obstructing an investigation. It was up not to him to decide whether they ought to be prosecuted. So an easy lie would do.

“I don’t think either of you will be in trouble.” Robin avoided looking at him.

“Good, OK, we want to help, specially if this killer is preying on our community, it’s our duty to help! Wouldn’t surprise me, if you see the abuse and hatred we get… ignorants, that’s what they are. Even people who know what it’s like to be discriminated against and should be on our side.”

“Hey!” the waiter had given Strike a beer with ice on it, and Strike, who found that act nearly criminal, growled at him. “No.” He said like chastising a dog, getting the ice out of his glass. The waiter raised his eyebrows and left.

“Jason, when you first made contact with Kelsey—,”

Again, Tempest drowned Robin out.

“Yeah I checked my records, Kelsey first came to the website early in the summer, asking about you,” she turned to Strike, “and then exchanged emails with Jason, right?”

“Yeah,” Jason replied weakly.

“Then she suggested meeting up and Jason got in touch with me, yes Jason? And of course I came along, because it’s the internet, could’ve been anyone, Jason couldn’t go alone.”

“What made you want to meet Kel—?”

Once more, Robin was interrupted by Tempest, and this time Strike clenched his jaw and glanced at Robin, admiring her capacity of self restraint and her ability to stay perfectly calm, unperturbed. He’d been like that in the army but oddly, in front of this Tempest, he found himself having a hard time to restrain himself, which wasn’t so frequent.

“Kelsey got Jason interested in you,” Tempest told Strike. “She knew it all!”

“So what did Kelsey tell you about me, Jason?”

“She said—,”

“I’m asking Jason,” Strike interrupted Tempest, tired of it. “Is he not going to say a word all day? Why did he come then?” he inquired, but kept his tone polite and calm. Tempest blushed and shut up and Jason answered, mortified, in a small voice.

“She said her brother knew you,” he mumbled. “That he’d worked with you.”

“Really? She doesn’t have a brother.”

Jason shrugged nervously.

“I’m pretty sure she said brother. She said he worked with you after the army.”

“She told us she had a boyfriend, was it Neil Jason?”

“Niall.”

“That’s right,” said Tempest. “He picked her up after we had coffee—,”

“Wait, you’ve seen Niall?” Robin asked, incredulous.

“Yes,” Tempest shrugged, matter of fact. “He picked her up on his motorbike at Café Rouge on Tottenham Court Road.”

Strike and Robin exchanged an excited expression.

“That’s not far from our office,” she said.

“Oh, didn’t they know that? Ha ha,” said Tempest. “You were hoping to see Cormoran, uh Jason? Ha ha,” she laughed merrily. “Niall was waiting for her along the road, helmet on.”

Their description of the motorbike, when Strike asked for it, had some common bits with the one Robin had seen the courier who’d brought the leg over use. After it seemed like they’d gotten out all the useful information, Jason finally gathered the courage to address Strike directly.

“Is it true that you…?” he asked suddenly.

“That I?”

“That you did it yourself,” Tempest whispered, winking.

Her thick thighs had subtly readjusted themselves as she lifted them off the chair, bearing their own weight, instead of hanging behind the mobile torso. Strike, who had spent months at Selly Oak Hospital recovering after his leg had blown up and he had been medically discharged, had seen plenty of men left paraplegic and quadriplegic by the injuries sustained in war. Strike had seen their wasted legs, how they’d learned to compensate with their upper bodies to accommodate the dead weight below. Suddenly, the gravity of what Tempest was doing hit him hard. She was fine. She did not need the wheelchair. But when he looked at Robin, her expression of distaste and fury, which she was suddenly throwing at Tempest, a vicarious release, letting her keep him calm and police.

“If I don’t know what you’ve been told, I won’t know if it’s true or not.”

“Kelsey said… she said you went to the pub with her brother and got drunk and told him the truth. She said you walked off your base in Afghanistan with a gun, went as far as you could… and shot yourself, got a doctor to amputate it for you.”

Strike had to down half his beer in one sitting.

“And I did this why?”

“What?”

“To get invalidated out of the army or what?”

“No, no!” Jason looked strangely hurt. “No, you were like us. You needed to be an amputee.”

Robin was incapable of looking at Strike, so she clenched her jaw and, praying silently, played absently with the brand new bracelet Cormac had gotten her. He’d made it himself, like a handyman or craftsman, removing some rings to break it in several parts he reunited attaching little ornaments of things she liked. There was a miniature magnifying glass for her job, a horse, a little robin, a classic London bus representing the city, a little heart, and a series of little stars intercalated representing the night sky. The thoughtfulness and dedication, united to Cormac’s shyness, blush and smile as he presented it to her, had warmed her heart so much she had kissed him hard, the one night they’d been able to meet lately with safety guarantees, once Robin was sure there was nobody following her or in her street, and after he’d formally asked her to be exclusive, they’d finally had sex. It had been surprisingly perfect for someone like Robin, who’d never really loved sex before. But Cormac hadn’t stopped for his pleasure until he was sure Robin was having the time of her life, spending more time pleasuring her than nothing else.

“Did Kelsey’s brother know she wanted to take off her own leg?” asked Strike, returning Robin to reality as her mind briefly focused on how handsome and sexy her boyfriend had been. She had been horrified at one point only, when she’d nearly called him Corm, a nickname people often used on Cormoran, as she rode him and he made out with her breasts with devotion, her hand buried on his soft, wavy brown hair as she lost herself in pleasure.

“I don’t think so. She said I was the only one.”

“There’s a lot of shame,” said Tempest, diving back into the conversation. “I’m not out at work, have to say is a back injury… and I’ve changed GP twice, the medical community is unbelievable! Always offering bloody psychiatry. Poor little love, nobody understood Kelsey, couldn’t tell anyone, so she reached to us, to you… you’re not alone, mind. Once people success, they tend to leave the community, we get it… but it would mean a lot if people stayed just to describe what it feels like to finally be in the body you’re meant to be in.”

Robin glanced fearfully at Strike, whose neck vein was swollen. However, the SIB had trained him well, and he merely gave a tight lipped, polite smile.

“So you don’t think it was Kelsey’s brother’s idea to contact me?”

“No, I think it was hers,” replied Jason.

“What did she want, exactly?”

“Well obviously,” intervened Tempest with a laugh. “Advice on how to do what you’ve done.”

“Is that what you think Jason?”

“Yeah… she wanted to know the degree of damage she’d have to do, and if you could introduce her to the doctor who did yours.”

“That’s the perennial problem, finding reliable surgeons, because all of them are just unsympathetic so people die trying alone,” intervened Tempest once more. “There was a wonderful surgeon in Scotland… but he got stopped, ten years ago. People go abroad if they can afford it, but us… well, you can see why Kelsey wanted to get your contact list, ha ha.”

Robin’s knife fell to the floor as she became so indignant in Strike’s behalf, forcing herself to not drop her jaw in anger. The two friends had painted Kelsey as an immature and desperate girl with a huge urge to be amputated, having tried as a child, so much that she’d do anything to achieve it.

“...problem is you might not exactly,” continued Tempest, “get the degree of disability you’re after—,”

Strike had just paid the bill.

“So what degree are you after?”

“Oh I want my spinal cord severed, paraplegic. Ideally, by a surgeon. In the meantime I just get on with the chair.”

“Using the disabled restrooms and lifts, uh?” asked Strike.

“Cormoran,” Robin warned. He was stressed and sleep-deprived. She was impressed he’d hold on this long.

“It’s a need I’ve known since I was a child. My body is wrong, it needs to be paralysed.”

“Let’s just go,” Robin tried, but Strike wasn’t listening.

“Know many disabled people, do you?”

“I know a couple, obviously we’ve got so much in—,”

“Fucking all in common you got,” Strike stood up.

“I knew it,” Robin murmured, standing up and gently grabbing his arm. “C’mon, Corm—,”

“Just so you know,” said Strike, addressing both Tempest and Jason while Robin tried to pull him away. “I was in a car that blew up around me,” Jason covered his face, eyes full of tears. Tempest gaped. “The driver was ripped in two, that’ll get you some attention eh?!” he snapped at Tempest. “Only he was dead, they could only find his head to bury, another guy? They couldn’t even find bits, just blood, the other lost half his face— I lost my leg! There was nothing voluntary—!”

“OK, we’re off,” Robin pulled more strongly, bringing her other hand around to take his hand too. “Thanks a lot Jason, you’ve been so—,”

“Get some fucking help!” Strike pointed at Jason loudly as he was pulled away, people staring, and pointed at his head. “WITH YOUR HEAD!”

Several metres and deep breaths into the street, Strike’s breath normalised.

“OK. You warned me, I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right, we got what we needed,” she said. They walked on calmly, taking some fresh air. “At least you didn’t punch her. You know, in her wheelchair, with all the art lovers looking.”

Strike began to laugh loudly, and Robin half smiled, shaking her head.

“I knew you’d lose it.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 25: Sentiments.

On Sunday, Strike met Wardle to catch up on the case, finding they were ahead of the police per usual, but not by much, and Wardle had gone to Wollaston Close, confirmed Laing was there, per neighbours’ statement, renting, very sick, using crutches, but apparently he’s not seen around much and wasn’t home. Then, Wardle mentioned a friend of his wife, both of whom Strike had met when the four went to a small pub concert once, was interested in Strike, so after drinks, Strike spent the night having a rendezvous with Coco.

So on Monday, Strike covered Brockbank and Robin focused on Laing, albeit with plenty of warnings to stay in the safe zone. Strike then managed to speak with some prostitutes on Wednesday, at the strip club Brockbank supposedly worked, and discovered Brockbank had been sacked from the strip club after only a few days, because he was late, then having fits, he pissed himself, and his girlfriend, a black woman named Alyssa, came running to help him, screaming for an ambulance, so Strike became sure Brockbank actually suffered epilepsy from severe TBI. Robin, who had had one epileptic fit after her own severe TBI but who couldn’t have an ounce of sympathy for a child rapist, said he had it coming, with a coldness that surprised Strike, used to her warmth.

Strike also found out from a prostitute that Alyssa had worked there too, but that she’d insulted her boss for sacking Brockbank, and been sacked herself. Apparently Alyssa had kids, so not just Zahara. Alyssa was known between her peers for her horrible taste in men, and none of them had liked Noel at all, but they’d given the useful information that the couple lived with Alyssa’s two daughters in a council house in Bow, next to a good nursery.

In any case, no more body parts, no more deaths, and some days of not being followed encouraged Strike and Robin to take the weekend off for a much needed break, even if Zahara never really left Robin’s mind, to enjoy Lucy and Ilsa’s joint birthday celebrations. After all, they hadn’t seen Lucy and the boys since Leda’s birth in July, and Nick and Ilsa for longer than that.

Robin was excited to have Cormac use one of his rare days off to come with her. The dress code was smart casual, so she put on a sensual blouse and tight jeans, sandals with a bit of a heel, let her hair loose, and complimented with a bit of a stronger make-up than usual, painting her nails transparent but shiny, adding Cormac’s gift which she never really took off, her watch, an index ring she’d had for ages, and an ancient firefly necklace, with her best earrings. The amulet Strike had given her hung beneath her clothes. For extra safety, she took the underground one stop, quickly changed trains inside the station, and came out of a different underground, at which station, Cormac awaited with his car, picking her up.

“Hi gorgeous!” he grinned, dressed in a shirt and jeans and looking the perfect combination of handsome and a bit gruff, kissing her. He still blushed when they kissed, it was cute. He was only slightly taller than her, had tidied up his beard for the day, and his eyes twinkled when he looked at her.

“You look so handsome yourself, is that a new cologne I spot?” Robin nuzzled into his neck, his arms around her, his lips on her forehead.

“A man ought to make an effort for his special someone,” he grinned. “Want to drive? I know you love it.” He held up the keys to his Fiat and Robin grinned excitedly taking them and rushing to the driver’s seat.

Cormac’s second-hand Fiat was a joy to drive in, the seat comfortable, the vehicle smelling softly of him, his seat always at the perfect height so she hardly had to adjust it the few times she had a chance to drive it, which wasn’t much, since Cormac used mostly public transport. He had the car for emergencies, odd working hours, jobs outside the city when he had to visit other hospitals, and special occasions.

“So how was your day?” Robin asked as she drove to Bromley. It only made sense she drove them, knowing the way well by now.

“It was great, there was this patient we got yesterday, massive aneurysm, I thought we were going to lose him but then miracle, he’s improving a lot so his children could see him today, it was so sweet. And I got to participate in a small little surgery!”

“You kidding!”

“It was incredible Robin, the rush of adrenaline… couldn’t stand it on a daily basis but it made my week much more interesting.”

“That’s wonderful for you Cormac,” she grinned at him briefly as she stopped in a red light, reaching to cup his cheek. “I’m so happy you’re here.” He beamed, kissing her hand. Was he in love? Robin thought he surely acted like it.

“Me too. D’you think they’ll like wine? I’ve bought a couple bottles of the red you like, they’re in the back. I wasn’t sure what to…”

“Oh it’s fine, Ilsa loves any wine you give her and Lucy’s not picky,” said Robin. “You shouldn’t have bothered.”

“It’s no bother to find something to gift your friends’ for their birthdays, specially when they’re so kind to you, for what you say,” Robin stared at him as if he was bloody marvel. “What?”

“Nothing I just—,” someone beeped at her, because it had gone green and she wasn’t moving, so she blushed, driving away.

“What is it?”

“I got so used to Matthew sometimes I only realize all he wasn’t when I look at you. He’s never talked like that about my friends. Never gave a damn.”

“Well, you deserve someone who gives a damn about the things you give a damn about. And in that line… how’s work going? Got that child rapist yet?”

“No, but we’re close. Got the address where the children live, but Cormoran says it’s last resort, we need the killer first. He’s pretty sure it’s not the rapist now, because he finally believes the rapist truly has bad TBI consequences, he’s epileptic.”

“Ouch… karma.”

“Indeed!” his hand slid to her knee, but his eyes remained trained on her, fully attentive, not trying anything sexual, just comforting her, letting her know she had his attention when she couldn’t look at him. “So that means the likely killer is our other suspect, but neighbours say he’s in crutches, very sick with psoriatic arthritis. Can that make you that sick, you reckon?”

“Yeah, absolutely. First you get the red patches of skin for the psoriasis, which often comes first, then joint pain, sometimes excruciating, stiffness, swelling… can affect any part of your body, fingerprints… if it gets to your spine and it’s severe, you could be in very serious pain and disability. There might also be periods of remission, though.”

“Sounds tricky,” Robin frowned. “Perhaps he kills when he’s on remission? Would explain why he’s not on daily rampages…”

“That’s an interesting theory, but you ought to remember from the research I’m sure you’ve done, sometimes the damage can deform joints and permanently damage them so even on periods of remission…”

“He’d be truly fucked.”

“Yes,” Cormac nodded in agreement. “Would be easier to fake a worse degree of it though. If he’s not that bad to really use crutches, he could fake the worsening.”

“That’s really interesting, hadn’t thought of that possibility… that he’s only half faking. Will tell Cormoran tonight.”

“Happy to help. We’re good tonight, right? You guys not being followed?”

“No, Cormoran also fooled changing underground and all, and Nick and Ilsa picked him up in Wandsworth, it’s where they live.”

“Who else is coming?”

“Petit comité, Lucy just had a baby so she’s not bringing a lot of people around just yet, she also has two sons, toddlers. And Ilsa already had a big party with other friends on her actual birthday, so it’ll be just us. Lucy, her future husband Wyatt who writes for kids… funnily enough he was a paramedic, you’ve got the medical field in common with him and Nick. Then the Herberts, their kiddos, Cormoran and us. Also Vanessa, my cop friend? Her boyfriend Oliver is busy with work, forensics, but Vanessa became my friend through work, then friends of Ilsa and Lucy through me—,”

“Oh yeah you guys have drinks together often, before this whole mess.”

“You remember! Good. Well, she’s invited. Like us, dying to get her mind off murder for a night. Might be a little late though, work.”

“Nice, small gatherings are more intimate.”

“Yes, I miss them, haven’t seen them in months. And I know the girls are super excited to meet you, Vanessa recommended me the app.”

“So she’s our matchmaker! I should’ve bought her something too,” Cormac chuckled. “So is Cormoran as intimidating as he sounds?”

“He’s all right, he puts the rough giant appearance with the surly face and twisted nose because he’s gotten it broken a bunch of times, and he’s a sarcastic bastard, but deep inside he’s just sweet and soft like a muffin.”

“Thank God,” Cormac said nervously. “I’m never good with guys that go around trying to scare people off. I’m too pacific.”

“And I appreciate it.” She brought his hand to her lips, rubbing the lipstick stain away with her thumb.

After Robin parked, she and Cormac held hands together, stealing kisses and smiles as they strolled one street to the house. Lucy opened the door, visibly thinner than in July, her body slowly getting fitter after the pregnancy, and a broad smile in her face, giving cheek kisses to both of them and accepting the wine with enthusiasm.

“You guys are the first,” said Lucy cheerfully. “Jack, Adam, come say hi to Robin and Cormac! Wyatt’s just dealing with Leda, poor thing had a nightmare, wouldn’t stop crying.”

Jack and Adam dashed inside, shouted for Robin, and ran to hug her. Robin grinned, kneeling to put an arm around each, introducing them to Cormac, who observed, grinning and a little blushed. Ten minutes later, Cormac was playing soldiers with the boys and Wyatt, and the ladies went to the kitchen, where Lucy was watching the casserole Wyatt had prepared and which cooked in the oven as they drank the first glasses of wine. Lucy admired her bracelet.

“What a sweet gesture, and he’s got a good butt,” Lucy commented playfully. Robin giggled, blushing. “He makes you happy, yes?”

“Very much,” she admitted. “He’s everything Matthew wasn’t, and then the good bits improved. And a nurse, so if I ever choke on an olive he’s right there.”

“Dark but truthful,” Lucy snorted a laugh.

“I invited him to the wedding.”

“That’s great! Any idea if Corm is bringing Elin?”

“Nope, they’ve broken up. I think he’s sleeping with someone else but I’m not sure,” Robin shrugged. “He’s still my boss, after all. How’s the wedding planning?”

“Pretty well, we’re aiming for small, just our very close loved ones, so it’s easier,” said Lucy. “With three kids, there’s only so much we can manage. But we’re happy,” said Lucy, and she indeed looked happy and relaxed, in a summer dress and sandals. “The boys adore Wyatt, he adores them, he’s such a wonderful Dad, he’s so great with Leda… I swear she’s like my mother, adores men,” she snorted a laugh and Robin chuckled.

“Not so mad about your Mum any more, right?”

“Comes and goes, Wyatt is instilling in me the spirit of forgiveness,” she rolled eyes. “Comes with having a too nice fiancé.”

“Oh, as if you hated it, come on!”

Lucy sniggered, and they heard the door open. Vanessa was indeed the last one to arrive, in her work smart clothes attire, and Robin introduced Cormoran and Cormac, who shook hands, exchanged polite words, but then were seen chatting animatedly about football. Apparently they both were huge fans of the Arsenal, a fact Robin had failed to realize, and Cormac’s father, who Robin knew to have died in Iraq in the RAF, had instilled on Cormac a great respect for soldiers and veterans which Strike seemed to like.

Presents were quickly exchanged early in the dinner, purely because everyone had them in plain view so it seemed stupid not to, and were opened during the first rounds of drinks, both women happy with what they’d gotten, but happier to be reunited after such stressful weeks for everyone, Lucy with her three kids, two of which were back in school, Ilsa and Nick with their respective kids, Evelyn having just started her first year of kindergarten, their busy jobs and a difficult case that had Ilsa nearly living in court for weeks, Strike, Vanessa and Lucy with the killer of Kelsey Platt, and Cormac pretty much living in the ICU.

“Poor thing’s barely caught any sunlight,” Robin commented smiling at her boyfriend once he had, under request from Lucy, commented how his job was going. “He actually just gave me quite an idea for the investigation as we came.”

“Table suitable?” asked Vanessa. “Because we’re desperate.”

“Yes, well, you know how both of the suspects Cormoran and I have in mind, the ones we told you and Wardle about, have quite the health issues,” said Robin. “And Cormac pointed out the one with arthritis might be faking to make it worse than it is, wouldn’t be hard, right Cormac?”

“Yes, I’d say you grab a pair of crutches or a wheelchair, fake some extra pain… I’ve seen it around, when people want doctors to give more medications, when they begin to get addicted, which is also common with arthritis patients,” Cormac casually commented.

“So we can’t cross them off just yet,” said Vanessa. “Well, hopefully there’ll be some advance next week, because Wardle’s super stressed, he’s got the lead, I’m just helping out. And each has their own stack of independent cases at once. But that one? Creepiest case I’ve had, honestly.”

“Heard on the news,” said Wyatt, since the children had eaten first and were now busy playing out of earshot, “that the girl who was killed had some mental issue, wanted to be physically disabled.”

“Oh, how can someone…?” Lucy seemed disgusted, and took a long sip of her wine.

“Yeah, I’ve had cases of doctors who had to defend their negativity to operate on people who wanted them to take a healthy limb and things like that,” Ilsa commented, cutting her steak. At 33, Strike figured she didn’t look a day over 30, while he, of her same age, looked nearly 40. “You guys will catch him. You always do.”

“Hopefully before someone else dies,” Strike commented, eating with appetite. “This thing is delicious Wyatt.”

“Thanks Corm!”

“So why did you break up with Elin?” inquired Ilsa. “I thought she made you happy?”

“You didn’t like her, neither did Nick.”

“I just barely know her,” said Nick sitting next to him.

“And I don’t dislike her I just…” Ilsa shrugged. “You haven’t replied.”

“Sharp. She was falling in love, I wasn’t,” said Strike simply. “I’m not a prick taking advantage, I wasn’t making her happy, I didn’t want to go live with her.”

“Bit crazy of her to ask you to live with her after what, two months or less?” Nick frowned. “Jesus, hit the brakes…”

“I gotta agree there,” Cormac nodded, gulping from the casserole. “Girls are a bit on a rush sometimes, in my experience. I think they think if you live together, no matter how busy work has you, you’ll surely have time for something romantic daily. Not you,” he added to Robin, who blushed, “just others.”

“It’d be a bit hypocritical of me to criticise your working hours having mine in count,” opined Robin.

“You work much then, Cormac?” commented Vanessa, surveying her friend’s new boyfriend.

“Ah, yes, usually,” said Cormac thoughtfully. “A lot of people work much more, I’m sure you do for example, and honestly hours tend to go fast in the ICU, everybody’s critical so you’re always running and time flies. But Robin and I manage to sneak calls sometimes in between breaks, so that makes things easier. Didn’t expect online dating would be so good, the other girls I met were total creeps.”

“Really?” asked Nick.

“Yeah, well I only got my account two weeks before I met Robin so surely I can’t speak for such a large percentage but… I remember one who texted me without even saying hi, just wanted a picture of my… well, you know,” Robin nearly choked, spilling out.

“Shit, so there are women like some blokes,” she said after coughing to catch her breath. Cormac smiled softly, rubbing her back.

“Plenty. I’m pretty sure you’re the only normal one I met. There was one chick who was pretty and I thought was quite okay, and then she told me she had a kink for dirty sex. When I asked her how dirty exactly, it included stuff only meant to do in the bathroom that I can’t mention on the table.”

“Ew,” Lucy frowned. “Why are people so weird, seriously?”

“I could’ve lived without knowing some girls fantasize with having sex with stumps,” commented Strike, and Robin snorted a laugh. “This case’s killed my innocence.”

“As if you had any left,” said Ilsa laughing with Nick, and Strike smirked at them, amused.

“Okay what’s one fun thing you’ve done this week?” asked Wyatt. “Because I’ve only changed nappies so I’ll feed off your humour.”

“I got to help on an appendectomy yesterday,” said Cormac, and when they shot him incredulous looks, he added. “It was fun, really!” they laughed, amused.

“My boyfriend found an Instagram page full of cat faces photoshoped onto random things,” said Vanessa. “I spent twenty minutes laughing, so that was good.”

“Uhm… I liked it when Evelyn was telling us about the kids of her kindergarten,” said Nick. “She has an odd way of describing people like, ‘the one with the funny tooth’ or ‘the one who walks like he’s peeing.” They sniggered at Evelyn’s mind.

“I liked that,” Ilsa nodded in agreement. “What else did I do that was fun…? Oh, I got to show up to another lawyer I absolutely despise in court. Brought actual grins to my face.”

“Revengeful spirit, that’s why we’re friends,” said Strike. “I haven’t done anything fun, fun.”

“Oh come on,” Robin rolled eyes. “Mr Drama.” She joked.

“What’ve you done then?”

“Plenty of things,” Robin took a sip of her drink. “But they’re not suitable.” She left it in an air of mystery, winking at him, and Strike blushed heavily. Had she meant…?

The next morning, Robin sat on Cormac’s bed, butt naked, researching on her phone, absent mindedly playing with the amulet over her clavicles. She had had a sudden idea, the moment her eyes had opened, so she merely sat up while Cormac slept next to her, hugging her knees. There were seven nurseries in Bow. Just as she tried to think of how to check them all for Zahara, she felt her boyfriend stir next to her.

“Good morning,” he said sleepy, and her lips curved into a smile as he moved the hair off her shoulder to kiss her shoulder blade, her shoulder, neck, cheek and lips, peppering softy kisses.

“Good morning indeed,” replied Robin, turning to kiss him fully. “Had fun last night?”

“Your friends are great, so yeah. Cormoran’s a very interesting guy,” Cormac yawned, rubbing his face to get the sleep away. “We talked a lot about football, knows a lot… very nice bloke.”

“I think so too,” she watched him as he tried to join her in the world of the awake, eyes half closed still. She found the sleepy look profoundly adorable in him, the way he always seemed to need a bit longer to wake up completely.

“What ya doin’? Watching puppies?”

“No,” Robin chuckled, and showed him her screen. “I have an ethical dilemma.”

“Why?”

“Zahara’s in Bow, I’m trying to find exactly where through nurseries… but even if I find her, I promised Strike I wouldn’t intervene unless it was last resort, because we need to figure out if our child rapist is also our killer first. But I don’t know if I can have the information and restrain myself while Zahara gets raped. What can she be, three, four to be in nursery age? I don’t know what to do. Cormoran trusts me and if the suspect is a murderer and I scare him away and we lose him…”

“I think you already know what to do,” said Cormac, and sat up, putting an arm around her shoulders. “Robin, you’re the best person I know, your whole dilemma is not about what to do but when to do something, and that is for your heart to tell. You made a promise, you have a commitment to your friend and your agency, you could get him in serious legal trouble because who d’you think police will blame? You? Or your boss?”

“You’re right… But she’s just a baby… isn’t it worth my job?”

“Is it worth other people’s lives? Kelsey’s?” Robin sighed, shaking her head. Cormac kissed her cheek. “When you’re lost, just follow your heart. I know it’s cheesy, but I have to do it every day, deciding who between two or more critical patients who need help at once should have it first.”

“How do you decide? Younger first?”

“No. First, those I know for sure that I can save.”

“And if you still got more than one?”

“Then it doesn’t matter, does it? I can save both, means nobody is too bad, go to whichever is closer to finish quicker and the other should still be all right. Does that help you?”

Robin gave it a moment of deep thought and then nodded.

“Murder is critical, rape is not,” she murmured. “It’s for nothing if I save her from rape just to get her murdered in a few years, or her mother now… but the sooner I catch a murderer, the sooner I can catch a rapist.”

“Wise words from a wise warrior,” said Cormac softly. “Don’t stress so much Robin. Sometimes everything looks critical but you take a deep breath, keep your head above the water, and do the next right right, bit by bit, baby steps. Cautious small steps climb mountains, rush and carelessness don’t. And when you’re such a good person like I know you are… you’re bound to make things right in the end. I believe in you.”

“Thank you,” Robin leaned into him. “You don’t know how helpful you are, how much this means to me…”

Cormac rubbed her arm softly.

“Glad to help. Don’t worry, things always look good in the end, and if they don’t, it’s not the end. And if it’s not the end…”

“Means there’s still time to fight.”

“Exactly. Now I’m going to make breakfast. Warriors need to eat!”

Chapter Text

Chapter 26: The spark.

On Monday they had two clients again, after Two-Times had acquired a new girlfriend to hire them to tail. That day in Wollaston Close, Robin also accidentally tripped with a man who turned out to be Donald Laing. Shocked, she rushed out of there and called Strike, who decided they were done in that neighbourhood. On Tuesday morning, horror exploded across Wednesday’s front pages, with the mutilated body of a young woman being uncovered in Shacklewell. The killer was nicknamed the Shacklewell Ripper. Three women had been attacked and mutilated, two dead, and the Met had no leads.

“Fuck,” Strike muttered holding the newspaper Robin had brought to the office in a rush, both reading elbow against elbow on the sofa. “Kelsey Platt, student, sixteen. Lila Monkton, prostitute, eighteen. Heather Smart, building society employee, twenty-two. No relationship between them, nothing in common aside from being young females.”

“He’s doing this for pure pleasure at random,” Robin murmured, horrified. “No planning, if he has a shoot, he goes for it.”

Wardle told them Heather Smart had been with her friends, all of them shitfaced. They got into a cab, didn’t realize Heather wasn’t with them until later, when they finally return, she’s nowhere to be seen and they’re so drunk they just act stupid, which had sent the police down the wrong lead. Then, someone had gone to put his bins out, and had found the body there in his trash, nose and ears cut off. The killer was taking souvenirs. Just then had the police realized there was an unsolved murder in Leeds a couple years before of a prostitute from Cardiff, of whom the necklace had been taken, and in 2016 a girl had been killed and mutilated in Milton Keynes, whose boyfriend went down for it but there was nothing really on him. Now the police was convinced they were the Ripper’s rehearsal killings. A carving knife and a machete, vulnerable victims, picked up off the street except for Kelsey, trophies taken from all of them, none sexually abused.

By Wednesday, the police was fully focused on Brockbank and Laing, of whom they hadn’t paid that much attention, following their own enquiries, as Wardle shamefully and embarrassedly admitted. On Thursday he called Strike and Robin again, to tell them Brockbank was a regular church attendee in Bow until a few weeks before, and the vicar had informed them Brockbank was a regular, a good man suffering from being forbidden to see his son, living with an Alyssa Vincent who’d gotten a council house in east London near her mother, with two little girls. He was good with the kids, helped at church in the weekends with them, the church was his alibi, plenty of witnesses.

Strike and Robin waited patiently from home, press crowding in Denmark Street, to see what else the police could get that they couldn’t, with their authority, and a few hours later Wardle had stuff on Laing too. He had been living alone in Wollaston Close for nearly two years, surviving on disability benefits, and a friend who had helped him with a chest infection was his alibi. When the following day Wardle informed them his brother had died run over by a car, leaving four kids behind, and he had to take a compassionate leave and Carver had been appointed to lead the case, Strike and Robin knew that was the end of getting police help. In the past, they’d ridiculed Carver showing up to him, so now he was dying to sink their business and wasn’t going to help.

“He even asked me for alibis for Kelsey’s death,” Strike told Robin on the phone, informing her of the visit Carver had just made him over the weekend. “He’s warned me to stay the hell away, told me to fuck off when I tried to ask for information. Our collaboration is over.”

“At least I got an address for Brockbank,” it had been Robin’s big surprise, the discovery of the week. She and Cormac had been spending a lot of time together in his flat lately, and while keeping things as anonymous as possible, he’d been able to help her out. “I’ve been ringing local nurseries pretending to be Alyssa, they live on Blondin Street in Bow.”

“You’re brilliant!”

The faces of the five victims of the Shacklewell Ripper filled the newspapers now daily, with a small description below. On Monday the press had left them alone enough to go back to work, but Robin and Strike disagreed on the how.

“It has to be Laing,” Robin insisted. “He felt strong when I collided with him, he’s not that sick, Cormac’s theory is good! And Brockbank’s alibi is solid, but Laing’s could be bought, it’s just one friend. And you’ve been saying it yourself, he’s a good actor.”

“None of that is enough to send the police on him, besides, I’ve been watching Laing, he barely even leaves that flat! The killer is Brockbank.”

“You just have a personal grudge—,”

“I’m still right!”

“You don’t know that!”

The two stood in the office, pissed at the other’s lack of collaboration into their theories. At last Strike spoke.

“You do Laing, I’ll do Brockbank,” Strike said at last, in a tone that didn’t indicate room for negotiation.

“You bloody stubborn… you know I am right. It has to be one of them,” said Robin firmly, pissed off with his attitude. “Brockbank has, as much as I hate it, ten people who are sure he was helping at Church the weekend Kelsey was killed, while Laing only has one friend who claims he supposedly was sick so he went to buy him some medicine. He could’ve said he had the flu and forbidden him from coming inside his room, left as soon as the neighbour did, or even lied in the whole thing, buy the ‘friend’ with money.”

“Then I will do Laing,” Strike corrected, stubborn. “You Brockbank. His alibi might seem solid, it doesn’t mean it is, he could’ve bought ten people too and he’s in much better shape than Laing, who is far too sick.”

“Brockbank has TBI!”

“So do you, and you could kill someone if you wanted to!”

“There aren’t two the same!”

“Look, just go,” said Strike, tired of arguing. “Take care of yourself and just go. I have to leave as well. Nothing after dark, Ellacott!” he added in a shout as she left.

Robin left, but fuming. For as long as Strike refused to admit he was in the wrong, she couldn’t pursue Brockbank, a perfect plan already elaborated in her mind, ready to be executed.

“I have to do it,” said Robin, nursing a headache in Cormac’s room that night. She’d lately been getting a ton of those, and since Max was mostly out of town filming, Cormac had begged her to come around when he was home, in his flat in Fulham, so that if she had a seizure or something, due to her TBI, he could help. Those things shouldn’t find her alone.

“You need to rest,” said Cormac, putting a wet cloth on her forehead to relieve her. “Your TBI worsens when your overwork yourself Robin, this is a serious injury, takes years to fully recover. Your birthday is in two weeks, you don’t want to spend it in hospital with a burr hole.”

“But Zahara…”

“Zahara needs you strong,” Cormac sat with her on his sofa, and let her snuggle into his arms. “Sweetie, what help will you be to her from the hospital?”

“I have a plan,” said Robin looking at him tiredly. “I know Zahara’s mother’s boyfriend didn’t murder any of those girls, he’s a piece of scum and deserves prison, but he’s not a murderer and he’s got no records of having ever been violent save for sexual violence. The other guy has a reputation of a sadistic, violent monster, we suspect he killed an old woman in Corby, his psychological profile fits… I know it in my heart it was him. And Zahara has no more time. If her mother’s boyfriend runs away, at least I’ll get to convince the mother, she’ll get her children to talk to police and police will find her. There’s plenty of people who can testify he wasn’t appropriate with children but he wasn’t otherwise violent… he’ll go down. And sooner or later the police will have the other guy arrested for the deaths, but Zahara can’t be unprotected a day more.”

“What’s your plan?”

“Cormoran has a friend, Shanker, who’s a gangster. For fifty quid, he’ll do anything, and he particularly despises men like Brockbank. He tried to protect Cormoran’s mother from her boyfriend who ended up killing her, and he helps us with cases any time as long as we have money. He comes with me in case Brockbank is there, but I’ve been watching them a lot, he shouldn’t be there tomorrow afternoon. I go, talk with Zahara’s Mum, get her to leave Brockbank… have Shanker just in case he appears.”

“Don’t you think it’s too risky Robin?”

“Zahara’s three according to Wardle, Cormac. Risk is necessary.”

“Not always.”

“If you could save someone with a potentially deathly cure, and there’s no other choice… wouldn’t you?” Robin asked Cormac. “I can’t trust the police to do this, let alone with Carver getting the lead of the case, he will ignore us, with him there, Zahara’s on her own. She only has me.”

“Is there some chance you can convince Cormoran to help?” Cormac sighed, worried.

“No. Besides, Carver threatened him, he needs to be away. If someone goes down for this, it’ll be just me. Not Cormoran.”

Cormac did everything he could for the whole day to take care of Robin while trying to discourage her plan, but he knew there was nothing he could do. He went to work, and when he returned to his flat, Robin was already gone. So he did the only thing he could think of, and called Strike.

“Hello Cormoran,” he said politely, sitting on his bed. “It’s Cormac Granger, Robin’s boyfriend, can we talk a minute?”

“Oh, hi Cormac,” Strike sounded surprised. “Is Robin all right?”

“Not too well, actually. In my professional opinion, I think her TBI has taken a turn for the worse,” Cormac explained softly. “She’s been having a lot of headaches, obsessed about helping that girl Zahara… and I’m sure the little girl needs help, but for what I’ve heard of your suspects, whoever they are, they can be violent if they choose to, right? Big men. Robin’s in no shape to face them, Cormoran. The way her headaches have been hitting… I’m worried she’ll collapse with a seizure or something and be vulnerable, get herself killed. I’ve been trying to convince her, but people with TBI this bad don’t tend to reason so much, their brains are just damaged, don’t work so well…”

Strike took a sharp intake of breath, suddenly anxious. He hadn’t known she was doing so badly, but it explained why they’ve been fighting so much lately. He’d felt her tense, jumpy, quick to get mad. She had mentioned she’d been a nightmare when she first got injured, to her family and friends. And Cormac was an ICU nurse and he was worried, so he should be.

“Where is she now?”

“I have no idea, she’s been cryptic enough about the case. I’ve had her over at my flat to look after her for a couple days, but this morning she said she felt better, we each went to work… and she hasn’t returned yet. And if you don’t know where she is either… what are the odds she’s gone to Zahara? It’s all she’s been talking about.”

“I’m going to go there, but… chances are she’s already there,” Strike cursed under his breath, glancing at Laing’s flat one last time and beginning to rush to the underground. “Thanks for the tip Cormac, I’ve got to go.”

“Wait! Cormoran, I want to be absolutely clear, as a nurse— she cannot be hit on the head or face. Her brain is not in good shape, one punch could kill her. One bad hit, even if soft, even just being shook to violently…”

“Gotcha. I’ll get her.”

Strike had over an hour of transport from Catford Station, the closest to Laing’s building, and Blondin Street in Bow. First, he had to take a short train to Lewisham, then half an hour worth of DLR, during which Carver called him, shouting so hard Strike thought he’d go deaf, accusing him of pushing Brockbank off the radar. Apparently Robin had gone to Alyssa, whose daughters had by now admitted to the police Brockbank had been raping the eldest of them, a child named Angel, and sometimes touching Zahara inappropriately, but apparently there’d been a fight with Brockbank, who’d disappeared. They had tried to interrogate Robin, but she’d suddenly begun throwing up heavily and being faint, and they’d had to take her to the hospital. Now Carver thought it was all Strike’s doing, Strike’s fault, accused him of having pushed a serial killer away, of risking Robin’s life, and threatened with sinking the business.

Strike changed route then at West India Quay, walking out of the DLR and trying to think where he ought to go. Not Bow, because Robin wasn’t there any more. She’d been taken to the Mile End Hospital in Bethnal Green, had given Cormac’s number as an emergency contact, and he was on his way. Strike was both furious and seeing red, and worried sick, his heart hammering in his chest. At last, he decided to go to Bethnal Green, and had to stop to try and figure out how to get there faster at that hour, and found there was a twenty minute bus route.

Half way in the bus, Cormac was calling.

“She’s mostly okay, thank God,” said Cormac, visibly relieved. “Still in hospital, but they’ve done a CT Scan on her brain and they said it’s just a bit swollen, they’re keeping her the night for observation but she feels better already, just anxious and tired, will likely be sent home in the morning, now she’s talking to the police. Said Alyssa at first thought she was someone dangerous and pushed her against a wall and she hit her head, nothing hard, she’s not presenting charges or anything, but the doctor said it’s enough with her brain, it was already bad as I told you before.”

“Good,” growled Strike. “I’m almost there and Cormac… I’m sorry but I don’t know if I will be able to contain myself. I’m gonna rip her a new one.”

Trying to stay calm and respectful to her hospital condition, Strike wandered outside the hospital smoking for ten extra minutes, but he couldn’t stop his anger, so he just barged inside. Cormac had texted the room, and Strike was barging into it like a furious Rottweiler, his breathing ragged. He surveyed the room for a moment, restraining himself the best he could. Robin was lying in bed, which was folded up some so she sat up against a bunch of pillows, was connected to some machines, in a hospital gown, and aside from looking exhausted and pale and fearful, she seemed all right. Cormac stood by her bed, looking at him cautiously.

“Cormoran…”

“Don’t do this right now,” Cormac intervened, walking to her. “She’s not all right Cormoran, I know you’re furious but what’s it gonna help now? Damage is done, you might as well let her rest and talk to her calmly tomorrow…”

Strike liked Cormac. Strike appreciated Cormac’s genuine concern about Robin. But right now, he bore holes with his eyes on Cormac.

“Cormac sweetie, leave us alone for a bit, will you?” Robin spoke, her voice tired and weak. “I’ll be okay, don’t worry.”

Cormac was visibly inclined to argue his stay, but he nodded, moving to kiss Robin’s cheek before walking out of the room.

“Have you got any idea,” Strike began calm, but his voice started to raise gradually before he could contain it, “the fuck you’ve done?! CARVER THINKS I PUT YOU TO THIS, HE THINKS BROCKBANK IS THE KILLER, HE’S THREATENED WITH HAVING ME ARRESTED FOR OBSTRUCTION TO JUSTICE, TO SINK THE AGENCY, HE SAYS I ENDANGERED YOUR LIFE, ALYSSA’S FAMILY, AND GOT A SERIAL KILLER ON THE RUN! WHAT NOW ROBIN! YOU PROMISED ME!” he was red with fury and Robin sighed, biting her lip and trying not to cry, because she knew she’d put him in more trouble than she’d thought. “I’M ABOUT TO BE ARRESTED AND LOSE EVERYTHING, ALL BECAUSE YOU CAN’T FUCKING STAY TRUTH TO A PROMISE YOU MADE TO YOUR SO CALLED BEST FRIEND!”

“Cormoran I’m so sorry—,”

“I DON’T FUCKING CARE!” Strike forced himself to take a deep breath and lower his voice, trembling with fury. “You’re no best friend, you’ve stabbed me in the back, you’re a shit colleague, and thanks to you there’s a serial killer on the run, because you thought you knew more than me and the police—,”

“I TOLD YOU I OWE MY LOYALTY TO WOMEN FIRST, I TOLD YOU—!”

“TO WOMEN?! REMEMBER THAT TOMORROW WHEN ANOTHER APPEARS IN FUCKING PIECES BECAUSE YOU LET HER KILLER GO!” They glared at each other. Robin’s eyes were full of tears, her face full of sadness, confusion, and hurt. Strike was still shaking with fury, restraining himself from punching or kicking something or someone. “I’ve just travelled at full speed all the way from fucking Laing’s flat, I’ve abandoned that tailing to be here, so it doesn’t matter if it’s him or it’s Brockbank now thanks to you they’ve both had plenty of time to go kill someone, thank you. You know what?! I’m done,” he said angrily. “What fucking matters any more, Carver will probably have me arrested by the morning. But you,” he pointed an accusatory finger at her, “are a traitor, you stabbed me in the back, I trusted you! And now you’re fired. Gross misconduct, I’ll try to send you the last invoice from prison. And when Ilsa gets me out, I’ll make sure you’re never allowed to do police work for the rest of your life. Loyalty to women my arse. They’ll be the first to pay.”

Strike stormed off without a goodbye and Robin doubled over and began to cry her eyes out.

Chapter Text

Chapter 27: Unfriendliness.

It was the worst fallout of Robin’s life.

Her hospital stay prolonged for two days more, because such was her devastation she wouldn’t stop throwing up. Cormac tried phoning Strike, but Strike had blocked both of their contacts, his message crystal clear. Carver wasn’t going to charge Robin, no matter how much she insisted she’d done everything on her own, because it was much more satisfying to ruin Strike’s life, and he indeed spent twenty-four hours under arrest just for Carver’s joy.

Ilsa had called Robin in a frenzy, four days after Brockbank had vanished from the map. For four days, nobody else had been hurt, the Ripper hadn’t done anything, the police had kept the agency closed with a police sealing and they had fried Strike and the agency on every newspaper, saying that Strike had obstructed an investigation, pushed the main suspect into hiding, and that therefore they were closing the agency until they could ‘determine whether it is lawfully appropriate to let the agency continue its work’. According to Ilsa, Strike was locked in his attic, a ball of fury and heartbreak like Lucy, Nick and her didn’t remember since Leda’s murder, not wanting to speak with anyone and only accepting to talk to Ilsa because she was representing him as a lawyer and trying to get the agency reopened and his reputation cleaned. But he was in red numbers now, and it appeared that even if the agency reopened, Strike wasn’t going to be allowed to investigate serious crimes ever again, forced by Carver.

As much as Robin had cried and apologised and blamed herself, Ilsa wasn’t there to blame her, just to check on her, on how she was, and learn her version of the story so she could help. Robin was staying with Cormac because she was still quite convalescent, with frequent headaches, nausea and dizziness, plus a wave of depression, and he took days off work to look after her, although she was mostly in bed, crying herself to sleep and only seeming ‘normal’ when she took the phone to insist to her family they shouldn’t come in the middle of the whole mess. Vanessa, Max and Ilsa visited as often as they could, tried to help Cormac get her to eat, to get out of bed, but Ilsa said Strike was pretty much in the same state, albeit healthy, for what she knew. Nick, Wyatt, Lucy and Wardle also visited at times, but they spent more time with Strike, who also required help. Wardle was still on leave, not doing OK himself, but wanted to support them once he read in the papers and heard from Vanessa how hell had burnt.

Two weeks later, on a Monday, Robin turned twenty-seven in a sad, poor birthday spent at Cormac’s. By then she was eating more, getting out of bed, crying less, but still not too well, although improved enough for Cormac to return to work. That night, he had bought cake and invited the Herberts, Vanessa and Max over for a small dinner. Robin, who felt in a better mood for company, appreciated the effort.

“You guys shouldn’t’ve gotten me anything,” said Robin, when she was presented with a variety of presents.

“Nonsense, maybe that’ll cheer you up a little,” said Vanessa, an arm around her at the table. “And I got you good birthday news. We got Brockbank. No evidence he was the Ripper for what will stand in court, but plenty about his rape. His former step daughter Brittany Brockbank called, she wanted to provide a statement, the Vincent girls talked too… they also got some former bosses in strip houses who’d noticed him being sexually inappropriate. He’s going down, possibly life, anyway.”

Robin was surprised to find that, in the mess she’d created, the news didn’t cheer her up like she would’ve expected.

“That’s great… so… Carver will leave Strike alone?”

“Yes, but only because Wardle is finally back at work and told their superiors how much Strike was collaborating all the time and how they’ve been teaming out and accusing him of obstruction was outrageous,” replied Ilsa, who looked exhausted. “The agency is back to work to do whatever it wants, problem is Corm. He got in serious debt after all these weeks, plus the way the Ripper did the business and what the press’ done these days that nobody’s calling to hire him any more.”

“Oh no…” Robin felt her stomach constrict with guilt once again.

“He was dying of embarrassment, but he did ask us for money,” said Nick. “He should be okay for a long while with what we’ve given him. He insisted to make it a loan, no matter what we said— we’re in a good situation, we can happily spare… but he’s changed. Can hardly get two words out of him these days, Ted worried and came over and said he doesn’t even want to hear your name, that he’s never been so furious. We agreed.”

“He keeps saying you’re a traitor, that’s all he says,” murmured Ilsa. “And with lots of cursing.”

“I’ve fucked it,” Robin sighed deeply. “I’m never going to work crime jobs ever again, nothing investigative… he told me so. He said he’d make sure of it. Said I stabbed him in the back.”

“He’ll sooner or later realize it was the TBI, it’s not like you—,”

“Cormac, I appreciate with all my heart what you’re doing sweetie, I do, but it was me, I can’t just blame TBI for every mistake I commit,” said Robin. “I promised him I wouldn’t do what I did. We agreed last resort… and there was still time for that. He’s not exaggerating, he trusted me like he trusts nearly no one, he asked me to make him a promise and I looked him in the eye… I shouldn’t have called Shanker, I shouldn’t have gone after Brockbank. Even if he’s not the killer, even if he’s arrested… it’s not worth the damage. Now nobody will hire him again, his career is sunk… and without him, lots of killers will get away with it, and rapists, neither of us will be able to help. I fucked up.”

“Well, don’t beat yourself up any more,” said Max. “There’s nothing you can do now, right? Can’t go to the past, just look forward. Do what you can to fix his reputation, and he’ll get to keep the agency and continue helping people. And then… we’ll help you find your footing. He has to forgive you one day.”

“Not sure, I’ve known him to hold lifelong grudges,” said Ilsa saddened. “But hey, you’re Robin. If anyone can manage, is you.”

Robin took a deep breath, thoughtfully staying at the candle in the middle of the table, by the cake leftovers.

“That’s right,” she had a sudden idea. “If I give Wardle enough evidence to catch Laing, and tell him it’s Strike who got it… he can clean Strike’s reputation it’ll be all over the papers, the Shacklewell Ripper caught by Strike. He’ll get a bunch of clients coming back in no time, and the police will have to admit they owe him.”

“How are you gonna do that though? We’re exactly where we were two weeks ago,” Vanessa pointed out, frowning slightly. “And your doctor said to rest.”

The young detective bit her lip, lost in thought.

“We have every bit of evidence we’re going to get, we just need to connect the dots, it has to be staring at our faces. At my face,” Robin pursed her lips, deep in thought. How could she…? “I need to prove Laing’s alibi is fake, I know it is. If he doesn’t have one… the police will get to register his flat, and no matter how much he cleans, a man in such health issues will leave blood traces somewhere, he’s too much of a butcher. That’ll be enough.”

“No,” said Vanessa. “No, Robin. Wardle and I are investigating, look, we’ll say Strike helped because he truly did, but you’re out of this I’m serious,” she looked severe now. “No more stunts.”

“Months ago I said to Cormoran my loyalty lies first to me, then to women and my family, then to him, then to the rest in that order. I’m sorry Vanessa, but police doesn’t go before Cormoran and I owe him a big one,” said Robin. “But this time I’ll be extremely thorough, no more rushed plans that fuck everything up, just like Cormac said to me, gotta be slow, cautious, thorough. I’ll take some days, come up with a good plan.”

Strike had thought before Halloween, Laing would give signals of life. He’d been sitting around his flat, waiting for him to act, to move, in Woolston Close, but he’d been under the radar. Meanwhile, Strike had grown the longest beard he’d ever spotted, his hair also longer after nearly six months without a trim, and he’d been going undercover every single time he’d gone to Woolston Close so Laing couldn’t easily recognized. He wore either caps, beanies or hats, thrice he had dyed his hair, twice he’d posed as a homeless begging for money, and now, on the Halloween evening, he was sure Laing would take advantage of the opportunity of going out with a mask and a costume without it being weird.

Strike himself had arrived shortly after five, delaying a little as he needed a bit extra long time to fit himself for Halloween to pass unrecognized. Laing would never think of him as a man in a costume, so he trusted he would be overlooked if he wore one, but also, wanted something simple. So he spent an hour putting make-up to make himself look like a zombie, throwing his curly hair back in a tiny teeny bun, so much it had grown, and putting the shabbiest clothes, a real knife in a belt holster below his long coat. He was out to butcher himself, and had planned everything to a T. He had rented a BMW for the night, and the tiniest hotel room right in front of Laing’s building, to where he carried binoculars, sandwiches, and beer, and he sat there to wait. He knew Laing would go out, he had to, it was his dream night, and then he’d go into the apartment and send anonymous photographs of his findings to the police. Say he was a friend of Laing or something. It wasn’t legal and if caught he would be in fine trouble, but he was sure, by now, that Robin had been right; it was Laing. He was the Shacklewell Ripper.

The key had come a few weeks before, when Lucy had casually commented, as they sat for coffee, what a shame it was that Sea Holly bloomed in the summer and autumn right when she couldn’t visit, with how heavily pregnant she had been and now with work and school. Jack had just started Foundation Year at school. His sister’s words had started a spark in his drowsy brain. The photos of Ray, Hazel’s boyfriend, during a Stag Do when Kelsey had been killed that summer showed Sea Holly… not bloomed. But if he had truly taken the photos then, it would’ve been in full bloom. It was something you knew if you’d lived in Cornwall long enough, like Lucy and he had. The rest had come into his mind later. How Laing had faked Ray’s identity and used it to tell Kelsey about him, how he had been so good to calm her, of course, because he was encouraging her ideas, how he had told her the motorbike, faked to be Niall, why Kelsey had told Jason and Tempest about a brother… technically, Ray could be considered some sort of brother-in-law. It was Laing-Ray who had faked Strike’s letters, of course, knowing the address to send them to, he who had pushed Kelsey to Oxana’s flat, who had known where to put her body, where she’d be to kill her….

But still, Strike knew it wasn’t enough for the Met. It only proved Ray hadn’t been where he said he was, but not that Ray had killed Kelsey, not that Ray was Laing. Not to them, angry as they were with Strike. Even with Wardle back on the case, Wardle had told him he was receiving a lot of pressure from his bosses not to even contact Strike. They wouldn’t take anything Wardle gave them if Strike had touched it.

“Did Cormoran buy it?” Robin murmured on the phone to Lucy, while Cormac made dinner.

“I think so,” said Lucy. “It’s been days since I mentioned it, and he’s gone quiet like he does when he’s working on something. I saw a glint on his eyes when I mentioned the plant.”

“Excellent. I owe you, Luce.”

“Nonsense.”

Strike’s eyes narrowed as he saw Laing leave his building from the window. He was nearly completely sure it was Laing. He was wearing a heavy jacket, probably full of knives, a Death mask, a long black tunic. The way he walked with arthritis, his size, and his general dimensions, gave him away, specially when, through the binoculars, Strike found patches of red skin in his hands.

“Death. How fitting,” Strike murmured, preparing to march.

He gave it half an hour to be sure Laing was out of the way, the night set outside, and then Strike threw his bag over his shoulder, checked out of the hotel, and walked towards the building. He pressed a random intercom button.

“Yeah?” a soft female voice asked.

“Paramedics, could you please open?”

“Paramedics? We don’t have an emergency.”

“One of your neighbours has called 999, and they’re not answering the door. Heart attack, we have to go in now!” he shouted, and the door opened in a hustle. As he walked inside, Strike was suddenly shocked.

In front of him stood no other than all the mortal victims Laing had killed. Strike’s mouth gaped. The sixteen year old student, Kelsey Platt, stared at him small and with a pale face. Heather Smart, twenty-two, had an arm around the young kid. Martina Rossi, a twenty-eight year old prostitute among the first two victims of Laing, which had been found years before and only recently related to him, looked wary and scared, and Sadie Roach, with them, was only twenty-five. They weren’t mutilated here. Strike was privileged to see who they were before Laing had taken everything from them.

“You’re here,” Strike murmured.

“We can’t leave until we’re freed,” muttered Sadie. “You can see us.”

“Yes. I’m the only one who can.”

The five stood as solid as Robin could have. The only reasons why Strike knew they were dead was from having seen their photographs in the papers, from the way their skin looked so pale and their lips a tad bluish, and the way Sadie’s voice sounded a bit from beyond the grave. Martina pointed at the lift.

“We’ll help you.”

Strike entered the lift with them, and Kelsey attempted to press a button, but her finger just went into the wall. Strike understood and went to lift his finger, having seen which number she was going to press, but Sadie beat him to it, and this time, the button pressed without touching it. It seemed like the longer Sadie had been ‘trapped’, the more she’d learned to control her energy of death, so she could move things. Strike had seen in his life, like with Whittaker, that some could really control a lot.

The ghosts or spirits guided him to a door in a long, dark corridor, and Strike pulled from his bag his tools to manipulate the door with a hairpin, but before he could do it, Sadie lifted a hand, closed her eyes and after a moment of deep concentration, the door opened quietly. Strike raised his eyebrows, astonished.

“Thanks.”

He walked into a small room in the darkness, with barely no furniture, and the spirits glowed, guiding him through the dark, down a large stairwell that ended in two rooms. One was a small kitchen, some knives missing. Photos of every victim from the papers, and of Robin, Cormac, Strike, or Wardle, decorated the walls, particularly photos of Robin. Grocery shopping, seen through her apartment building, walking Wolfgang, chatting with Max. He felt his blood boil.

“We don’t have much time,” said Heather Smart, and pointed to the large freezer. With gloved hands, Strike opened it, and his eyes widened in horror.

It was full of frozen body parts, and it smelled so strongly Strike closed hard, and nearly vomited, despite all he’d seen in life. He took a payphone he’d acquired from a second-store online weeks before, and called 999. He faked a deeper voice.

“I’m at my friend Donald Laing’s kitchen, I came to check on him because he’s ill. I have found body parts in the freezer. He is the Shacklewell Ripper. I need backup.”

When a name was reported, Strike simply told the address twice, repeated Donald Laing’s name, and hung up, removing the SIM Card and putting it in a pocket. His own phone was in his attic to avoid GPS tracking, and he’d recorded his snores and left it playing in his room in case his friends or anyone pressed an ear against the door to check on him. He looked up at the women.

“Thank you, you did this,” he said. “I’m very deeply sorry… you shouldn’t be dead. You were completely innocent… and now it’s time you rest in peace. I’ll make sure Laing pays for what he’s done, I’ll make sure your remains go to your families, and I’ll make sure you’re buried in sacred ground.”

“Thank you,” said Martina. Suddenly a bright light appeared, and it was like a mini sun in the room, forcing Strike’s eyes to half close. Martina looked there with curiosity and suddenly beamed. “GRANDMA!” she ran to the light, and disappeared.

“Roger!” Sadie, too, grinned at the light and ran to it. Strike smiled softly, and looked at Heather and Kelsey.

“Come on. I guarantee you, everything is good there. It’s time to go.”

Heather and Kelsey looked at each other, scared, and Heather took her hand.

“I can see my grandparents, my uncle Jim… I’m sure there’s people waiting for you too, so what do you say? Together?” Kelsey nodded. Then she turned to Strike.

“My sister’s with him…”

“I’ll keep her save.”

“Okay,” Kelsey turned to the light, and suddenly her eyes widened, tearful and big, and she grinned. “Mum, Dad!”

“Go, come on. You must’ve missed them.”

Kelsey turned to Strike one last time, and Heather smiled at her warmly.

“Tell my sister not to blame herself. I knew happiness with her. She gave me a home. She was the best sister in the world. Will you tell her?”

“I promise.”

Kelsey nodded and she and Heather walked to the light, together. Then their glow and the light disappeared and Strike had to use his payphone to see his way out.

Chapter Text

Chapter 28: Saviour.

Strike had only just walked into his attic and changed into a clean and normal attire, knowing police was now looking everywhere for Laing judging by the news he’d turned on the telly, when suddenly he saw himself face to face with Cormac. He stood in his kitchen, looking surprised to be there, and then his eyes widened at Strike.

“You see me.”

Strike scowled and as realization downed on him, his eyes widened.

“Robin,” he blurted out, his heart accelerating.

“You need to save her, she’s at my flat, he found us Cormoran!”

With his heart hammering in his chest in panic, Strike grabbed his phone and coat and rushed to his rented BMW, from where he called Wardle and told him he had seen Cormac, who was suddenly gone, and that it meant the Ripper -he wasn’t supposed to know it was Laing- had him and Robin. He hadn’t seen Robin, so she must still be alive.

“I just got a call from Vanessa with a 999 there, so you must be right,” said Wardle. “See you in Fulham.”

Halloween was a weird date, with high activity of spirits, a day rooted in a Celtic tradition that on the night before the day of All Saints, the line between the worlds thinned considerably and spirits could roam the Earth freely. Somehow, Strike still managed to know he wasn’t going to run over anyone because they were dead, on his way to an address Wardle had given him. As he arrived to Cormac’s street, his eyes widened in surprise at the sight of Donald Laing, still in his costume, but now covered in blood and holding a blood-covered knife. There weren’t many people in costumes in London, after all, it wasn’t a very British tradition, but still no one seemed to blink at the sight of him, seemingly just thinking his costume was very realistic.

Strike was boiling. Before he could stop himself, he hit the pedal of the automatic vehicle and ran Laing over with his car, hitting the brakes right when Laing’s body had rolled up to the roof with the force of the hit, causing it to roll back over the windscreen and fall on the ground with a thud. Strike jumped out of his vehicle and, to the shocked eyes of passers-by, he removed the mask and exposed Laing, who looked semi unconscious. His eyes opened wide suddenly.

“YOU!” Laing screamed, but it was late for him to grab any of his knives. Strike was punching him with all the rage in him, his fist repeatedly slamming on Laing’s face, making it swell and bleed, as he squeezed his neck with his free hand, straddling him with his weight and body, ignoring his knee pain.

Strike was sure now he was late, catching Laing as he ran away, and that he had murdered both Robin and Cormac, chopped them to bits, probably carrying souvenirs under his Death costume cloak, and now Strike didn’t care if he was arrested. He’ll go down, but he was taking Laing down with him. With tears streaming down his eyes, enraged, grieving his friends and completely lost in his madness, Strike slammed his fist over and over past the point Laing lost consciousness, slamming sometimes sideways, sometimes down like a hammer, sometimes on his chest or belly, disfiguring him.

Until he was stopped.

“STRIKE! STRIKE, STOP!” Wardle was putting his arms around him from behind and pulled him up and away from Laing, Strike’s right hand covered in Laing’s blood, his clothes and left hand on Robin and Cormac’s from Laing’s cloak.

Strike became dead weight, bursting into tragic wailing.

“He killed them! He killed Cormac and Robin! She’s dead, she’s gone!”

“No, no,” Wardle made him sit on the ground, unable to take his weight, and knelt in front of him, hands on his shoulders as Strike heaved in cries. Wardle looked full of stress and worry, and the skies had broken, rain falling softly. “Robin is alive. She’s with Vanessa on their way to the hospital, I’ll take you to her.”

Strike’s cries stopped suddenly, and he looked at Wardle like he’d been hit on the face, eyes tearful and red.

“S-she’s alive?”

“She is.” A patrol appeared and several cops got out. Wardle turned to them, showing his plaque. Laing lied on the floor, motionless. “DI WARDLE! This brave citizen has just knocked The Shacklewell Ripper out for us, get him, he’s just killed one person and tried to kill other two blocks from here.”

“Yes sir!”

The cops began to register Laing, handcuffing him, as Strike recovered, breathing deeply. Now, his hand really hurt.

“The bloody machete on the ground is his!” Strike pointed out. “It’s full of Cormac Granger’s blood.”

“Get that in an evidence bag,” said Wardle. “Forensics are already in number 8, give it to them.” The cops nodded, obeying.

“He’s alive, I’m getting an ambulance,” said one cop who was attending Laing. “He’s drenched in real blood, and he’s got knives under his cloak, real ones. What made you know we were looking for him, Sir?”

“Saw him on the news,” said Strike. “I know him, I recognized how he walks and ran him over.”

“He deserves it,” said Wardle, smiling. “Come on, let’s go mate. Let me just park your car nicely so forensics can gather evidence and we’ll pick it up later, I’ve got mine…”

An hour later, Strike sat on a stretcher in the Emergency Room of Chelsea & Westminster Hospital, his right hand in a cast the doctor had just finished making. Forensics had come to pick up his clothes, to take the blood Laing had stained him with, and Wardle had nipped off to bring him clothes and had just returned with them. Strike was pleased his trip to his attic had resulted on a good selection of clothes, and Wardle still had some okay sense. All he had needed were trousers and a new jumper. His shirt wasn’t blood-stained, and he had left his coat in his car, which Wardle had retrieved for him.

“Get dressed,” said Wardle as the doctor finished up. Strike had two broken fingers and a minor wrist fracture in his right hand, according to X-Rays, but the doctor had determined it’d heal nicely in a month or so. “Robin’s here, with Vanessa, I’ll take you to her.”

Wardle had taken his statement, omitting ghostly stories that didn’t count on trial, while he had the cast made, and once Strike looked clean and presentable, Wardle walked with him to a waiting room where Vanessa awaited. She seemed to have needed to change clothes too, judging by her more casual and less professional appearance. She was happy to see Strike, and grinned and rushed to hug him.

“Fantastic job Corm,” said Vanessa, hugging him tight.

“It wasn’t really mine. How’s Robin, what happened?”

“Yeah, you gotta update me too,” said Wardle. “Didn’t get to the crime scene when I found this bastard.” He said it with fondness, patting Strike’s back.

“Well Robin’s going to be in surgery for at least three more hours so we can sit and talk,” said Vanessa, and they sat together to wait. “Robin called me, she sounded weak, faint… blurted something of Laing, the Shacklewell Ripper, and that it was an emergency. That Cormac was covered in blood. I sent a patrol and ambulances straight away, I went myself, me and one of the ambulances arrived first and let ourselves in. It was a bloodbath, you guys,” she said serious. “The Ripper wasn’t there any more, but in the kitchen… I’ve never seen so much blood in my life, and that’s saying something. Cormac was at the centre of it, dead on the floor, he must’ve been stabbed dozens of times.”

“Fuck…” Wardle released a deep sigh of defeat.

“And Robin?” asked Strike fearfully.

“Robin has an unbelievable luck,” said Vanessa, and Strike breathed out in relief.

“She’s fine?”

“Not that much luck. She was passed out next to him, I thought she was dead, covered in blood… but it turns out most of it was Cormac’s. The paramedics realized she was having seizures and she had a long cut in her right forearm from a machete. Her hands were quite bruised from punching and she had a cut on her lip and a large bruise on her cheek, but no fractures that the paramedics could determine. She had lost a lot of blood from the cut in her arm, but luckily narrowly avoided arteries and tendons, it’ll require stitches and that’s all. I told them her medical history and they determined since she’s not been well with her Traumatic Brain Injury she must’ve either had a complication or a blow to the head to trigger the seizures. They did CT Scans here, but I don’t know the results, the doctor said she had a minor brain bleed and took her straight to the theatre. But she was in and out of consciousness in the ambulance, out of things, but there, so at least that’s something.”

Strike took a couple deep breaths and nodded, leaning back on his chair while Wardle updated Vanessa with Strike’s story, including, for her, the paranormal activity details. At the end, Vanessa looked shocked and baffled, but then she beamed, and turned to Strike.

“So they saw their families? They’re… in heaven now?” Strike knew Wardle was a Catholic, and supposed perhaps Vanessa was too. He nodded. “Thank God… you did a really good thing today then, Cormoran.”

“Should’ve noticed sooner. Bloody Sea Holly, right on my face the whole time… if Lucy hadn’t commented…”

“Why d’you think Lucy made such an odd comment?” asked Vanessa innocently.

“My sister’s a weird—,” Strike looked at Vanessa and something in her face, the glint in her eyes and hidden smirk, made he realize. “It was Robin. He told Lucy to tell me because I wouldn’t talk to her.” Vanessa nodded.

“Bloody hell,” Wardle seemed impressed. “So when you told me…?”

“Robin gave me the tip this morning, I guess she wanted you to have it sooner to see if you could get the merit, but perhaps then feared Laing would kill again before you did. She only said she thought the Sea Holly bloomed in the summer, made me look, so I told you, but we hadn’t figured out Ray was Laing yet. I think Robin knew the entire thing all along, but knew it was worthless to tell us with our bosses breathing down our necks to not take anything you guys give us.”

“Why would Robin give a shit who takes the merit?” Strike frowned. It wasn’t like her, and she must’ve thought it only would take him a couple of days to reach her conclusions, but he’d been finding it hard to focus after their fight, guilt eating him away.

“Don’t you see?” said Vanessa. “Your reputation was ruined, Carver had threatened you, the agency had just managed to reopen… Robin thought if you could show up to the Met once more, this big, catching the most wanted serial killer of the country—,”

“I’d get everything back. Fame, honour…” Strike could’ve cried, the weight of what she’d done sending a blow to his gut. And he’d taken too long, and Cormac was dead. “Fuck. Fuck…”

“Listen, Corm…” Vanessa bit her lip, hesitant, and leaned towards him. “I know what she did wasn’t okay. As a friend, as a cop… shit I know. But I also know you knocked Brockbank because you lost your shit, and lost a rapist, and if you hadn’t, Zahara would’ve never been at risk. Hell… we all fuck up sometimes, we all have one big fuck up we will never forget that cost us something big, everyone in the police, the army… we all do. But most of the time, we’re allowed to keep trying, learn, try to make up for it, do better, and we’re given the chance because we mean well, we want to help, and we’re only human. Someone sees our potential and gives us another chance. And Robin’s been at this nine months, she’s not a cop, she’s a civilian, and at heart she always will be. She saw a chance to help, and she took it with the best of intentions, without the training we get to really know the consequences, she made a huge mistake, she regretted it, she learned from it… and she made up for it. And she’s paid a very, very high price, I think. She was falling in love with Cormac, pretty sure he was in love with her already, for how he behaved… I think she deserves a chance. I think she had potential. I think if you don’t let her prove she can do better, and show the world what she can do with the right training… I think you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

“I know… I know.”

“And I hope you know how much she fucking cares about you. You’re her best friend, she warned you what her priorities were, she promised, yes, and she hates having broken that promise I’m sure, but she did it for a three year old and a seven year old who for all she knew, were both being raped, so I think she deserves forgiveness. She’s still your best friend. She would still do it all for you. She still cares the world about you. And I don’t want to use it as a lame excuse but her brain was really in a bad place with that TBI, so it’s not odd she acted a bit crazy, but aren’t you her friend to be understanding and compassionate and forgiving, like she would be to you? Isn’t it your job to have her back, to try and see the purpose when she makes a mistake, and show up for her? And you didn’t do it. You, who were in your right mind. You, who’ve made similar mistakes. You, who should’ve understood.”

“I know I fucked up, okay?! Leave me alone.”

Vanessa nodded.

“I don’t want to beat you up, I’m just looking after her. When she wakes up, whenever that happens, she’s not going to be in a state for your shouting, let alone when we tell her her boyfriend has been killed. I’m just making sure you’ll behave.”

“Don’t worry,” said Strike, crestfallen and filled with worry. “If she comes back, it will be as full partner. Fifty percent ownership and the contract she deserves. But with a brain injury like that… we don’t even know how she’s gonna be.”

Vanessa reached out and squeezed his hand in support.

Chapter Text

Chapter 29: Make them proud.

For two days in what threatened to be a rainy November, Robin remained in the ICU on induced comma of which they began to take her out after a day but needed a second day to truly come out, healing from a minor brain bleed and a major brain swelling that had required a small craniectomy, removing a small portion of skull temporarily to relieve intracranial pressure. Strike never left her side, and when her parents arrived, he only left when the hospital limits of visitors per bed forced him to leave so her parents could be there as much as they wanted.

But once it became clear Robin was awake, albeit quite drowsy and out of it, Strike stopped hanging by her bed, and as she was moved from the ICU to her own room in the Department of Neurosurgery to continue her recovery and more visitors were allowed, the room often full of redheads, Strike stopped visiting and returned to the agency, reopening it. He felt talking with Robin was going to start off rough for both of them and she should be more recovered, felt that the devastating news of Cormac’s murder would require more of a family presence, and felt a need to get them clients so Robin had somewhere to return to work too. Still, he daily received updates from their friends that she was slowly recovering, beginning to be more aware, a little stronger, to eat some, to talk a bit, and even to walk a couple steps now and then, at least from the bed to the armchair of the room, because on the fourth day they put the piece of skull back and then began letting her move. And while he wasn’t visiting Robin, he was attending the funerals of all the found women, and Cormac, who was buried after a quick autopsy by his family in a small, intimate ceremony full of devastated relatives some of which, Strike knew, had sent Robin flowers.

Aiming to restore Robin’s reputation and filled with guilt, Strike conceded an interview to Dominic Culpepper, an old acquaintance that was a journalist for ‘News of the World’, in which he made sure to praise the police and Robin, stick to confidentiality as much as he could, avoid personal questions, and simply explain how complex the case had been, how he was confident the police had done their best and Laing wouldn’t have been caught without them, but also made sure to add they had all been stuck with the investigation until Robin had found a clue that had been ‘key’ and ‘essential’ to resolve the case, a clue she had provided to the police.

Next, Strike still had some things to get done before he’d finally visit Robin. The first on his list, was visiting Hazel, Kelsey’s sister, who he found heartbroken on her own sofa. Over tea, Strike tried to comfort her.

“Hazel, there’s something else I wanted to tell you. Something very important, but which requires absolute secrecy,” said Strike softly. Hazel looked surprised.

“Secrecy?”

“It’s something personal that involves only me, but that if revealed will ruin my life and my reputation. But it’s also essential that you know it. I need you to promise what I tell you, will stay between you and me forever. That’s essential.”

After a long moment of thought, Hazel nodded.

“It’s the least I can do after you found Kelsey… I will keep the secret, I promise.”

“Thank you. Hazel, you know I was a soldier, so you know I’m a serious man, and a serious professional, I don’t fool around I don’t need to. But there is something I keep extremely secret, something that at times aids me in my job… truth is I can sometimes see dead people and speak to them,” Hazel looked at him in shock, like he’d punched her in the face. “I know it’s a lot to take in, and it’s hard to believe… I’ve been called insane enough times to keep things quiet. But the fact that I can do that has helped me find Kelsey, because she came to me. I saw her, we talked.”

“What…? How…?”

“I’m not sure why I can do that or how… I don’t understand it much myself. But it runs in my family, and I’ve been able to do this since birth. It’s part of the reason why I became an investigator, to be my own boss and be free to investigate the deaths of those who came to me and didn’t know what had happened to them. Some people don’t even realize they’ve died,” he continued to explain softly, holding his mug of tea and looking at her in the eyes.

Hazel took a deep breath and nodded.

“So it’s true? Like in TV?”

“Not exactly like TV but… the essence, yes,” Strike nodded.

“So you know what happens… after dead?”

“Only lightly. I know that just like water can become liquid, ice, vapour in the air and still be water, we can be many things and still be us. I don’t understand how,” Strike admitted. “But it’s a bit like water, and let’s not forget we’re mostly water. When we die, our bodies are a wreck but… our souls if you wish, somehow, separate from our bodies and… stay here for a while. Sometimes it’s just a moment before they go… beyond. I don’t know what there is there, I only know there’s a light, and I’ve heard them call dead loved ones and run to the light, seeing them there, so it makes me think is somewhere warm, peaceful, full of so much light, the brightest I’ve ever seen… and that the good souls go there.”

“Heaven is real then. Oh my God… and Kelsey…?”

“Well some souls stick around a little longer. They can’t see the light sometimes, if they’re stuck for some reason. Can be deep regret, not realizing they died, or having unfinished business… sometimes, as I’ve just discovered, it’s knowing their bodies haven’t been returned to their families, they can’t find peace to go. It happened to Kelsey, but once she was found, she talked to me. She made me promise to tell you something for her, that’s why I’m telling you all of this.”

Hazel’s eyes filled with tears and she put her tea down, reaching out to take one of his hands.

“You’re not lying to me, are you? She really…?”

“I swear, Hazel. I’ve no reason to hurt you with lies, don’t I?” said Strike, squeezing her hand back, and keeping his eyes on hers, so she’d believe him. “Kelsey wants you to stop blaming yourself. Kelsey couldn’t go on without telling you that you were the best sister, that you gave her a home, and you made her happy. She doesn’t think any of this was your fault, and doesn’t want you to think so either.”

Hazel began crying, covering her face with her arms and Strike put his tea away, putting a hand on her shoulder. He’d sort of been there too, and understood the pain. Strike, who had rejected this part of being a medium so much, now found himself grateful for being able to do this.

“Oh, oh, Kelsey…!” Hazel cried out.

“Listen to me, Hazel,” said Strike softly, taking her hand again and locking his eyes into her tearful ones. “When the light appeared for Kelsey, she saw her parents, and her smile lit up the room. She was so happy, so in peace… she wasn’t sad, angry or scared. And this whole time, the other victims were with her, comforting her, making her company… one of them took her hand and accompanied her into the light, so even in her last moments, she was not alone. Not in the very end. She was okay. And I know she would want you to live a long, full, happy life, knowing when your time comes your family will be there for you. Knowing you will see them all again, but that to do that, to receive the light, it’s important you make your life count for good, okay? Promise me that. Promise me you’ll do whatever it takes to be happy and do something good with the time you, and not your family, are lucky to have.”

Hazel nodded, sobbing.

“I-I will! I…”

“Laing was one horrible monster, but there are good men out there. My best friend met a really good one through this app,” Strike scribbled it down on a napkin. “It’s police recommended for women. Have a good life, Hazel. You deserve it.”

Hazel didn’t consent on him leaving without big hugs and some of the delicious home made biscuits a neighbour had made for her, because she had ‘too many for a healthy weight’ and he should give them to Robin as a thank you. When Strike left, he felt both heavy and lighter, and the warmth of the sun after a rainy morning helped greatly.

Next, Strike had asked Shanker, who had also been forgiven for helping Robin with Brockbank and who was now, Strike had the feeling, dating Alyssa Vincent, to please drive him somewhere a few miles outside the city, in the countryside. It cost money, because Shanker did nothing free, but it was worth it. Strike had finally found Brittany Brockbank, who was now in her early twenties, living with hippies in the forests, where Brockbank would never find her.

“He’ll go to prison for a long time, you won’t have to testify. And when he’s released,” said Strike, strolling with the young woman through the forest, “he’ll be in the list of sex offenders permanently. He won’t be allowed to be near children ever again.”

“Thank you,” said Brittany, her long red hair reminding Strike of Robin.

“It wasn’t me. It was my partner, Robin, she confronted him to save some little girls he was hurting now.”

Brittany looked astonished.

“Is she all right?”

“We’ll take good care of her.”

“Tell her I said thank you, will you?”

“Sure.”

“What’s her name?”

Strike smiled small.

“Robin. Robin Ellacott.”

“Robin Ellacott,” Brittany nodded. “I won’t forget. Thank you.”

“I’m sorry I failed you, Brittany. I should’ve put him away years back when we met.” Brittany sighed and shrugged.

“At least you’ve made up for it.”

“Will you be okay out here?”

“Yeah… and now he’s gone for good, perhaps I’ll go back to Mum, talk to her.”

“Take care, will you?”

“You too.”

Returning to London, Strike put on his best suit without a tie and took the public transport to Fulham Cemetery, where Cormac had been buried, his grave brand new next to the old one of his father. Both graves had new flowers covering them, the one of Mr Granger Senior also adorned with a miniature British flag. Strike had also brought flowers, which he set on Cormac’s grave. He put two bouquets, from him, and from Robin, even if she didn’t know. Looking around, he made sure to be alone.

“Cormac?” he asked, raising his voice a little. “Cormac, are you out there? Hello?” He’d seen him roam the ICU sometimes, which was full of ghosts as it was, when Robin was there, but hadn’t spoken.

Now, Cormac appeared, dressed with the same clothes he’d last worn, standing by his own gravestone, which he read with a grave expression. Strike read it too.

‘CORMAC CLARK GRANGER. Dec. 31^St 1988 – Oct. 31^St 2017. Beloved son, brother and friend, gone too soon. RIP.’

“I never thought I’d be dead so young, or like this. I never thought I’d meet someone online, and be killed for trying to protect her just four months later,” Cormac commented, filled with resignation.

Strike thought Robin, after her surgery, and been capable of seeing him sometimes, when she was half awake and pumped with medication, completely absent-minded, out of things and drowsy, still most weak. He hoped she had, because a last imagine of Cormac like this, handsome and looking nearly alive, was much better, Strike knew, that whatever last image covered in blood.

“It’s time to go to the light, Cormac,” said Strike. “Your father will be waiting, and we’ll take care of Robin now.”

Cormac took a deep breath and looked around.

“Do you see any lights? Because I don’t.”

“Maybe I can do something to help you see it? Something you’d want to do before leaving?”

“God, so many things…” Cormac sighed, looking at Strike. “I told Robin that when Laing was arrested, I’d take her to do something fun on her birthday. She was going to teach me how to ride a horse, we were going to go to a escape room together to celebrate, we… just had so many plans. But she was unwell and things weren’t over with Laing and it didn’t feel safe just yet. I fell in love with her, Cormoran. D’you have any idea of what it feels like? To meet the most incredible person… and I’ll never kiss her again. I’ll never feel her hugs, smell her perfume, have dinner with her, feel her warm skin against me as I fall asleep to the most wonderful dreams… I had hoped for time with her. Christmas, my birthday on New Year’s… I thought if all went well, for Valentine’s Day I could ask her if she wanted to officially move in with me, since she spent so much time at my place… And I was twenty-eight. There was a long list of things I wanted to do. A lot of… unfinished business, I guess they’d say. At least,” he snorted a dry laugh, “now I know what death is like. How lonely, how sad… feels better knowing you can see me and hear me. Does she know?”

“She knows what I can do, but I haven’t spoken to her yet. I’ll tell her about this, when she’s better. You heard in the hospital, didn’t you? Her brain is not okay, is going to be a very long recovery and even then… she’ll be on medication for the rest of her life. Possibly live less than she would otherwise have.”

Cormac inhaled deeply and nodded, looking at Strike with sad eyes.

“Can I stay? Be her guardian angel or something? Because if I’m not going to live more… I’d love to see her live. To see what she can do, to see her fall in love like she deserves, be with someone good… become the best detective in the country, kick ass. And I’ve seen ghosts around here that do very cool stuff, if I learned… I could protect her. Make sure nobody ever hurts her again.”

“I think where you’ll go, you’ll be able to protect her somehow. My Mum protects me, and she’s gone. And your Dad’s gone too, and I believe he’s really… past this phase you’re stuck in, and he took care of you. He’s probably waiting for you. But if you stick around Cormac… you might be condemning yourself to decades of suffering and longing. Robin wouldn’t want that for you. And when her time comes, you’ll see her again. You can come pick her up, when she’s an old woman, and she’ll tell you all about her life.”

Cormac rubbed his eyes and looked around, desperate.

“I miss her so much already, Cormoran. I miss human touch the most.”

“You don’t have to suffer any more. Look I don’t know how it is but… there’s a light, and everyone I’ve seen cross, have seen loved ones there, have ran to it. And it’s warm and bright and peaceful there, Cormac. It’s a better place. I don’t know if heaven, but… better. You’ve been a good man, you died protecting her, I’m sure you’ll have the light.”

“I think… if I could just talk to Robin one last time, through you. If I could… you know the movie ‘Ghost’?”

“Of course.”

“He got to say goodbye before he left. I think my Mum will be okay, with all my siblings… I always told her how much I loved her. But when you can have a moment alone with Robin and you think she’d be okay to do this… I’d like for you to help us talk one last time. Just say goodbye. Just tell her I love her. Just… let me make sure I’ve done everything in my power to help her heal. I think I might see the light then.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do.”

“Thanks Cormoran.”

“Be on the lookout, I’m off to see her now,” Strike checked his watch. “It’s dark and about to close here so… she shouldn’t have many visitors. Perhaps we can do tonight.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 30: The right thing.

Arriving to the hospital, Strike brought the biscuits Hazel had given her for Robin, and a Get Well Soon teddy bear he’d bought for her, plus a hard folder under his armpit with something he’d prepared with a business lawyer. He ignored ghosts left and right, and just as he went to enter the lift, he nearly crashed with Nick and Ilsa, who held hands on their way home, and stopped abruptly when they saw him.

“Corm!” Ilsa grinned, giving him a hug. “Finally.”

“Been a little busy getting some things done. Is Robin okay for one last visitor for the day?”

“I think so, she’s a big of a night owl, gets more active after dark,” said Nick. “Her parents are with her though. She’s had visitors all day every day.”

“Right well, see you soon.”

“Take care Oggy!”

Strike found himself nervous as he approached Robin’s room, and knocked on the door gently before peeking inside. Robin sat on an armchair by her bed, her head wrapped in a thick bandage just like her right forearm, her dressing gown and a blanket around herself. Otherwise than a little pale and bruised, she seemed physically okay. Her parents sat on the small sofa nearby that the long-stay rooms had, talking to her quietly, but now they’d stopped themselves and looked at Strike, surprised.

“Cormoran,” Robin murmured, her unfocused eyes moving to him.

“Can I come in?”

“Of course… Mum, Dad… could you give us an hour or so? We have… a lot of catching up to do in private.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Michael, getting up. “We’ll go find a pub and grab dinner,” he kissed Robin’s cheek.

“We’ll be back later,” Linda kissed her daughter as well. “And you,” she added, looking at Strike serious, “better don’t mess her up again.”

Strike nodded.

“I hope only to make her smile from now on, Linda. Promise.”

“That’s right you better do…”

With them gone, Strike closed the door and turned to Robin. The room was small and dimly lit with a light bar over the head of the bed, which pointed to the ceiling to provide indirect soft white light. He walked slowly to her and she stared at him, small, tired and weak. Strike flopped on her bed in front of her and gave her the teddy bear. She smiled, putting her arms around it.

“It’s nearly as big as you.”

“Yeah,” Strike nodded. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around much. I was at the ICU—,”

“I know, they all told me. They said you’ve been busy.”

“I have. I went to the funerals of all the women Laing murdered, to Cormac’s, I visited Hazel, found Brittany Brockbank… these are a thank you present from Hazel,” he put the box of biscuits on her bedside cabinet. “Home made biscuits. And Brittany told me to tell you thank you, for catching Brockbank. He’s in prison awaiting trial, as I’m sure you’ve heard, it’s not looking good for him.”

Robin looked impressed.

“So you were actually busy. I thought… you were avoiding me.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

She sighed deeply.

“I don’t know. Sometimes I struggle to make sentences make sense or think of words or pronounce properly but… that’s getting better now. Working with a speech therapist,” Robin explained. “Sometimes I’m so tired and sad and in pain I just want everyone to leave me alone. And my vision’s a bit odd sometimes, and every light and loud sound bugs the crap out of me… hell, sometimes even my own voice bothers me, depending on the time of day. And I’m tired and I’m sad and I’m angry… I don’t know what to feel any more. Cormac’s parents were here this morning, I told them all the good things about their son… we cried a hell of a lot,” she admitted, speaking softly and weakly. “They brought back all the things I had left at Cormac’s because they’re selling the flat, too hard for them to keep it… Max was here and took them home. And dunno… don’t know what to tell you.”

Strike nodded slowly, thoughtful.

“What I said to you that day… I was severely out of line. If I had spoken like that to an employee anywhere else, I would’ve probably gotten a visit from Human Resources, at the very least,” said Strike gently. “But the worst part is that I wasn’t even fully honest, I was only wanting to hurt you because I was angry and scared and hurt, and I wanted you to feel it all. Truth is Robin… yes, what you did was very wrong in so many ways but… we’ve all been there. This type of job is hard emotionally, I don’t know a single person, soldier, cop… who hasn’t made some sort of huge mistake when emotions won. I have. And if we fired every single person who does it, they’d never learn and we’d lose really good people.”

“Cormoran, I’m not sorry I helped Zahara and Angel but… I’m very deeply sorry for the pain I caused. Specially for what I did to you. I know about Carver, I know about your arrest… I’ll never forgive myself for that,” her eyes got glassy. “I thought what I did was being loyal to victims but… I was completely wrong and I want you to know I understand now. Cormac tried to tell me and I didn’t…” she sighed, a tear falling down her cheek.

“It’s okay—,”

“It’s not. But I’ve learned. I know now that… bureaucracy is there for a reason, and the agency is a tool to do good, a tool I should never jeopardise for no one and nothing because if I do… I’m sinking the one tool who’s really going to help people in the long run. Saving one doesn’t justify burning the tool that could save all the others. And friendship… good friendship and trust like that you had on me… it’s far too valuable and rare to endanger it for anything. That’s the worst thing I did, betray your trust and stab you in the back, and call that caring about you. A friend doesn’t do what I did. And I want to apologize properly, Cormoran. I don’t want you to think you got it wrong trusting me I… I don’t want to be the reason you become even more mistrustful with people. I made a huge mistake… but it doesn’t change who I am at heart. And at heart… I know I’m better than this. I know I can do better.”

“You have. Sea Holly, you found out. And you told me way ahead of the police so I could fix my reputation.”

“Took you long enough,” she teased softly with half a smile, and he grinned warmly.

“It did, I don’t work so well without you. How did you find out?”

“I went over all the evidence, it’s what you do when things don’t make sense, go back to the start, right? You told me once. You retrace your steps… find your way again.”

“Best thing I ever told you.”

“Yes… so I did and… I kept looking at that photo, feeling Ray looked strangely familiar. And then I realized it reminded me of Laing, when I collided with him on accident. I realized he was Laing and I didn’t understand how… so I started analysing every element. The friends, the background… looking to see if it was staged. And there’s a photograph in Ilsa’s house, I saw it a ton when I lived there, of her as a little child in her bikini running and laughing in Cornwall. There’s Sea Holly in full bloom in the summer, and it wasn’t in Ray’s picture supposedly taken in the summer. So I asked Ilsa when it blooms and… realized the photo was taken earlier, in the Spring or so. Laing’s a Scotsman, can’t bother him much to wear tank tops in colder months in the south, can it?”

“You’re brilliant as always,” Strike nodded. “I’m very sorry for what I said to you, Robin. Specially… for calling you a traitor and throwing every blame at you when it wasn’t, and for threatening you. If I hadn’t failed you, you wouldn’t have gone rogue, if I’d paid more attention, listened to you properly… and in any case whatever happens is Laing and Brockbank’s fault, not ours. We were just trying to do the right thing all along… and you’re not a traitor. You’re the most amazing person that I know… and my best friend. Don’t tell Nick and Ilsa.”

Robin snorted a laugh and sniffled, rubbing her eyes. Strike stretched a large hand to take hers.

“You’re my best friend too.”

“Next time… call me, not Shanker. If we’re going rogue, it’ll be as a team, okay?”

“Next time?” Robin looked hopeful at him and Strike gave her the hard folder.

“I had a lawyer write it to make sure it’s perfect. It’s a new contract by which our agency changes name to Strike & Ellacott Private Investigations. And by which you’re hired back as a full partner and junior detective, you get fifty percent of business ownership. Don’t worry about the finances, I’ve tied things so you won’t have to put money you don’t have, goes from the agency. We’ve earned ten clients this week, part of what I’ve been so busy but I wanted you to return to a busy agency that needs you.”

“Partners,” Robin looked at the contract, baffled. “Cormoran I can hardly read this… my head…”

“I supposed, so I had Ilsa read it in your name and check it was all good for you, you can ask her and sign whenever—,”

“I want to sign now.”

“Are you sure? You haven’t read it. Want me to read it for you?”

“I trust you and Ilsa. D’you have a pen?”

“Here, I’ll help you,” Strike gave her a pen and put his hand over hers, helping her hold the pen firmly as she slowly, carefully wrote her name. Once it was over, Strike shook her hand professionally as she cried a little, silently. “Welcome back, Ellacott.”

“Thank you, thank you, Cormoran.”

“There’s something else I want to do before your parents come back,” said Strike, looking at the door to ensure no one was coming. Strike put the folder on the sofa. “Want to sit with me on the bed? I want to hold you a little.”

Robin chuckled and nodded, letting him help her to slowly lie back on the bed, sitting up against the many pillows, sheets up to tuck her in, and Strike sat beside her with an arm around her shoulders.

“Thanks, Cormoran. This is really nice.” She blew her nose on a tissue. The amulet was still in her neck.

“Oh, I didn’t mean this. Robin… there’s no easy way so I’ll be straightforward, okay? Cormac is here. He wants to talk to you.”

Cormac appeared at the feet of the bed, and Strike pointed to him. Robin looked on, so shocked she stopped crying, holding the teddy bear and the tissues in her hands.

“Cormac?” she murmured, her eyes moving as if she could see him, trying to imagine him right there.

“I’m right here baby,” Cormac grinned tearfully, and put a hand on Robin’s foot over the blanket. Robin felt it not cold, like Whittaker, but very warm, and she slid to the feet of the bed, putting a hand on the feet board.

“He said he’s right here, called you baby,” said Strike. Robin chuckled tearfully, and felt her hand get warm as Cormac covered it with his, both hands on the feet board now. “He’s holding your hands.”

“I know…” Robin sniffled. “Cormac I’m so sorry… you were the best guy I ever… it’s all my fault,” she cried out. “I’m so sorry!”

As Cormac spoke, Strike told Robin.

“Robin, Cormac doesn’t think it’s your fault but Laing’s. He’s happy he could protect you. He’s happy he was there for you. He says all he can blame you for is making him the happiest guy in the world,” Strike’s throat got hoarse, sliding down the bed so he could place his hand on Robin’s back. This was surprisingly hard on him too. “He says he’s in love with you. And that he’d do this all over again, because four months to die at the high of his life are worth it all. He wants you to know he has no regrets, that you made life perfect for him, that he’s never met anyone more incredible and beautiful inside out, and it was the honour of his life to be your boyfriend, even if it was just for a little bit. That great things are brief sometimes… that he’ll take care of you. He wants you to be happy. To be the best detective in the world. To live for the two of you, and find someone who deserves you, who’ll dance with you at weddings and everything.”

“Is he going to the light?” asked Robin, eyes full of tears rolling down her cheeks.

“He can’t see it just yet.”

“Cormac,” Robin looked on to where she felt his eyes had to be. “You have to go, okay? You came, you helped me find myself… you helped me see what I deserved, see how sweet life could be. You were the best thing that happened to me… and I was falling in love with you,” she took a deep breath. “I couldn’t wait for all the things we were planning… and I promise you I’ll keep making plans like we would. That I’ll remember your every advise, that I’ll always follow my heart, that… that I won’t forget to set my eyes on a better future and fight for it, and that the sun always comes up after the rain. I will never forget you, and the beautiful person you are, all the fun we had… and the love you made me believe in again. You’ve set the bar so high… and all the pain is worth the bit of time we had, but I know it would’ve never felt like enough time, not with you. And now you have to go with your Dad. Cormoran says it’s nice up there… and I will carry you with me forever. I will remember the happiness and the love we shared, and I’ll live to make the better world we dreamed of. I won’t sink again. I’ll be all right… ‘cause wherever you go… I know you will help me be all right.”

“He’s smiling now Robin,” Strike said, staring at Cormac. “He’s smiling down at you. And you can’t see but… the room’s gotten so bright. The light is huge. And he’s seeing his Dad.”

Robin nodded, crying.

“Rest in peace, baby. You deserve it the most.” Her bracelet hung from her wrist, apparently she’d put it back on as soon as the nurses had let her this week, like Strike’s amulet. Robin felt warmth against his lips and closed her eyes.

When he finally left, Robin knew it, and she crumbled in heavy sobbing. Strike moved to remove his shoes and plant his feet on the bed at each side of her, wrapping himself around her, his chin on her shoulder.

“He said he’ll always be there for you.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 31: Baby steps.

The next few days, Strike read so much about Traumatic Brain Injury or TBI that he felt he could be a neurosurgeon by then. He read that after TBI, particularly the most severe ones, there was often a condition called Post-Concussion Syndrome. PCS was typically associated with concussions, even whiplash, and it consisted on the affected brain cells being unable to get enough oxygen to power the signalling inside the brain properly and effectively as usual, which made the brain create new pathways in order to keep completing tasks with your brain, such as recalling a word or learning something new. The new pathways however aren’t always the most effective, and even though they help the brain continue to work, those things are done with most difficulty, which was why Robin now had to work with a psychologist, a speech and language therapist, and even a physical therapist, to be able to use her brain as normally as possible, to train her body again to work with the new paths her brain had designed with sometimes, weaker signals.

The symptoms could last from just days to years. Some had gone already, like the ones that made her speech and reading harder. Others, like the headaches, general weakness, disorientation, nausea, insomnia, memory problems, dizziness and difficulty to concentrate seemed to come and go, affecting Robin more when she was most tired. In any case, it was supposed to be temporary, usually cleared in a matter of months, although they could be recurrent over the years, as it had been for five years, whenever she was resented for any reason, too stressed, too tired.

Unfortunately, depression was also a common problem after TBI, even for people that hadn’t just gone through a major traumatic event, and in Robin’s case it tied with PTSD quite severely. She remembered everything that had happened. She’d been sleeping when Laing arrived, had woken up to some noise in the kitchen, and had arrived to see Laing, dressed as the Death, stabbing Cormac repeatedly while Cormac seemed to try to contain his pain to avoid screaming. It seemed as if he had wanted to keep her sleeping, hoping Laing didn’t know she was there and would leave without touching her. Robin had confronted Laing with a kitchen knife, stabbed him on the thigh, received a cut, but then she’d hit him so many times her fists were all raw and achy for days, but he’d managed to push her away hard, and run away, hearing sirens possibly from an unrelated event that had also gotten police in the area.

Strike learned PTSD and TBI weren’t a good combo. The doctors called it the perfect storm, because one fed and reinforced the other. Robin’s TBI wasn’t such to give her amnesia, but her PTSD plagued her and haunted her with thoughts and memories of the event, Cormac’s death but also what Trewin had done to her, at all times of the day and night, making sleep harder, making her relieve trauma and acquire headaches and depress more and more. Both TBI and PTSD could cause sleep disorders, both not sleeping at all and sleeping too much, and providing countless nightmares and drenching night sweats, adding powerful flashbacks that had her tossing and turning in bed all the time, sometimes violently enough for the nurses to lower the bars on the sides of the bed, so she wouldn’t get bruises from hitting them on accident. Then there was the isolation, which they combated by always making sure she had a strong support group, redistributing information between family and friends to make sure everyone understood TBI, PTSD, depression and everything Robin was going through.

In addition, when PTSD and TBI joined forces, there was a high risk of substance abuse, so the nurses that took care of Robin kept a close watch of what she took, when, and how much, and stressed Robin’s family and friends to do the same whenever she was discharged, which with the combo of things Robin had going on wasn’t going to be soon, as her doctor wanted to get a psychologist to clear her too to go home. There was the cognitive fatigue, hallmark of brain injury, where thinking and learning felt like hitting the wall and everything was a challenge, not to mention the added fatigue of poor sleep, but the anxiety seemed to be mostly under control, as long as they kept reminding Robin there was nothing to worry about because they were taking care of everything for her.

The emotional side was the absolute worst. It wasn’t so much for the TBI, which had only caused a slight emotional lability that only made her emotions slightly unpredictable, but that could also be many other things, including depression. There was the anger, that TBI caused a more volatile behaviour, as it had occurred in the last few weeks even before Cormac’s death, but the depression became the worst, hitting Robin like a train in such way people didn’t visit her to have fun and joy, but like fighters preparing for a war that wasn’t theirs, but that they loved Robin too much to let her fight alone.

TBI’s most common psychiatric diagnosis was depression, and also in relationship to PTSD, and it happened for multiple reasons; physical changes in the brain due to injury, emotional response to injury, factors unrelated to injury like genetics, PTSD, etc. It didn’t put Robin in tears continuously, partially because she was exhausted, but it was expected for antidepressants and CBT (Cognitive-Behavioural Therapy) to become a normal part of Robin’s life permanently, just to help her keep going with her head on her shoulders.

“OK he is really cute,” Robin gave in, a week and a half after her brain surgery, propped in bed while Max showed her pictures of Wolfgang ‘missing his auntie’. She had a soft smile, and today was one of the ‘good’ days. What Strike noticed the most was her permanent tiredness, her fragility, her lack of energy even for a laugh, and the way she seemed a bit absent sometimes, like she wasn’t really there. Fortunately the crying was now quite reduced, and now at Wolfgang’s photographs, she looked lighter, happier.

“Well I gotta go before he pees in both our beds,” Max checked his watch and kissed Robin’s cheek. “Damien sends you his love.”

“Thanks,” Robin said appreciatively. “Have a good day.”

“You too hun!”

Robin’s room was full of flowers and get well cards, and the doctors wanted to keep her for another week at least. She was recovering nicely from the surgery, her whole head shaven off and only a few gauzes here and there now, under a thick beanie, but the doctors were more worried about the non physical symptoms, and wanted to make sure they wouldn’t send her home to become suicidal if it was rushed. She needed to become stronger, sleep better, eat better, and be cleared by a psychologist, a physical therapist, and her neurosurgeon.

“Did you go today?” Robin asked Strike as Max left.

It was always the same question, if Strike didn’t update her sooner, and now the only people in the room were her, eating a yoghurt sitting up in bed in her pyjamas, which she was now allowed to use, and dressing gown, Strike on a chair by her bed, her cousin Katie in another, Nick, Ilsa, Vanessa and Lucy. It was the popular after work hour.

“Yeah,” Strike nodded. “Left orchids today.” She meant Cormac’s grave. She’d offered to pay him for going in her name and leaving flowers now and then, but he’d insisted on not accepting money. The flowers weren’t that painfully expensive, now the office was buzzing with clients.

“Nice,” said Robin, “they smell nicely.”

“Aren’t cemeteries even more super creepy when you see dead people?” Vanessa commented. His secret was out between their families and friends, even Robin’s family, and it was okay because everyone was keeping quiet.

“Not that much, today there was the ghost of a dog. He crossed when I pet him.”

“Oh bless him,” Lucy said. “Jack has me going nuts with the ghosts lately, we’ve had to come up with a code for whenever we’re in public and he gets crept out by something no one can see, because his new teacher says he spends too much time staring at ‘nothing’. Couldn’t tell him he is staring at something, an old teacher who had a heart attack and died ten years ago, apparently.”

“I thought you were pretending not to see them any more?” inquired Robin, happy for a change of topic towards something that didn’t revolve around herself.

“I tried, I really did,” said Lucy with a small pout. “It’s my sons who don’t let me. Adam too, he insisted I let him share his sandwich with a homeless the other day, who was long gone and not in need of food any more. Good thing’s I’m seeing them lately, it’s been a while.”

“You ignore it and lose it, you know the drill,” said Strike, eating some of the biscuits Robin kept receiving.

“Don’t eat them all,” Robin teased him. “I’m supposed to be pulling weight.”

“Christmas’s around the corner, you do then,” Strike retorted.

“Are you going to tell Cormac’s family that you’ve talked with his spirit?” inquired Katie, turning to her cousin.

“No,” said Robin. “I told them I know he’s in a better place, but we’re not like, close. I didn’t know them before… and I think his mother’s a bit mad at me, honestly. They don’t need to know more, won’t make a difference. What’s happened to Laing so far?”

“Well he’s recovered from your stabbing, but he’ll have a limp forever, tendon damage,” said Strike, and Robin smirked a little. “And I broke his nose in three places, both cheek bones, and an eye socket,” his hand was still in quite the cast, after all, the tips of his fingers manoeuvring delicately to grab the biscuits. “It’ll take a few weeks more to heal, and his face will still be permanently deformed. They’ve put him in prison now, I think it was… which one was it?”

“Broadmoor, but they’re going to move him,” said Ilsa. “I’ve got a friend who’s a judge friends of the judge who’ll sentence him, and apparently they’re already making a list of the best prepared prisons, like Wakefield, were Robert Mauldley is, thinking of a similar solitary confinement.”

“Shit, I can’t be accumulating people who want to kill me in Wakefield, they’ll join forces,” said Robin with a frown.

“Oh don’t worry Robin, the judge has those things in mind, it’d be insane to put those two close…” said Ilsa calmly. “They’ll do their best to keep him the farthest away from any surviving victim, you and that Lila Monkton girl, and you can get restraining orders, and a number of judiciary things to make sure you stay safe, I’m already taking care of that for you, making sure they have priorities in order.”

“Gosh, thank you Ilsa. I just pray they don’t end up dead, Cormoran’s already shown me that’s worse. The fact that Whittaker’s been off the radar for months is quite unnerving.”

“You’re safe with that amulet though,” said Lucy.

“Yes, but you guys aren’t. And there’s little Leda…”

“I have my house full of amulets, Leda has a little ankle bracelet,” Lucy informed. “Until we discard that monster to…”

“To where? Hell?” Katie, to whom Robin had told everything because she was like her oldest best friend, asked.

Lucy and Strike exchanged a look.

“Actually we don’t know,” said Strike. “We’ve never had to get rid of such a dark force before… we’re still figuring out how.”

“We could lock him somewhere haunted,” Lucy proposed. “Didn’t you say Kelsey and the others were trapped in Laing’s freezer? If he could do that with good people there has to be a way with evil people.”

“Lock him in a spaceship and send him flying,” proposed Nick, half jokingly.

“I think Jeff Whittaker’s remains were incinerated and since he’s got no living relatives aside for Harry, buried in his mother’s grave,” explained Vanessa. “Don’t you guys have like in Buffy or The Ghost Whisperer some wise master who has the answers to everything paranormal?”

“Our dead mother,” said Lucy. “And I do not look forward to asking her help. She gets cocky.”

“And it’s super complicated, ‘cause it requires not Ouija, that’s dangerous, but a serious session of spiritism which isn’t fun either,” added Strike. “It’s best to wait for her to come in dreams and then talk it out. She does pop by when she feels a need.”

“Like to meet her new granddaughter?” Nick suggested.

“Oh, she’s done that when I wasn’t looking,” said Lucy. “She gave my daughter her new ankle amulet. I don’t even know how she does it, in theory you’re dead you can’t make things… appear from nowhere. We could also ask our dead grandmother, but she killed herself quite young, so she doesn’t know that many things. And go up the family tree but the farther the harder it gets to communicate with them.”

“You guys this is like real life Charmed,” Vanessa commented, impressed. “Kind of gives me the chills.”

“Charmed is scarier,” said Strike, “we’re just Celts.” Lucy nodded in agreement.

“I’m going on holiday,” Robin decided abruptly.

Her friends turned to her, surprised.

“Really? You’re always complaining how bored you are here.” Said Katie.

“This isn’t a holiday. No, holiday is…” Robin looked thoughtful, her yoghurt finished so now she was free to play with the bracelet gifted by Cormac absently. “Mauritius, sun, beach, no death and no criminals.”

“With which money?” asked Strike with a small smile.

“Well in my imagination is free,” said Robin, making him chuckle. “I’ll settle with Christmas horse riding in the farm.”

“In the snow?” Katie frowned. “With TBI?”

“You can sit behind me and watch out for your dear cousin, wouldn’t you?”

“For five minutes, then I’m dragging you inside for hot chocolate. I’ve got a son, can’t catch the flu or I’ll give it to my whole entire family and actually, you really shouldn’t be catching a cold or anything either. Why even come to Masham? You’re not cleared to drive, it’s going to be the longest most boring trip, and only to be home when the blizzards begin. Stay in London, we’ll bring Christmas to you.”

Robin frowned, pouting.

“I don’t know. Yeah, maybe you’re right. It’s not like I’m gonna be very merry either.”

“We’re having Christmas in St Mawes this year,” Ilsa commented. “Why don’t you come by? It’s nearby and it won’t have blizzards of snow. Possibly loads of rain but also beach walks, pretty relaxing.”

“I personally prefer it to London,” added Nick. “You coming’ Corm?”

“That depends, am I being dragged to Cornwall Lucy?”

“You are.”

“Then I’m coming,” Lucy half smiled, knowing she nagged him so much now she was his boss with the holidays. “You come Robin, there’s plenty of space.”

“There isn’t, Lucy has three kids. You said yourself you gotta sleep on the sofa then.”

“Well if you also come it’ll be the perfect excuse to convince Aunt Joan to let me get a room in a hotel, and you can tag along, we’ll be hotel buddies, the agency pays. The agency owes us holiday pay,” Strike decided, and Robin snorted a laugh.

“Hey that’s a good idea!” said Katie happily. “I bet your parents won’t mind, they might even visit, they like the beach and always complain of the blizzards. Hell I’ll visit.”

Robin, getting suspicious, narrowed her eyes on her sister.

“Is there any family plot to get me to not go to Masham for the holidays Katie?”

“What? Nonsense.”

“Katherine…” Robin gave her a warning tone, and Katie puffed.

“I hate when you do that. Fine, it’s Matthew… Martin saw him ‘round Ripon holding hands with Sarah Shadlock. We think they’re coming over for Masham, and with your depression there’s no need to stand him around too, you know? Besides, I’m not lying, Masham is not that nice in the winter, you’ll freeze your arse just like you do every year, we all do. And my Dad and Stephen won’t let you ride the horses.”

Robin released a deep sigh and nodded.

“Fine, I’ll go to St Mawes if I feel better, otherwise London it is. Max’s staying, so I won’t be alone anyway.”

“Hey, we’ll come, you won’t be alone,” Katie promised. “My Christmas plans are family, the place is the least of the concerns. I know the others feel the same.”

“Honestly? I don’t care much,” confessed Robin. “I was just thinking of a nice trip I’d like to do, but you’re right Masham won’t be that nice, and big trips aren’t an option with my head, but I wasn’t thinking of the festivities. My boyfriend murdered and his birthday being in New Years, when we already had booked plans, it’s not going to be a Merry Christmas no matter what. I might as well save myself the effort of travel, buy a good thick novel, and spend the holidays cuddled in pyjamas with Wolfgang getting some much-missed reading done, hot chocolates, snuggled in blanket forts… it’ll be the perfect adult Christmas, and I’m sure I won’t miss the regular.”

Strike and Katie exchanged a serious expression. Neither wanted Robin to isolate herself, specially not over a sad period of the year. Strike sighed, putting the remaining biscuits again, and glanced at Robin, who had pulled her sheets up and snuggled sat up against at least five pillows. Her face was looking a little less bruised now, the cut in her lip healing nicely.

“Actually, change of plans,” said Strike. “I was thinking… leaving the agency closed for the holidays is probably not responsible, I mean, we’ve just reopened and started getting clients back… I think I should better stay and work around the holidays. Besides, it’ll be my first Christmas with a new home, I should take advantage of any free time I get and do some fixings around the attic, I have it so abandoned and it still needs a bit of painting, a new coat of product in the ceiling to protect from humidities… I should get that done before January’s big rains, it’s old wood beams. Why don’t you tag along, Robin? I could use a couple extra hands, now I’m handicapped,” he commented, lifting his bad hand. “You could hold the paint buckets for me while I hold the brush, and being so shit with my left, any extra help I get is welcomed.”

“You wanna spend your Christmas painting?” Lucy frowned, but Strike gave her a slight raise of his eyebrows and she understood. “Actually is a good idea, if the attic’s so old. You’re right, if I’ve learned anything from marrying a quantity surveyor is to take care of your home, or the water will get in and root the wood and then you have a huge issue, expensive too.”

“That’s right,” Nick nodded. “We can help out with a second coat when we return if you don’t get to finish.”

Robin looked at them as if trying to decipher something, but then she half smiled and shrugged.

“I can bring beer I suppose.”

“Great, then it’s settled,” Strike smiled. “I’ll order us some good dinner and we’ll make the attic all pretty and get stuffed to the brim with food. Did I tell you guys how wonderful Robin was helping me repaint the office in January and buy new furniture? We had a bit of an accident, one ghost wrecking the place, and she…”

Strike enthusiastically and happily recounted the story, stressing how useful Robin was, how good her taste is, and how it would be criminal not to take advantage, how lucky he was. When he looked over, Robin had fallen asleep, a faint smile still in her face.

He stayed the night, not liking to have Robin’s older parents sleep uncomfortably in chairs. He bragged he could sleep anywhere and under any condition, after the childhood he’d have and the military career. Both he and Lucy had spent their childhoods and teenage years all over the place. Strike, being three years older, had studied in four different places before attending university, and had lived between London, Falmouth, Hackney, Brixton, Whitechapel and, in times when he wasn’t being schooled because he was too young -he didn’t begin his formal education until he was five, and never attended kindergarten because his mother planned to homeschool him- he also spent small amounts of time living in places all over the country. He’d slept in squats, communes, cars, park benches, ground… he had only ever lived in a proper house in his sporadic times in Ted and Joan’s house, where he and Lucy had had a shared bedroom with a bunk bed, proper mattresses and duvets, and even a desk to work on homework comfortably without backs screaming in pain like it happened when they had to work on London floors. And during a career in the military that had taken Strike all over the world, to Iraq, Afghanistan, Germany, Cyprus, Bosnia and many other countries, he had had no choice but to get used to sleeping when he could, how he could, no matter what, independently of the circumstances.

Now, he set himself on the armchair, with a blanket and his coat on, his eyes longing on Robin for a bit longer as she tossed and turned, and reached out with his good hand to take hers, feeling it twitching sporadically under his touch with her nightmares, skin to skin.

Chapter Text

Chapter 32: The human demands.

“There you go, you’re doing better,” Strike complimented Robin as he watched her walk out of the bathroom, all dressed and ready to leave the hospital at last. She had lost weight, but Strike already had plans for that.

Robin had been in the hospital for exactly three weeks, and Strike’s birthday was just hours away now, yet as he didn’t like his birthdays, he wasn’t even thinking of it. He had a surprise for Robin, who moved weakly, stumbling a little, her clean-shaven head covered with a thin beanie that also covered her ears partially.

“I’m just walking,” she replied, putting on her coat.

“You’re walking better,” Strike pointed out, and offered her a hand. Robin’s family had returned to Masham just hours before, after Strike and Max both assured them multiple times they would look after Robin like family. Now, Strike offered Robin his arm for avid stability. Max had already taken all her things to her bedroom so they wouldn’t have to carry anything and Strike could focus on her. “I did a little something, what do you think?” he said excitedly, and removed his own beanie. Robin’s jaw dropped.

Strike’s curls were gone. His beard was neatly trimmed to long stubble, but his head was completely shaven, bare, round and big.

“You shaved your head? Why would you do that?”

“People shave their heads in empathy when their friends have brain surgery, right? It’s my way of staying in your team!”

Robin rolled eyes but smiled.

“They do that with cancer, and it’s winter and you’re going to freeze your head in a month,” said Robin. “Still, I appreciate the sentiment very much.”

He grinned, putting his beanie back.

“Bah, it’ll be full grown by tomorrow.”

Her giggles followed them outside.

Strike had a taxi already waiting for them, and held an umbrella up for Robin, opening the door of the taxi for her before sliding next. She sighed and leaned on his shoulder, closing her eyes, as the driver took them to Earl’s Court.

Once there, Wolfgang raced excitedly to greet Robin, his tail wagging behind while he rushed around her legs, licking her wherever he could reach. Max hugged her, and she flopped on the sofa, snuggling with Wolfgang and a hot cup of chocolate while it rained hard outside.

“This right here,” Robin murmured while the men stared. “Is heaven.”

Hours later, after Max had walked Wolfgang and gone to work, Strike sat on the sofa with Robin, finishing vegetable soup with Wolfgang asleep between them, his little head and big ears over Robin’s lap.

“You can leave me alone, you know?” Robin murmured. With Cormac’s bracelet, now she had one her parents had gotten her, which resembled a watch, only that the leather strap held a metallic plaque instead with a big red medical symbol and engraved, the following information: ‘ROBIN ELLACOTT. SEVERE TBI SURVIVOR. NO ALLERGIES. A+. CHECK MEDICAL ID CARD.’ She also had in her wallet the aforementioned Emergency Medical ID, a useful card with all the important information such as GP, emergency numbers, and a brief summary of her medical history. It was all just in case she’d have another seizure, or epileptic episodes, or fainting spells while being alone in the street and things like that. Strike and Vanessa were her emergency contacts.

“D’you want me to leave you alone?” inquired Strike casually.

“Sometimes I wish you did, sometimes… I’m grateful you don’t,” she confessed. “I just feel like… I want nothing like being alone… but then suddenly I really don’t want to be alone. Doesn’t make sense.”

“It does,” said Strike, eating his soup. “Y’know, I was months in hospital after the IED. In Germany first, and I wanted nothing like coming home and being with my family, and then once I was here and my family, Charlotte, friends wouldn’t leave me the hell alone… I was craving loneliness. Overtime I’ve gotten to understand I like being alone as long as I know it’s a choice and that I can easily achieve company if I want to, that I’m not alone because I’m forced to it.”

“Perhaps that’s what I feel too,” said Robin, her shoulders slumped. “I miss work, but I know I can’t work just yet… and I was dying for my family to leave but now…”

She left the sentence hanging and Strike nodded understanding.

“I’ve been told I give good hugs. D’you want one?”

Robin looked up to him. He was so changed lately, so caring, so considerate, so thoughtful… not that he wasn’t usually, it was just magnified now.

It was happening now, that at times she felt like there was an energy between them, a push and pull, a magnetism, as if they were inevitably drawn to each other, as if something was condemned to happen, like two planets gravitating one another with an ever-changing energy of attraction that would eventually, surely, make them collide, yet they would never know exactly when until it was happening.

But on times like this, perhaps because she felt sad and vulnerable, or because Robin had never had a friend, let alone a male friend, who would so willingly be vulnerable for her comfort, Robin felt a need to let the pull happen, to let herself be drawn to his orbit, to succumb to his gravity.

“Yes,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

Wordlessly, Strike put down his bowl on top of the little wooden table that served as a coffee table between the sofa and the small TV, which they weren’t watching. He turned to her, like a mountain curving around a lake, and his large yet gentle hand tenderly touched on her shoulder before sliding across her back, pulling her close, towards him, his whole body turning to face her with a knee on the sofa to make it easier. Robin was like a spaceship weakened by battle that couldn’t resist the pull, once she entered orbit, so she succumbed to his arms, which wrapped around her figure like a vine climbing up the walls of his tower, and her eyes unleashed torrents of tears, her body heaving against his.

While her blue-grey eyes watered his shoulder and her arms clung onto him weakly, Strike buried his face on her shoulder and used both of his large, heavy arms, to cling onto her too. Robin didn’t cry just out of sadness. Robin cried for the happiness of finding a man like a Strike, her freedom out of Matthew’s arms, a job that fulfilled her, for her lucky stars that had brought to her in London success, friendship and true love, like she had never known before. But she also cried for the way it felt like she’d paid a high price to enjoy all those luxuries. She cried of sadness for the farewell she’d had to bid, she cried of sorrow for the pain and sadness she witnessed from the stories she got to know on the job and of which she could never completely isolate, and she lamented in her frustration, her anger and her disappointment, that life worked this way. That it’d give you light, love, friendship, and so easily take it all away just when you began to feel like you had finally earned your right to sit back and simply enjoy. That it had happened to her, to Strike, to Lucy, to Nick, to Ilsa, to Cormac, but also to all those women she’d gotten to know, to Brittany, to Kelsey, to Rhona, to Lorraine. That all of them, in their youth, had only truly wanted with all their hearts so very few things, and hadn’t been greedy, arrogant or selfish, but kind and loving people, and yet the one thing they had wanted had been repeatedly almost conceded only to be taken away in the most painful way, sometimes, like with the Herberts’ two miscarriages, repeatedly, as if one stab wound wasn’t enough. She cried because it was so unfair, because others who had caused so much pain and agony got to enjoy undeserved greed and luxury, and now, she didn’t even feel like asking for anything else of life, if the payment was going to be so rough. But what made her cry the most was wishing she’d been stabbed like Cormac too, and so her nonsensical suffering finally ended, because surely Laing’s blade would hurt less than the stabs of life.

“Please don’t leave me,” Robin managed to cry out, holding onto the large frame. Strike frowned lightly, a knot settling in his throat.

“I won’t,” he promised. “I will never leave you.”

Knowing like she knew now that the death really did get to stay a bit, Robin felt a little comfort in the belief that Strike’s promise would go on, because alive or dead, he’ll always be there. And still, the comfort was little because his spirit wouldn’t comfort her like his arms did. But now, even that felt like a luxury she was willing to focus on, since he was what she got to keep, after everything else had been ripped away.

Strike knew there wasn’t more consolation to do. He could only hold her, he could only stay, he could only believe in the value of a silence meaning a thousand words, and hope that the beating of his heart against hers would tell her how he suffered for her, how he longed for her, and how he hoped he’d get to hold her so many times more.

It took only time to help Robin calm down, exhaustion taking over, and she remained slumped in his arms, like a fish stranded on the shore trying to breathe. It didn’t mean her feelings were done with, it only meant that for now, her body had regrouped to allow for her to withstand things a little longer.

“He felt warm,” she whispered in his ear weakly. “Whittaker was ice… but when Cormac’s spirit touched me, it felt warm. How can something dead feel so warm?”

“Technically the sun and the stars are dead, and they feel so warm,” murmured Strike, “while the trees feel cold and hard. Perhaps Cormac went on to be more like the sun.”

Robin separated just enough to look at him in the eyes, their faces inches from one another, Strike’s surly and sad and heavy with brows and beard, while Robin’s was pale and sunken and sad.

“Can you do me another favour?” she asked, her glassy and reddened eyes searching his, snot in her face. Strike nodded. “I want to visit Cormac’s grave… I know he’s not there any more but…”

“I’ll take you there.”

This time, Strike bought the flowers Robin selected, a large bouquet full of big orange, white and violet flowers, a cheerful bouquet. Robin held onto his arm, her thick long coat on, and they strolled together between gravestones. It dawned on her how difficult this must be for him, surrounded by ghosts and sadness, and she wondered how could he be alive in the world of the living while never being rid of the world of the dead, always walking in between, unable to forget the sadness and sorrow.

Strike gave her a long while alone sitting on Cormac’s grave, while he walked around and crossed a few souls, read some gravestones, always wondering about the stories that had come to an end there, before he turned around and returned to Robin, sitting next to her with a little groan from the leg. Robin looked cried out, even if she probably wasn’t.

“Will you teach me?” Robin asked, turning to him.

“Teach you what?”

“This,” Robin sighed, “to navigate death that comes so much with the job. I had only lost my grandparents before, and it wasn’t so bad. Part of them died when I was very young so…” she shrugged. “I didn’t know them much. And I don’t know how to…”

Strike nodded and released a deep sigh, putting an arm around her while organizing his thoughts, contemplating Cormac’s engraved name on the stone.

“The way it worked for me, after losing my Mum and going through emotional hell, it’s just never felt like nothing was that bad any more. I mean once you’ve burnt your bacon, you stop worrying you’re going to overcook it, right? The worst was already done.”

“So it’s just resignation.”

“Yes,” Strike nodded. “Then the night Cormac died, he came to warn me you were in danger,” Robin turned to him, curious. “I found Laing, and when I was breaking my hand in him… the pain was surreal, but not in my hand. The pain of believing I was late and you were butchered, a finger possibly in his pockets. I didn’t think I’d feel that type of pain again, after losing Mum, and yet, I did. And I think the way one survives is just… that sometimes the universe forces you to wait and see. Sometimes, when you think you’re in rock bottom and you don’t want to live again, the universe refuses to let you die, to give you the only choice of waiting, because it knows it’ll be worth it. So I was forced to wait and realize you lived. And now… you’re forced to wait and see how it plays out.”

“Well waiting bloody sucks,” Robin rubbed her eyes and suddenly sniggered. “How does one manage to leave their fiancé, fall in love and lose it all in just months?” she asked dryly. Strike leaned his head against her shoulder, and she pressed her cheek against his hair. “I heard Charlotte’s wedding is soon, in February. You okay?”

“I will be,” he nodded.

“And tomorrow’s your birthday. Good opportunity to celebrate life,” she continued. She felt his breath catch, and frowned. “No?”

“It’s just uh… I don’t really like my birthday.”

“No?” Robin looked at him curiously. “Is that because you’re getting older?”

“No, that’s okay. Means things are going well, does it?” Strike sat straighter and looked at her. “It just that it brings me bad memories.”

Robin nodded slowly, wanting to understand.

“So what do you want to do?”

“I don’t know. Not think, probably.”

“D’you want me to give you something else to think about instead?”

“Yeah,” Strike nodded. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

“I was thinking we should expand our business.”

“How?”

Robin half smiled. She knew he wasn’t going to like it.

“Under the table, in the paranormal side,” said Robin. “Aside from everything we do, of course. Just as a… minor line of work. Be paranormal investigators in secret.”

“If we do it in secret, how will we receive clients?”

“We don’t tell them how we do. We just… we could have a website and we could describe our services. General investigations, criminal investigations… and then include missing persons, deaths in strange circumstances, and unexplainable paranormal events. No one has to know we resolve things ‘cause you’re a medium, but it would serve us to understand the other world better, and help more people… y’know, help them find peace, like Cormac. And if we learn more from the occult… it’ll help us with Whittaker, don’t you think?”

Strike narrowed his eyes in deep thought.

“We’ll see okay? It’s not a no, it’s a… baby steps.”

“Okay,” Robin took his bandaged hand in hers. After a moment of silence staring at her dead boyfriend’s grave, she added; “Thanks for smashing that dickhead’s face for me, by the way.”

“Any time,” Strike half smiled at her. “You know you’ll have to testify, right?”

“I know I won’t be alone,” Robin looked at him with a soft smile. Behind her, the sky was turning purple as the sunlight began to fade, but Robin seemed lighter, less crumbling.

Strike looked at her in the eye.

“That’s right. You won’t.”

Together, they sat to watch the sunset, hand in hand, knowing that whatever happened wouldn’t catch them alone.

Chapter Text

PART 2

A/N: 2 year time jump ahead. I’ve chosen to omit Brexit and Covid, things I hate and despise, from my Alternative Universe story, because there’s no chance in hell I’d have those two in an alternative place if it’s up to me. And it is.

Chapter 33: New book, new page.

Halloween 2019 started off with heavy rains that seemed to dampen the hopes and dreams of all the teenagers that had hoped to go out partying, not so much in the traditional spirit of the night, but simply because most of them would never pass an excuse to get horribly drunk. As the rain drummed against the windows, thirty-four year old Detective Cormoran Strike woke up with a large yawn, sprawled on his bed, surrounded by boxes, in his new bedroom in the last floor of 1 Trevanion Road, in Hammersmith. With a groan, Strike incorporated in bed, sitting up and putting on his prosthesis. He stretched his arms over his head at the same time he groaned, released a new yawn, and walked to his one tiny bedroom window, which overlooked a small garden behind his three storey building, which in reality were four, counting the ground floor.

The new C-shaped flat, albeit rented on a five year long-term contract, was the biggest life upgrade Strike had had in the nearly three years since leaving his former fiancé Charlotte Campbell, now Charlotte Ross and mother of year old twins, for what he’d heard. It had his bedroom, that wasn’t huge but was okay, a smaller bedroom next door that counted, in compensation with its size, with a tiny balcony which had modest views to Gunterstone Road, and that currently intended to serve as a mini office in-house, a full bathroom, a tiny loo that was mostly a laundry room, and facing Trevanion Road, a tiny kitchen that was thrice the size of his old one, and a reception room that served as dining room as well. United to a second-hand ten year old BMW that was parked in a little parking next to the mini garden behind the building, the two possessions represented what Strike felt as success for his agency.

The trick had been Detective Robin Ellacott. She’d come into the agency nearly three years previously, with no experience and now she had just begun her first year of an Open University degree in Criminology and Psychology part-time, owned half of their business, held the title of senior detective just like him, and managed her own share of independent investigation cases on her own every month. She kicked arse for a living, and she was to blame for the agency’s growing success and demand, and for his own growing happiness. The only one of two photos Strike had in his entire flat, which was mostly boxes still because of lack of time to accommodate, actually showed Robin and Strike, arms around each other, all grins at his sister Lucy and Wyatt Mellows’ wedding on Christmas Day the year before, and Strike had that photograph on his night stand. Next to it, and mostly so that if anyone saw they wouldn’t tease him, he had put another photograph of the same day, showcasing his two nephews and niece with their just-married parents, Strike tall in a corner holding his then year old niece and god daughter.

Strike scratched his bare, hairy belly, and walked out of his room towards the bathroom for a pee before continued, in boxers and slippers, his dressing gown open, to the kitchen.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath seeing how much he had left to do.

The flat had come half price semi-furnished, meaning it had a washing machine, fully furnished bathroom and toilet, and a kitchen with everything save for the little appliances, like the kettle. Strike had filled it with second-hand furniture he had bought for the occasion, because his attic, where he’d lived for two and a half years, had come fully furnished. So now he faced a kitchen full of little boxes, barely stocked. His plates and cutlery were to be fished from boxes, his two mugs the only things in their cabinet, and he had to remember to rinse his electronic kettle, because he wasn’t home much and it wouldn’t be hygienic to assume it was clean.

While his water boiled, Strike went to the next room, which had two little windows set together, to see how his moving process there was going. He had managed to set the furniture, but there were some boxes here and there with books, documents, and various items.

“OK this week you better be hundred percent. Today, actually,” Strike lectured the room. He had planned on a small house warming party the next day, pressured by his sister, who had yet to know any property of his aside from his office.

He had woken extra early to do what needed to be done so after a quick breakfast, he threw on his pyjama and began emptying boxes to finish the kitchen and the reception-dining room. The second bedroom slash office, bathroom and toilet had been done already, and his bedroom was halfway and in no rush for more, so he left it at that. Still, when he finished, the apartment looked quite empty, because he owned no decoration, and pretty much had the bare basics he needed to live. He didn’t have many belongings.

Sweating, Strike rushed to shower and get dressed for the day, brushing his teeth in the shower. He had just gotten in his car when Robin phoned him, and he put it on speaker.

“Good morning,” said Robin in a chirpy tone. Halloween was always a hard day for her. Today marked the two year anniversary of the murder of the only man she’d dated since leaving her long-time boyfriend and fiancé Matthew Cunliffe nearly three years ago. It also marked two years since the dramatic complication and worsening of a Traumatic Brain Injury sustained seven and a half years before, when she’d been twenty-one.

“Good morning,” Strike found himself smiling against his will. Robin and him were the best of friends, but they’d met nearly four years ago, and their relationship had odd moments that made it seem as if it could be something more. This had forced Strike to try and fail to keep some resemblance of distance in between so she wouldn’t feel so much like a girlfriend, starting by not letting her take down his regular appearance of surly and grumpy, which he had given to everyone since birth. But Robin had always succeeded, and he wasn’t mad, even.

“So I have three tailings today and I gotta put two hours undercover at least… but we’re still on for tonight, right? I should be done at seven. Eight, at most.”

“That should work fine,” said Strike. “I’m on my way to the office, finally managed to unload nearly all boxes.”

“Look at you, conquering the day already. Much work today?”

“Nah, mostly office stuff. Took it light so the leg’s not wrecked for tonight, if we need to dash. Are you at the office?”

“Nope, tailing,” said Robin. “The apple of my eye is currently getting services from a prostitute in front of the cafe where I’m having second breakfast.” She joked.

“Second breakfast?!” Strike checked his watch as he drove towards Denmark Street. “It’s barely nine in the morning!”

“And this guy’s already horny.”

“How long have you been up?”

“Since five, if you wish to know.”

“What?!”

“I went to bed early,” Robin assured him. “Woke up, paid a visit to Cormac, studied for an hour, went to therapy for another hour… the regular, you know.”

“How’s school going?”

“Well, I’m doing introduction to criminology and investigating psychology now, so most of it is stuff I know, which means higher grades. I’m part-time so I have six years but honestly? I think I might get it done in three, seeing they divide it in three stages and stage one is already easy. The others though, that’s when it’s gonna get more fun.”

“You’ll slay, I’ve got full faith in you,” said Strike, passing the house in Talgarth Road where once he’d found the body of Owen Quine. “And how was therapy?”

“Dunno,” said Robin with a familiar tone of detachment.

“How can you not know? Either it helps or it doesn’t.”

“I’ve been at it two years, the CBT helps with the PTSD and the other stuff we do helps with the TBI but… I don’t see the point much these days. Feels like I’m not obtaining anything new, you know?”

Strike sighed and shrugged, even though she couldn’t see him. He tried not to be hard on her because the first six months of her recovery had been living hell. She had had the worst depression Strike had witnessed in his whole life, partially because of PTSD, but quite worsened by the way the brain injury had changed her brain, and her emotions, until they had found the right medication and the right doses, had been all over the place, specially when it coincided with her cycle. She hadn’t gone back to work for the first three months, and when she had, it was in very small amounts, as outdoors as Strike could get her, so she’d have more fresh air and less computer time. The symptoms which remained to this day, and for which she continued specific therapy for people dealing with combined PTSD and TBI, were headaches that had become occasional and much weaker than they had been, lingering sleeping issues, a much improved depression and the occasional volatility of her emotions, which still made her snap a bit suddenly if she was tired. Her friends and family and herself had had to be incredibly patient and understanding, but it was paying off. She had now begun to challenge her brain going back to school, and the fact that she’d done it for now two months quite okay showed a remarkable recovery, comparing to how bad she had been.

But on moments like this, she was still a bit too detached, a bit not-quite-there, even if her job was only better with her experience.

“Will I see you before seven? Lunch together?” asked Strike.

“If you’re free I should be in the Land Rover available for lunch, I’ll text you when I’m at a pub with the address.”

“You sure you’re okay to drive?”

“You’re six months late,” said Robin. “And yes. I have medication for the depression and medication anti seizures, so I shall prosper and not cut my veins.”

That was the new thing in the past year, her very dark humour. Strike, who had developed it without injuries like hers just to survive, found it endearing.

“You wouldn’t cut your veins anyway, it’s not your type of thing,” said Strike, contributing to the mood while he drove. “You would blow yourself up in a brothel, take all those cheating men with you. Quick and effective, so you’re not in agonizing pain for hours.

Robin laughed, music to his ears.

Once the call was ended, Strike reflected on his relationship with his best friend, driving beneath the intense rainfall across heavy-traffic central London. He knew by now that he liked her, he liked her hair, her perfume, her laughter, her voice, her sense of humour, her wickedness, her wittiness, her intelligence, her sneakiness, her eyes, her hair, the way she had her tea, the way she behaved with him, the way she looked at him, the way she touched him. She liked all those things very, very much. Of course it wasn’t related to the fact that he was currently single for two years, and hadn’t had any sexual activity, not even a kiss, in the same amount of time. He just didn’t find other women that attractive, didn’t want them to complicate his life, didn’t feel such a need for sex any more. Robin was by his side every day, sometimes even weekends, and her company filled his heart enough, her touch was all the female touch he could possibly crave. Didn’t mean anything, they were best friends and that’s how best friends feel. He missed Nick and Ilsa too, sometimes.

But when Robin wasn’t around, there was the perpetual thrill of the knowledge that his day could still get much better. When Robin wasn’t around smiles came harder, he was much quieter, seconds felt like hours. When Robin wasn’t around… she was still around, and a great deal, in his mind.

Still, it meant nothing, Strike was sure. He was a detective. If he had fallen in love, he would surely know. But there was a chance…

Robin seemed to smile more around him. She seemed happier, lighter. More than once he’d caught her staring at him, sometimes at his mouth…

Nonsense.

Their Denmark Street office had been receiving an ever increasing number of clients, which meant an increasing number of employees. Strike had booked the rental of his new place in May, but it wasn’t until September that the previous lease ended so he could move in. Still, he had preferred to spend the summer at Nick and Ilsa’s, specially since they were going on a family holiday for one whole month of it and could use someone to look after their cats, rather than in his attic, so that Robin and him could give green light to the massive renovations the office had undertaken over the summer.

Truth was they had slowly been gradually buying their office to their landlord, including the attic above, as the office became more and more profitable. They needed stability and they were very popular, changing locations to fit the higher amount of employees necessary would only damage their business. Locations were important, specially when you were the celebrity of Denmark Street. And so they had rather preferred to buy both properties, in order to merge them over the summer into one office.

The renovations took nearly four months, but now the office was in full swing. As usual, the building’s birdcage lift reached up to what had been the office before, which was now the first floor of it, containing the reception, a loo, a kitchenette and a meeting’s room slash lunch area that Strike and Robin used, whenever they didn’t feel like going upstairs and it was empty, to work as if it was still their inner office. There had been a door next to their office in the same landing which used to lead to a narrow staircase up to Strike’s former attic, but now, those stairs had been removed to make both their reception and the attic bigger, taking the space they had taken before, and upstairs, the bathroom was the only room that had been maintained. All the other inner walls had been removed, leaving a large open working area with a small double L shaped staircase that descended to the reception. Upstairs they kept large bookshelves with criminology and psychology books for resources, paper copies of their files in locked cabinets, a couple desks where Robin and Strike often worked with computers and all, and a bigger table with space for their employees to work too, if needed.

“Morning Pat,” said Strike, entering the office past the glass door of ‘Strike & Ellacott Private Investigations’ and hanging his coat on the rack.

“Morning,” Pat was a bit like him, a little surly and her voice was deep, and she smoked like a train, but was only allowed to do so with the windows wide open and as long as there were no clients or visitors, in case anyone was asthmatic. She could also go upstairs in her breaks to smoke.

“How are you today?”

Robin had insisted he had to be nicer to Pat. She had been their first hiring, when Robin was still on medical leave. She was forty-eight, three times married, with grown children, and one granddaughter whose photo she kept on her desk. She had long wavy black hair usually back in a bun, round glasses, and an air of professionalism that mixed with mild annoyance if Strike wasn’t in his best behaviour, in spire of him being her boss. She was, however, a total sweetie with Robin and with clients, and a very efficient secretary, assistant or office manager.

“I’m okay, thank you,” she seemed surprised for his kindness.

“Fancy some tea?”

“Yes, thanks,” Pat observed him from her desk as he worked in the kitchenette. “How’s the new flat going?”

“Pretty good, I’m having a small family gathering tomorrow to celebrate. Nothing big, but,” continued Strike, feeling as if Robin was clapping, “my little sister has been nagging me, and it’ll please her enough to, with a bit of luck, leave me alone until Christmas.”

Pat snorted a laugh.

“Family, uh?”

“Indeed,” Strike handed her a mug of tea. “How do we have the day looking?”

“Sam, Andy and Michelle all came and gathered their jobs of the day,” explained Pat, “and Robin’s already called, she’s on her jobs. So you’re free to research on Farleigh and Denny, and you’ve got a 3pm meeting with Alden Weiss, the guy who wants to know what happened to his daughter missing ten years ago?”

“Ah, right,” Strike nodded. “Very well, thank you. I’ll be upstairs.”

Pat’s new desk phone now included an intercom so she could call him upstairs without shouting, so Strike marched on to what he affectionately called ‘the cave’ because the ceilings were inclined and a little lower in the attic.

Noticing Robin’s perfume as he walked between their desks, Strike paused as he caught a faint whiff of Robin’s newer perfume, Narciso, a new favourite Strike had just gifted her on her recent birthday. He closed his eyes for a moment, and then advanced to his desk, shaking his head. Two hours later, his research work was interrupted by Michelle Greenstreet, their last subcontractor, who had been with them for over then months now. Recommended by Vanessa Ekwensi, Michelle was a former policewoman who had wanted to come to London and have a change of pace, thus joining the agency with high recommendations. She was about as old as Robin, and the two had indeed become friends quickly, Michelle about as bright, but more knowledgeable in police proceedings.

“Strike,” Michelle said breathless, and he looked up at her brown eyes, her dark skin sweaty. “You won’t believe…” she was breathless, putting her briefcase on Robin’s desk to take a deep breathe.

“Shouldn’t you be tailing Callaghan?”

“I was! And y’know where he went?”

“Where?”

“The airport. Followed him all the way to freaking Gatwick,” Strike’s eyes widened, leaning back to pay her his full attention. “Could only follow him to the security gate, but I got a list of all the flights departing this morning,” she dug in her briefcase and pulled a small paper sheet, which she handed him. “My bet’s on the Brussels one, the others were far too weird or far too cold for how he was dressed, and a few others require extra vaccines I haven’t seen him going to take.”

“So he wasn’t lying when he told our client he’d be on a business trip,” murmured Strike.

“Only that is not the business trip,” said Michelle. “He was only wearing a backpack, and casual attire, doubt he has a suit crumpled in there for a conference. I think his lover’s in Brussels.”

“So our client is right, her husband’s a cheater,” said Strike. “Well, for what you’re saying, he won’t be gone long. Leave it for today and you can go back tomorrow, see if he’s returned. In the meantime, I suggest you check with his company if there are any business trips going on, and if so, check if he could be in any.”

“How do I check with his company?”

“How about an undercover operation?”

Michelle smirked, a glint in her eyes.

“Now you’re speaking my language. I’ll update you tomorrow.”

“Make it good!” Strike shook his head as Michelle left far too enthusiastically, a small smile in his lips. “All nuts, all of them…”

It was near lunch time when Strike’s phone buzzed with a text from Robin with a single pub address, so he left the office.

The pub was not too far, which worked well with his meeting later, and with his current hunger. The rain seemed to have calmed down for now, and soon enough, Strike was entering a pub filled with orange and black Halloween decorations, false spider webs, and other ‘scary’ things. Robin was in a corner booth, but she seemed absent, eyes fixed somewhere through the window. Her damp umbrella hung on the back of her chair, and a bright blue wig sat on her lap, two beers on the table. Strike couldn’t see what the focus of her attention was until he came closer, and saw some teenagers in the street, standing and chatting in their costumes. One of them, large, wore a Death costume.

“Hey,” Strike put a shoulder on Robin, who wasn’t noticing. She got startled briefly. “Sorry, you seemed somewhere else.”

“Sorry,” Robin smiled nervously. “How was the day?”

“Great,” Strike sat with her. “And get this our client might be right and the business guy might actually have a lover, but not in the UK. Michelle followed him to Gatwick today.”

“That’s going a bit far for sex,” Robin commented, surprised.

“And how was your day?”

“It was okay. I think I can close a case this week.”

“Great!” Robin’s eyes wandered back to the guy or girl in a Death costume, nervously, and Strike took her hand. “Robin, look at me,” she did so. “Breathe. He’s not here. It’s just a costume, it’s not him.”

Robin released a deep breath and nodded.

“Sorry, is just… still a bit hard. Getting exposed only once a year doesn’t do much to get used to it.”

“That’s normal,” Strike took a long sip of his beer. There were two bits of jewellery Robin always wore, and which always reminded Strike of pending business. Two that were always there, even if hidden below clothes for undercover operations, unless it was absolutely necessary to remove them, if she couldn’t cover them due to the mission in particular. One was the necklace amulet that Strike had gifted her to protect her from the spirit of Jeff Whittaker after he’d tried to kill her years before, and one was the bracelet nurse Cormac Granger had made for her after they’d made their relationship official. It was the shortest and most meaningful perhaps, of the two formal relationships Robin had ever had, and the only one whose memory kept Robin from responding to men’s advances, years later. “Are you ready for tonight though? It’s not going to be easy.”

“It’ll be fine,” Robin reassured him. “I will be fine.”

It was time to end Jeff Whittaker once and for all. For the last couple of years, the two had secretly taken in paranormal cases, helping spirits find the light and learning more and more in the process. They had finally found out that Jeff Whittaker had become a dark spirit protected by the Shadows, who were soul-abductors, and that the only way to completely banish him from the world of the living was trapping him in the underworld using an ancient Celtic spell, something Strike never had even thought he’d believe in, but they’d test tonight if it was true. Halloween was important, because it was the night the Celts believed the borders in between worlds were thinnest and spirits could pass more easily. If it didn’t work, they’d be in serious trouble, but all their research had indicated it would, specially after Harry had found a large and old book of Celtic witchcraft in an old box of things in Ted and Joan’s attic. He, now seventeen, and Lucy, would both be coming to help them. Both younger siblings had been perfecting their medium abilities for the task, and now they could both see and hear the death, at the very last.

The banishing of Leda Strike’s former boyfriend and ultimate killer, Harry’s biological father, had become ultimately mandatory, because for the last year and a half, he’d resurfaced stronger than ever, had attacked Robin twice in vain because of her necklace, but she’d felt him, tried to kill Strike thrice in his former attic, once attempted to reach Lucy’s children, not realizing Lucy had filled her house with amulets that caused him to shrill in pain when he attempted to enter, and on occasion he’d tried to reach Harry too, but Harry had already been warned to give himself, Ted and Joan, protective amulets that had kept him at bay.

Now, his defeat was imminent.

Chapter Text

Chapter 34: Banished.

“A teenager, a mother of three and two detectives walk into a cemetery to banish an evil ghost, what’s the movie? Real life,” Harry strolled with them, lantern in hand, into the dark cemetery on the night of Halloween, dressed as a vampire ‘to fit in’, clearly thinking people in London would be way more up to costumes than in St Mawes and Falmouth, no matter what they said.

At seventeen, he was looking like an odd mix of Lucy, Strike and Leda, with a darker version of Lucy’s dark eyes, Strike’s look around the nose and chin, and Leda’s fine lips and soft dark hair, heavy stubble already covering his face, adorned with oval glasses, and his body already turning bigger and wider. He was also smirking, clearly amused with the situation.

“This mother of three can kick ass, just saying,” said Lucy next to him, holding a large lantern to guide them. Ghosts moved around them, but they still moved confidently. Robin was the only one crept out of her mind, sandwiched between Lucy and Strike and holding her own lantern as they walked. Strike was even smoking, calmly walking with his lantern in one hand, and the massive Celt book of the occult under an arm.

“Are there any… things around here?” Robin asked, her voice slightly shaken. A few months after her TBI, she’d begun hearing voices. First, she had thought she was going insane, until she had realized that her brain damage had given her the ability to hear the dead, if they were very close to her. The realization had come one lunch with Strike, when he’d commented on a ghost dog being with them, and she’d heard the barking.

“Infested,” replied Strike calmly. “We all have amulets, we’re good.”

“I’d be more afraid of the size of these spiders,” said Harry, pointing his lantern at a large spider that climbed over a tomb.

“Those spiders haven’t held a knife against my neck, as it turns out.”

“I should’ve brought the kids,” Lucy commented, “nice learning experience.”

“Your eldest is seven, don’t flip, Mrs Addams,” said Strike half jokingly. At last, they reached the mausoleum of the Whittakers, where Diplomat Sir Randolph Whittaker, his wife, their daughter, and their grandson Jeff Whittaker were all buried. Strike handed Robin the book, held the lantern in his mouth, and expertly manipulated the locket to let themselves in.

If Robin thought the cemetery was creepy, it was a nursery school next to the mausoleum. Luckily, it was a small one, but it was pitch dark, with bugs and spiders crawling all over. They descended a narrow stone staircase and arrived into a small room with three coffins and an urn which presumably was Whittaker’s ashes.

“Ready?” asked Lucy, her voice a little shaken.

“Never, so go ahead,” replied Robin.

“Oh come on, this is exciting!” said Harry. “Daddy daddy, come out to play!” he shouted into the mausoleum. “Come on! I know you’re in here!” The room turned suddenly several degrees colder, the lanterns flickering before Whittaker appeared before them carrying a dark aura and a psycho smile.

“Look who it is, family meeting, my own son,” Whittaker looked perversely at Harry.

“My true father’s called Ted, you loser,” Harry snarled, making Whittaker narrow his eyes in anger. “Ready Robin?”

“Now!” shouted Robin, and both of them suddenly pulled little vials with Harry’s blood and used it to quickly draw a circle around Whittaker on the floor. Whittaker was first surprised, but then laughed.

“Oh you think a little b—,” Whittaker tried to walk away, but the air around him became dense, locking him in the circle. He suddenly panicked, his sunken golden eyes widening. “What the…? No! NO!”

“It works!” Robin breathed in relief. “Now, the spell!”

“YOU! I WILL KILL YOU!” Whittaker roared angrily, trying to advance at Strike, who opened the family hallow by a marked page and the four began to read at once from the old druid witchcraft.

As they recited the Celtic verses with a sense of urgency, their eyes widened seeing how the ancient magic they’d all been sceptic about, and in which their Celtic ancestors had trusted for generations, worked. It began to create rings of fire around Whittaker, making him scream in agony as they wrapped thickly around his twisting body, and when they ended, Whittaker’s spirit burnt in red and black flames, his scream echoing across the room, before the flames of hell engulfed him. The stone ground remained burned where the circle had been, a circle in which Whittaker’s own blood had been able to tie him.

“According to the book,” explained Strike an hour later, as they sat at the office drinking hot tea. A specific incense was purifying the office, “that should forever tie Whittaker’s soul to the flames of hell, banishing him from the Earth and the world of the living for eternity.”

“Didn’t you and I see Mum use that spell when we were little?” commented Lucy, and Strike turned to her, surprised. “Yes, I remembered it when we saw Whittaker… don’t you? There was the Booboo in that commune in Brixton, when we were later.”

“The Booboo, of course! I’d forgotten,” Strike remembered now the ghost that had terrorised them in their childhood.

“The Booboo?” Harry inquired, sitting with them on the two sofas in what had been Strike’s attic.

“It was the ghost of an addict or something,” said Lucy. “It was consumed by the Shadows and terrorised us, and mostly me, at night. I remembered Mum had banished him, but I’d forgotten how… and it was just like this.”

“Yes, she used some weird dust to tie him to a circle first, instead of blood,” Strike recalled the sudden memory. “I remember she said something, and he was consumed by flames. After that, it was like we could breathe better there.”

“And we never saw him again.”

“So we’re absolutely sure he’s gone forever,” said Robin just to clarify, and they all nodded.

“This book is thousands of years old, Robin,” said Harry. “Our ancestors made the world better with it, no doubt it worked for us too. I already feel it inside, like a weight has lifted, don’t you guys?”

“Not that you mention it, yes,” said Strike.

“It’s like… a sense of darkness is gone,” Lucy commented.

Robin sat in her thoughts. She did feel lighter, and the amulet around her neck usually bothered her if there was darkness close, and the sensation had disappeared as soon as she’d stopped hearing Whittaker’s deafening screams.

“We still have the Shadows on top,” Strike was saying, “but one by one.”

“Yes, celebrate the little victories,” said Harry.

“Well if danger’s over, I should return this to you, it was your M—,”

“No,” Lucy stopped Robin from removing her necklace. “Keep it. You never know when you’re going to need some luck, and Mum brought it back for a reason. If it wasn’t meant for you, she would’ve said so.”

“Agreed,” said Harry. “Besides if spirits come, we can see and hear them, which makes us less vulnerable than you.”

“It’ll be your lucky charm,” said Strike. “After all, Laing didn’t kill you with it on.”

“Lucky me,” Robin murmured, and sipped from her tea before getting up. “Anyway, I’m going home.”

“I’ll drive you,” said Lucy. “And you too Harry, you’re staying with me the night.”

“Why don’t I drive Robin? We live close and I have my car.”

“Ah, that’s right Stick. Well goodnight,” Lucy kissed her brother’s cheek and guided the younger brother out.

“There’s no need,” argued Robin. Strike waited until he heard his siblings go before replying.

“You can’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Retreat. Try to get lost. No, Robin, you have friends—,”

“Unless any of you can bring Cormac back, I don’t see what you can do.”

Strike fixed his eyes on hers for a long moment and Robin sighed, shaking her head and putting her mug of tea down on an auxiliary table.

“You dated him just a few months, are you still… in love?” asked Strike with a hint of surprise.

“Fuck’s sakes I was never in love. I loved him deeply but…” Robin puffed loudly, burying her face in her hands so her voice came muffled. “He meant a huge load to me, it might have been just months but he changed me forever, Cormoran. He was truly special, that’s what he was. I don’t expect you to understand.”

Strike scowled deeply, not knowing if he should take advance.

“Of course, why would I understand?” Strike retorted full of sarcasm. “Survivor’s guilt, grief, loss… completely foreign concepts to me no doubt.”

Robin shook her head, and when she lifted her head from her hands, the tears in his eyes alarmed him. He’d expected sarcasm, dryness, some of their regular banter, harmless banter. Now she was picking her purse and getting on her feet, and Strike walked after her.

“Wait, Robin—,”

“Will you give me SOME BLOODY SPACE?!” Robin suddenly exploded on him, glaring at him. Strike stopped in his tracks, shocked.

“Robin, I’m sorry, I—,”

“YOU’RE ALWAYS BLOODY EVERYWHERE, I CAN’T BREATHE WITHOUT YOU BREATHING DOWN MY NECK!” she roared, eyes glassy and angry. “Leave me be, for one fucking time.”

She stormed off and Strike stood, perplexed and shocked, not knowing what to do.

Strike had just arrived in his flat, feeling the most crestfallen he had in years, when his phone buzzed. Thinking it’d be Robin, he hurried to check, only to be disappointed it was Vanessa. But still, it was an interesting message about Robin:

‘G’night Corm. Listen, Robin’s with me, she’s OK, just pissed off. I think she needs you to back off a little, but don’t worry, I’ve got this. X’

Strike texted her to thank her and released a long puff, sitting on his bed.

“Bloody women…”

On Friday morning the next day, Strike felt heavy inside as he got ready for work, and once at the office, he was nervous as hell. Fridays were usually days Strike and Robin left for intense research in their independent cases and meetings, in order to prepare and organize the surveillances and tailings of the next week, which meant, they’d have to see each other. The moment came with Strike’s second mug of tea, only half an hour after opening hours, while it drizzled outside.

Robin appeared silently, and sat at her desk. Strike watched her warily before returning to his job. He was partially angry at what he considered childish tantrum attitude, deeply unprofessional when they worked together. After a long moment, Robin cleared her throat, but he didn’t look.

“I can’t go to your party tonight,” said Robin. “Something came up.”

“OK.” Unacknowledged by him, Robin was also not looking at him, both just looking at their research work.

“And I think we should stop talking about Cormac or my mental health, unless my professional performance isn’t good.”

“OK,” he grumbled again.

“Perfect.”

They tiptoed around each other for the rest of the day, and by the time Strike returned to Trevanion Road, he was fuming and dying to get away from Robin, which had never happened before. Without Robin coming, it meant it’d be just Lucy, Wyatt, Nick and Ilsa, all children with their respective grandparents for the night, so Strike changed into more casual clothes and began cooking. He was actually a good chef, and cooking allowed him to focus on something other than his anger for Robin, even if he did chop ingredients a bit harder than he otherwise would have.

His friends, sister and brother-in-law were amazed by his new flat. Smaller than all of their houses by much, but the perfect place for a single man in his mid-thirties. He didn’t, like all the others, have three children.

Lucy had first had two children, Jack Theodore, who was seven, and Adam Trevor Nancarrow, who was a bit over a month from turning six, with her first husband, Greg Highland, a man who was now in prison, with a five year sentence per child for his violence against his own sons, plus six years for what he’d done to Lucy, so he’d be gone for sixteen years ending in 2033, and once he was out, he wouldn’t be able to approach his sons, with a revoked custody, nor his ex-wife, all of whom had been granted restraining orders. But Lucy had gone on to marry long-time friend and author Wyatt Mellows, with whom he had a two year old daughter called Leda Jowanet Nancarrow-Mellows, and the five were blissfully happy living together in Bromley, in a house much bigger than Strike’s humble apartment.

As for Nick and Ilsa Herbert, they’d been together for about twelve years, not counting a small break during their university years, because the feelings had still been there. Now, they were happy parents of Evelyn Blue, whose six birthday was coincidentally only a day away, Leo James, who was three, and a year before they had adopted an orphaned Londoner little girl they had received at two months and called Madeleine Ilsa, or Maddie for short. Maddie was now just a year old, which she’d turned on October 20^th, as Strike, being his Godfather as well as the other Herbert children’s Godfather had made an effort to remember. The family of five also owned two cats, and Strike knew them to be a very happy albeit busy, family, specially considering two previous miscarriages, a long-withstanding love, and a long desire for a big family.

Neither of the adults was happy, however, to hear why Strike was so particularly grumpy.

“So let me get this straight,” said Lucy after listening to him, pouring herself a wine refill, her bright blue eyes moving from her glass to her brother, “she told you to leave her alone, then in all calmness told you she doesn’t want to talk her issues with you… are you guys even friends any more?”

“Two days ago I thought we were the best of friends,” Strike grumbled. “With all due respect,” he added surly, looking over his large plate at the rest of the table, “why do women have to be so fucking complicated? Is she in her period? Is she going through an early menopause? Is she bipolar? What, in God’s name, is the deal?!”

“Sounds like the type of stuff you should be asking Vanessa, if she went to her,” reasoned Nick, always the calmest and most reasonable of men.

“And in any case, if the issues happen in the work place…” commented Wyatt, sitting next to Nick. “What’s the policy there? You can’t fire her because well she’s co-owner and you’ve got a legally binding contract but you also can’t have her talking to you like that in the office, right?”

“Technically it happened in private, so yes,” said Ilsa, “Oggy talks to her however he wants, she’s got the same right.” Strike glared at her. “Well am I wrong?” Ilsa retorted, a relentless lawyer as she was.

“You aren’t,” Strike conceded surlier. He released a deep sigh and took a long sip of his beer. “Honestly? I’m not even that furious, after a few beers. I’m just exhausted, mentally. I’m tired of looking after her specially having to fight her for it, I’m tired of her being so… unpredictable and angry, and I miss my friend. I miss the old Robin,” he released a deep sigh, crestfallen. “And I promised her I’d never leave her alone, that I’d help her, and hell I want to, but… on days like this I don’t want to help her any more, just go away for a bit.”

“Perhaps that wouldn’t be such a bad idea,” said Nick. “Y’know, go away for a bit.”

“Really?” Lucy frowned.

“I mean, when two people have reached a wall, right? And there’s no advance in communication, just fighting… sometimes having some time and space is all you need, think things through, unwind, relax, re-evaluate things… then come back. You need a break too, Oggy, it takes its toll on you what she’s been through too, you were the one that had to withstand it the most. Any of us, we go home and recharge, you have to go to work with her, then afterwards as friends in your free time… and it’s been two years. Who can blame you if after two years your glass is full and you need a break? Enough is enough, I think.”

“Perhaps Nick’s right,” Lucy conceded. “Maybe some time and space will help her re-evaluate her actions and see she’s pushed away the one who’s been there the most and she hasn’t been fair to you, and perhaps it’ll also help you feel less overwhelmed.”

“Yeah, that’s what I mean,” said Nick.

“Sounds logical to me,” Wyatt agreed. “Couples do that sometimes too, better get some distance than explode and say something you’ll regret and never be able to fix. Or worse, get violent, any of you could easily snap at this point.”

Strike released a deep sigh again, thoughtful.

“When was the last time you had a proper holiday, Corm? Without stress. Without worrying,” Ilsa inquired, looking at him across the table.

“Honestly? I don’t even know,” said Strike. “Possibly never. I mean even when we were kids or whatever there was always stress, with Mum appearing all of the sudden to take us somewhere, or what with her stupid boyfriends around, one could never fully relax. And then I went to the army, I didn’t have time or money for holidays… aside from the occasional weekend getaway of course, if that counts.”

“No that doesn’t count. I mean,” said Ilsa, “like Nick and I this summer with the kids. Cancel work for a month or a few weeks, get on a plane, get the fuck away and relax, no worries other than having fun. No stressing about what’s going on at home. We ourselves realized we hadn’t done it since our honeymoon, not authentically.”

“In that case…” Strike shook his head. “Never.”

“Come on, never?” Wyatt frowned. “How’s that even possible?”

“I told you, you know Lucy and I never went on holiday as kids if it wasn’t the beach with Ted and Joan, we couldn’t afford it or anything, and when I had the money I was a soldier, didn’t have time and honestly after months gone I wanted to be in London when I could, or St Mawes,” Strike shrugged. “And then between the leg and fighting to get the agency in a good place… couldn’t. I’ve worked weekends, summers, Christmases… the one Christmas I didn’t work was when I broke up with Charlotte and I didn’t even have clients so… I did have one big honeymoon planned with Charlotte, but then it never happened, so nothing. Last time I left the country was for the army.”

“Corm, that’s not healthy,” said Lucy with a worried expression. “Of course you’re overwhelmed, how else would you be? You need to get out, have a break, relax.”

“But I just got the flat, and the agency needs me…”

“Two weeks Corm,” said Ilsa. “The agency can do without you two weeks, Robin’s in a much better place now and there’s Pat to help with all the managing and administration. Why don’t you plan a couple weeks now, for your birthday? Pick a country you’ve always wanted to visit purely for leisure, and just go solo, focus on yourself, your own healing, relaxing… you can even pick an adventure holiday if sitting doing nothing is not relaxing for you, the agencies organize some good ones. And now the weather would be great in like, Mauritius and the Southern hemisphere, you wouldn’t have all the tourists, prices would be down… you know what, we’ll make it your birthday present, you don’t even have to buy it.”

“That’s a great idea!” Lucy supported excitedly. “We’ll give it to you, between us four. Just tell us the price and it’ll be our present, you deserve a good holiday somewhere warm, empty of tourists, just for yourself, the agency’s never been better so you gotta take advantage. I bet you, when you come back, things will be easier with Robin.”

Strike gave it a good consideration. He had never left. He was the only member in the agency who had never, since hiring Robin, taken an Easter holiday, a summer holiday, a Christmas holiday… all their employees had done those and personal days, medical leaves, family leaves… not he, who’d stayed working through all of those, for years. Nobody could reproach him anything, and besides, he was the founder, he’d burst his arse for that agency, and he earned less than anybody else to leave more for the agency.

“Well actually now that you insist…” Strike looked thoughtful. “I’ve been meaning to spend more time with Ted and Joan, I haven’t hit Cornwall in years. And I’ve been dying to see Tanzania and Indonesia since I was a boy…” he pursed his lips in thought. “I could get a couple weeks outside the country and another in St Mawes before returning to London, check on Ted and Joan… d’you really think…?”

“Yes!” the four said at once. Strike nodded.

“All right then, I’ll do it.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 35: Got to leave.

The week that ensued was the loneliest Strike could remember in the last few years, and his light was the trip he was planning. Turns out planning a holiday was more complicated than he remembered, specially when he was so rusty with technologies, but eventually he’d planned five days in a lodge in Ruhana National Park, Tanzania, followed by an exhausting day of travel to Ubud, Bali, where he’d spend another five days. Finally, he’ll take another day of travel to land in Sorong, from where he’d spend a full week exploring Raja Ampat, Papua. And a couple of days to get to St Mawes, spend a week, and return to London in a day road trip. In total, he should be gone thirty days, just one month exactly. It would require a lot of planning at the agency, but he had called for an urgent meeting, after a week of total distance with Robin, and hoped they could make it work.

The meeting happened on Friday morning, and Strike, despite being the boss, felt as nervous as if he was calling his boss to get a free day, in the Army. Everyone was there. Robin, curious and, as she’d been towards him for days, rather cold, Pat, Michelle, and Sam Barclay and Andy Hutchins, a former rifleman and former cop who Strike and Robin had hired over a year and a half before. They always had monthly meetings anyway, but this one had been calling in advance as ‘urgent’.

“What is it Strike?” asked Sam, a Scottish old military friend, young, handsome, and with a wife and baby at home. “Sounded important.”

“I want to ask you guys permission to go on holiday for thirty days,” said Strike, and watched with an air of amusement their faces of surprise.

“You’re asking our permission?” Michelle snorted a laugh. “But you’re our boss!”

“I know, but I’ve never left before since founding the agency three years ago. I’ve hardly taken weekends off, I haven’t taken any holidays ever…” he shrugged. “You’re all used to me being here no matter what, to save the day if you’ve got an issue you can’t solve, to be the last line of defence. But my intention now is to completely disappear for a month, because I’m interested on travelling to remote countryside locations outside the continent, with no good phone signals, no good WiFi, not easy and quick routes home if there’s an emergency… it’s my wish, for my birthday this month, but it’s not something I feel I can just get up and do. This agency is my child, my wife, my whole life, I’d be devastated if I left thinking everyone can handle it just right and came back to see it ruined, so I’m asking, do you guys feel prepared for me to leave you completely solo for so long? Because if you don’t, which I’d perfectly understand, no hard feelings, I can just exchange for a fortnight in Cornwall to at least check on my elderly family which I haven’t seen in years, but I need your honest opinion, before I book anything.”

“Who takes over if you’re gone?” asked Andy with a frown.

“Robin,” replied Strike. “She owns fifty percent of the business, she’s just as much of your boss as I am, she’s the next person after me with the most experience in this agency, senior detective and with all the experience in management, administration and detecting this business needs. And she’d have Pat as always, being our office manager and admin. For the rest of you nothing should really change, as I’ll make sure to finish my workload before I go and we can go with a few cases less when I’m gone to avoid overwhelming you all. And I’d be back on time for your Christmas holidays of course, to work through them while you’re gone as usual.”

“I think you deserve it,” Sam nodded. “Go on holiday, fine by me.”

“Same,” Andy agreed.

“Yeah, have some fun boss,” Michelle smiled and turned to Pat and Robin. “It’s your decision I think.”

“Well I’m good if you are,” Pat told Robin. “I know my job well, nothing should change much.”

Robin took a deep, thoughtful breathe, all eyes on her. On one side, she was quite satisfied. This meant Strike had full trust in her skills, experience and competences, which was deeply flattering, and she was dying to show him how well she could do, with or without her, but on the other side, she was a little pissed off. They were partners and he hadn’t given her so much of a head’s up, leaving so suddenly she’d have a lot of rescheduling to go. But how could she say no? Strike was the only one who had never gone on holiday.

“All right,” she nodded in agreement. “You deserve a good holiday, we’ll hold down the fort perfectly well, you’ve got nothing to worry about. When are you leaving then?”

“Friday next week, the fifteenth,” replied Strike with a satisfied nod. “I’ll land back in London late on Sunday, 15^th of December, so I should be back to work on the sixteenth. Your last day of work before the holidays will be Friday the 20^th, itself included, and you come back on the 6^th of January the next year, if everyone agreed? That’s over two weeks off,” there were five satisfied nods. “Fantastic. Well I’d have all my work wrapped up this week then. It suffices to say I expect the best from all of you while I’m work, and I expect for everyone to follow Robin’s guidance and leadership and be in their best behaviour, if I come back to complaints from anyone about anyone, we’ll be talking,” he gave Robin a hard glance so she’d know he would be evaluating her too. “I’m putting my whole trust and the most important thing I have in your hands, it means I trust you all very deeply but if this goes wrong I won’t do it again and you can’t get my trust back once it’s broken. So, have a good Friday, give me your best and enjoy a good weekend, and I promise nice Christmas bonuses.”

“Hear!” Sam grinned, getting up. “Thanks Strike, see you on Monday y’all, gotta tail some today.”

Slowly, the meetings room began to empty. Strike, who had a calm day of research and meetings ahead and wasn’t going anywhere, pulled his phone to text the Herberts and Lucy so they’d know the plan could go ahead, and when he looked up, he was surprised to see Robin was still sitting across him, in the opposite corner of the table, watching him intently, in the same analytical manner he had seen her look at suspects. Strike held her gaze, his chin high, his expression surly and unfriendly.

“Is this some sort of…?” Robin shrugged. “Test?”

“You told me to let you be, to give you some fucking space, that I’m always everywhere, and that’s exactly what I’m doing,” said Strike simply. “And since I happen to have a good list of remote locations I’ve been dying to visit for years and never had a chance in my whole life, I’m going. You get to be alone for a whole month and then some for Christmas, like two months then. And if that’s not enough, you can hand your resignation next year with a proper notice two weeks in advance. And if you disappoint me and I come back to a wreck, you’re fired, I’ll deal with the legal consequences later.”

Robin raised her eyebrows and her eyes widened in surprise.

“If you want to fire me you don’t have to threaten me.”

“I don’t want to fire you, and besides, I legally can’t, but I could find other legal ways to solve this,” said Strike. “You’re my best friend. I miss you,” he admitted. “But I can’t have the bullshit you’ve been given me any longer, so I’m leaving with the knowledge that there shouldn’t be a problem here, so I don’t expect to fire anyone. But I expect this time to put in order your priorities and give you whatever time, space and whatever you need to stop treating the people who love you like shit, because I don’t deserve this. And all I’m saying is that if after all that time you decide you want me gone for good, you can handle your resignation before Christmas upon my return and I’ll give you your final payment, your Christmas bonus, and not expect you next year, in case you’re one of those who thinks of new year, new life. I don’t expect to be the one to decide it.”

“Very well,” Robin nodded slowly. “Can I at least know where you’re going?”

“No,” said Strike, “all you need to know is I won’t be in the continent and I will have no way to contact you or vice-versa, so you can stay calm.”

“I’m not worried you’ll contact me, I’m worried you won’t be able to contact anyone if you’re in trouble.”

“I think we’ve both clarified we don’t need the other to worry about us, uh?” Strike got up, his heart accelerated. He was about to leave, when he turned at the door and looked coldly at Robin, who seemed shrunk in her seat, but looked up at him.

“Something else?”

“Yes, one last thing, Ellacott,” he nodded. “I want to make this very clear. You get to boss around on your very own for a whole month without me even calling to ask how the week went, not because we’re friends, not because of personal reasons, but purely because you’re half owner, the next in rank, and the more experienced in all ways with the agency and I trust you wholeheartedly as a detective and owner. You’ve got the time to show off professionally. But personally? We’re done.” He took a deep breath and nodded for himself. “I’m done worrying about you and caring and… and all the shit I do, just to be kicked in my arse time after time, I’m done having a Charlotte 2.0, I’m done being your friend. But I’ve got to respect you as a detective, admire you even, and you’re here because you’re the best at your job, no personal favouritism. If I knew anybody half as good as you who could do this job half as nicely, only half, I’d be doing everything in my power to have your arse in the street and get that person here, but there isn’t any. I first hired you out of kindness, desperation, and friendship. Now? None of it. You stay because you’re the best. You have it your way.”

Strike left, a knot heavy in his throat, and rushed upstairs. He went straight to the bathroom, where he locked himself and clenched his jaw, letting tears out without making a noise for several minutes. He couldn’t bear to see his relationship with Robin sink, it was too much for him, even. When he finally exited the bathroom to sit on his desk, his eyes were glassy and bloodshot and his nose leaked, and Robin’s laptop had disappeared from her desk, so he knew she was downstairs. He sat to work alone.

The following week was slow, and Strike spent most of it outside the office if he could, busy in work more than anyone else as he did his best to close all his own cases before his Friday trip, plus tie up his employee’s cases and organize their jobs. He had regular updates from Max on Vanessa who took it upon themselves to help Strike know Robin’s health was all right, and unless it was for work, all direct communication between the two detectives stopped, and they began to refer to each other exclusively for their surnames, a thing that before had felt affectionate, and now felt uncomfortably cold and distanced.

On Thursday night, Strike was hours from his sixteen hours long flight to Tanzania, working late at the office. He’d managed to close all cases on time, but now was staying late organizing them and leaving work organized for the others. Robin and Strike were the only case leaders, which meant the others did them surveillances, tailings and operations for their cases, whose results each of them had to receive, evaluate, and fit in their respective investigations. They had only had two joint cases since Robin became a full partner, because they were particularly complex and delicate. One had been when Minister Jasper Chiswell had hired them, ended up dead, and they’d had to undercover what had happened, and another, when they had been hired for a whole year to investigate Dr Margot Bamborough’s disappearance the year Strike had been born.

Strike was busy at his desk when he heard steps in the stairs and he stopped, looking up to see who emerged. To his surprise, Robin was there, and seemed equally surprised to see him, holding a small package in her hands and a bottle of Scotch.

“Sorry, I thought you’d be busy packing,” Robin murmured. “I just wanted to… well… since you won’t be here on your birthday I uh… I wanted to leave your uh, presents…” she said nervously, and put them on his desk. “G’night then, Strike,” she said uncomfortably, turning around.

“Wait,” said Strike, and reached for his presents. He was surprised he had any, but he wasn’t fond of his birthday anyway. He had hated his birthday his whole life, and they had only ever been half good when Robin took him for a drink. He took the little square package first. “What is this?”

“It’s uh, a CD,” she replied. “I burned it with that Tom Waits 1999 tour that you once mentioned wanting to see. And my brother brought the Scotch the last time, I can’t drink with the meds so… I figured you’d enjoy it way more, I know you fancy strong drinks.”

Strike meditated what he was going to do for a few moments. He knew it’d hurt him more than it’d hurt her, but he felt so hurt already as he was, that he simply couldn’t bring himself to be nice.

“Well, Ilsa and Nick will really like the whiskey for Christmas, and… well I’m sure you can empty the CD and burn something else you like in it. So take them away, thank you.”

“What?” Robin looked at him like he’d just slapped her. “They’re your birthday presents. You don’t just… return them like… I was being nice. I was—,”

“Bribing me, and I don’t accept bribery.”

“What?! You’ve got to be fucking—,”

“No,” said Strike firmly, sat at his desk. “Let me make this very clear Ellacott, I only wanted one thing from you, your friendship. It was literally all I ever wanted, having you work here was a bonus, but I could settle with just my friend. I’ve done everything in my fucking power to keep it, I’ve put more effort than in any other friendship to make sure I outdid myself and was a proper friend to someone for once… I don’t want whiskey and music. This doesn’t… giving me this only to feel better about the way you treat me is bribery, is like giving a PlayStation to a homeless child, it’s just to feel good, not to give me what I truly want or need. And if you can’t give me the one thing I want from you then I don’t want your alcohol, your biscuits, your music, your colognes, not even a card, I want nothing, not to mention you know I don’t even like my birthday to begin with. So take your bribery and go, I’m trying to finish working so I can go home and sleep something before my flight.”

Robin stood, perplexed. She frowned, opened and closed her mouth, trying to find something to say.

“Y’know a lot of people consider gifts as peace branches. I was hoping… we could call it a truce. That we could… when you come back, we could have a drink, we could try to… I don’t know, fix things. I realize I said some things that hurt you and I… I’m sorry, okay? I’m trying to fix this, I would very much appreciate it if you took my gifts.”

“No.”

“No?” Robin looked at him with glassy eyes. Strike’s eyes were on his computer screen. “But you just said—,”

“I told you, there’s no ‘we’ unless in business. I don’t give second chances Robin, I didn’t give it to my own fiancée after a decade together, what makes you think I’ll give it to you? Because you’re special or something? No one,” he looked up at her, “ever, gets to treat me like you have, and then throw a branch of peace, call it a truce, and all forgotten. I don’t ever forget, if you haven’t realized, I’m an expert at keeping grudges, some people think it’s bad, but it comes with having an awful good memory and unless I suddenly forget the pain you’ve put me through I can’t even smile at you sincerely. I just can’t. I look at you and… I remember all the shit and I’m done. A sorry doesn’t change that, even if I wanted it to, just like Laing could say sorry all he wanted and Cormac would still be dead. I did everything I could for you and I get to walk out with my peace of mind intact, I don’t want anything with you any more aside of business. I can promise you full professionalism, I can promise you when we’re at work, we’re at work and I’ll be the warmest, friendliest, and most civil I can be, but let’s not confuse things, no matter the niceness I can manage to convey at work, outside of it you still screwed it up big and I still have a good fucking memory, and we’re done. Outside the agency, we’re done, there’s no we, there’s no drinks in the pub, there’s nothing to fix. Nothing you can do any more, be the best at your job and at least that’ll fix half my problems.”

“Right,” Robin nodded, her voice hard, and grabbed the bottle of whiskey and the present, leaving.

As soon as he heard the main door close, Strike, however, crumbled over his desk, heaving in tears. He didn’t remember such a pain since his break-up with Charlotte, but at the same time, he hadn’t said a single lie. When he looked at Robin, he didn’t think, as he previously had, of laughter, fun, her hugs and warm conversation. It wasn’t even about their little fight, which was what he hoped she would some day understand. He could forget one little fight, it had been nothing. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized it was over much sooner than that. He was burnt out, after years of looking after her, suffering the worst of her TBI and PTSD and depression. He had received most of her lashing out, her sudden mood changes, her frequent shouting and getting angry unreasonably over the last two years purely because of what she was going through. And he’d forgiven, he had no hard feelings, he understood it perfectly well, he knew it wasn’t her fault, wasn’t angry any more.

The best way to describe how he felt was perhaps, like a father whose child has used him as a punching sack repeatedly for two years, and he still stayed out of love, care, friendship… and now, the child apologized, but the wounds remained. The child felt regret, the father couldn’t stop loving her, the father couldn’t be angry and resentful… but the father couldn’t help his bleeding wounds, or the fact that now looking at his child, all he saw was the source of pain, like Charlotte had been. And when unbelievable pain struck, Strike always ran away, just like Leda. He had left England after her death, he had left the Army after his leg, he had left Charlotte forever and broken their engagement for what she did. And now, he found himself wanting nothing like keeping his distance from Robin to protect himself, their business, and their professional partnership from hurting any more, while wanting nothing more than being close to her again. But every time he tried to come closer to her felt like when he had been trying to get back into vehicles after the IED explosion he’d suffered in one. Something he truly wanted to do, to get over it, to get back to normal… but that whenever he thought of doing it, he got cold sweats and panic.

Chapter Text

Chapter 36: Away.

Ruaha National Park in Tanzania felt like adventure and exploration, which Strike was excited about. He lived in a little lodge, went to sleep with the sounds of lions, elephants and hippos, had his morning tea under the most amazingly orange skies he’d ever seen, and he participated on safari routes where he was driven to see all the animals up close, which gave him a new sense of marvel, wonder, and amazement. In Africa, Strike remembered what freedom felt like, what it was like to sleep without a thundering heart, what strength and toughness and beauty looked like, and had a nice change of peace, disconnecting from the ever in a hurry London, to be in a slow place, calm place, humble and simple place where he could begin some long overdue healing process. From his mother, from Charlotte, from being a medium… he felt as though he was healing from his whole life.

Once he had begun the detox process, came time to travel to Ubud, in the heart of Bali. There were quite the ghosts and spirits there, but it still felt the most peaceful and in harmony. He decided then to do the kind of thing he would’ve never before felt inclined for; visit Hindu temples, learn their prayers with a special necklace of beads, visit yoga centres and begin practising yoga and meditation to calm his mind and heart, which ultimately helped him even as a medium, and go on strolls around the jungle-like beauty. He visited ancient ruins, bathed in waterfalls, sailed in lakes with a little boat, where he’d take small naps and everything, photograph the sunsets and sunrises, learn local culture and language, even a bit of their dance, dive in the transparent beaches, eat all the great food, visit surrounding little marvellous islands, and receive many Balinese massages.

In Raja Ampat he became a lost explorer, already feeling the most healed he had felt in a long while, the most calm, relaxed and at peace, and even beginning to miss home a little. It started on Sorong harbour, where he boarded a vessel and, in spite of his disability, enjoyed some diving, then relaxed on the vessel watching the landscapes. He had lunch there, and arrived at Mioskon Bay, where he explored the jungle and did snorkel in spectacular coral reefs. He watched the fruit bats, had dinner onboard the vessel, fell asleep with the scandal of the many birds through the night. He cruised through remote areas in uninterrupted days of discovery, visited the home to the world’s most bio-diverse marine ecosystem and untouched habitats, without tourists or the British chaos of crowds, in peace. He cruised like never before, in a yacht through the Wayag Islands, took more photographs, enjoyed the local food, swam with mantas, visited Arborek village, learned some handicrafts from the local people, and finally returned to Cornwall, which felt like a way to slowly get used to England again. There, enjoying home cooked meals with his surrogate parents and his little brother, he felt himself settle down back home.

On his last evening in St Mawes, Strike clean-shaved after a whole month without a shave, and let his Aunt Joan cut his hair like when he was little, as it had also gone uncut for a long time. Then, his aunt insisted he’d come with her on a stroll to St Anthony’s lighthouse, which was a bit far, but they did half the way in her and Ted’s car.

“Everything all right Joan?” asked Strike as they sat together by the lighthouse, wrapped in blankets, watching the sunset.

“Me? I’m all right,” she smiled warmly, an arm interlaced with his, and he knew she meant it. She looked better than he’d ever seen her, happier. “But we’re here for you.”

“I’m okay, after that trip… it was just what I needed, things have a new perspective now.”

“And still, something troubles you. Lucy’s told me what happened with Robin.”

Ted and Joan didn’t know Robin, not really. They had seen each other once or twice over the years, talked some… but the way they knew Robin’s actual persona was mostly through Lucy, Harry, Nick and Ilsa, all of which, Strike knew, had given wonderful feedback and made her look like an angel, making his uncle and aunt very fond of her automatically, so much that when, two Christmases previously, Strike and Robin had spent it alone at his attic and they’d called to wish Strike a Merry Christmas, they had demanded to speak to Robin too.

“Well… Robin’s complicated, Joan.”

“No. Cancer is complicated. Your job is complicated. The taxes are complicated. Love isn’t complicated. We make it complicated, but it doesn’t have to be.”

“Joan…”

“Listen to me young boy,” said Joan, making him smile. “D’you care a lot about her?” he nodded. “Would it break you if something happened to her?” with a sigh, he nodded. “Are you angry at her?” he shook his head. “And would you be entirely happy if she dated some other guy?” after a moment of thought, he shook his head again. “Then you know what you need to know. You make each other happy. You love her, everybody knows it, even if you don’t, and for what I’ve heard, it sounds like she feels the same. So quit making things difficult.”

“But she—,”

“You were a royal pain in the arse when Leda was killed too, you left, you’ve any idea how angry and alone and hurt you made your sister feel?” Joan interrupted him, and he had to sigh and admit he did not know. “But she forgave you and focused on loving you, because you are her big brother, and she understood pain makes us hurt the people we love sometimes. You never told Robin she was hurting you so much, so she could never do something about it. She was focused on her pain. Now, she knows, and she wants to fix things because she cares about you… if she’s truly your best friend and you love her, then that’s what you have to focus on. She lost her way, and she needs you to let her get back on the road, just like others have done with you plenty of times. The more you love the more you hurt Corm, but… love’s worth it. I promise you. Don’t wait until it’s too late.”

Joan’s words rang in his ears as he took the train back to London, full of bags and suitcases, and then a taxi home. It was late on Sunday night, and after all the travelling, he felt exhausted beyond belief and slumped in his bed, releasing a deep yawn, before falling asleep, still in his clothes.

The five days that followed were strange. The agency had done remarkably well in his absence, and Robin was behaving with him with the utmost respect and manners, amicably, even when he was grumpy. It reminded Strike of the day they had met. The office was decorated like Christmas and on Friday, before everyone began to leave for the holidays, Strike handed everyone an envelope with their Christmas bonuses and gift vouchers so they’d get themselves something extra nice, as per usual.

“Merry Christmas everyone, great year of work, go have fun,” Strike gave them a soft smile and watched them leave. Robin stayed behind. She hadn’t given him a Christmas present for the first time, and neither had he. Her blue eyes looked up at him and she smiled small. Strike managed a small, forced smile in return. It didn’t feel tense and cold any more. It felt sad and longing. Strike remembered Cormac’s birthday came in New Year’s Eve, and hoped she’d be okay. “Merry Christmas Ellacott, have a good time in Masham.” He murmured.

“Merry Christmas Mr Strike,” said Robin, her voice low. After a moment, she dug under her scarf and unclasped the amulet Strike had gifted her nearly three years before, taking Strike’s hand and placing it on his palm.

“I told you—,”

“And I’m not comfortable keeping this. It literally came out of your mother’s cadaver,” Robin shrugged. “You need good luck more than me, I never do good things with it.” She adjusted her scarf and put on her coat. “Until next year, Mr Strike.”

Strike nodded, a knot hard in his throat keeping him from talking.

As much as Strike enjoyed spending the Christmas holidays alone and had done it plenty of times, this time it became awfully difficult. He consoled himself by making his apartment a little more ‘merry’ with a small tree and some decorations, and since Lucy was going to Cornwall for the holidays, he made a point to invite her and Wyatt and the kids ahead of time for an afternoon of hot chocolate, scary Christmas tales, and opening presents ahead of time, and the same with the Herberts. Now that it had been three years since he had first stopped hating the idea of fatherhood and began to wish for his own supposed child to arrive soon, he had found that he was liking being an uncle more, although he still had a hard time speaking with kids. But putting a toy train together was fun, listening to their bad jokes was fun, and holding his toddler niece while she caressed his beard and told him all the things she liked about Christmas was fun, specially when she looked so much like Lucy had at her age, a time he still remembered.

On Cormac’s birthday, Strike went to the cemetery. He had planned on bringing flowers from Robin, and offering her a ‘peace branch’ sending her a photograph of the gesture, hoping to comfort her with the knowledge that he was being visited on his birthday, even if she wasn’t there. He waited until the evening, because he had no party plans and he figured his family would be there during the day too, but as he walked to the flower-covered gravestone, he was surprised to see a figure standing there. It took him a moment to recognize Robin, in her long coat, with a beanie and scarf covering her, gloved hands in her pockets.

“Robin?” in the surprise, Strike forgot they weren’t calling each other by name any more. Robin looked over, surprised as well.

“Mr Strike! I’m sorry, I didn’t realize… I’ve been here for a while, you can—,”

“You shouldn’t leave,” said Strike, and put the bouquet on the grave. “I was bringing those from you. Thought that you were in Masham though…”

“Oh, thanks… let me pay you—,”

“No, really,” he sighed and shrugged, standing with her looking at the grave. “I was doing the peace branch thing you mentioned.”

Robin sighed, her head down.

“I don’t know what to do,” she murmured. “I don’t want a pity party, but honestly I don’t know how I can possibly be who you deserve as a friend. I don’t know how to… how to be the Robin I was. How to stop fucking up. I thought if I pushed you away, you’d be far enough to not be hurt by my occasional emotional disarray, but I just keep hurting you and… I don’t… I can’t do that any more,” her voice sounded hoarse, fractured, her expression reflecting deep turmoil. “You say you miss me… I miss me too.”

“I thought you were doing okay,” murmured Strike. “Until our argument… I thought things were better, that you were back, perhaps not exactly like you were but people change anyway so…”

She shook her head.

“I just got better at faking.”

“Well I don’t want you to fake anything with me,” the back of Strike’s hand brushed against her hand on purpose and Robin turned, his eyes finding hers. “You can tell me anything.”

“I don’t get to forget,” said Robin, her voice low. “Is not about Cormac exactly. I was falling for him but… that was all, we were still together only a few months and it’s been two years… it’s not that I’m hung up on him. The reason he was so special is that he was full of generosity and advice and kindness, which he offered them all to me. I didn’t want anyone after Matthew, not really, but Cormac… he showed me what I could have, what life could be if you found a good one and… he healed me up. And I know it’s all Laing’s fault, I know but… I can’t help being full of anger whenever I think that if only I hadn’t gone to his flat, if only I’d been more careful… I knew I was being watched. I knew I was being followed. I shouldn’t have gone to Cormac. And I shouldn’t have been weak and wounded because if only my head had been better… I could’ve defended him. D’you know what it is like to dream every single night of your life how you were useless while you watched someone so beloved get stabbed a bunch of times in front of you, and no matter what you do, you’re no challenge for a fucking old man with obesity and arthritis? It’s just pathetic. He knocked me out so easily and…” she took a deep breath. “Cormac was a good man. He helped people, he saved lives, the world needed him… I know it’s not my fault he died, I know if he was meant to die it could’ve happened in a bunch of different ways, but ultimately, Laing found him through me, and I can’t get rid of that feeling of… of having been used as a bait. Of having fallen so easily into the trap, of having failed so… miserably. And I just want to forget it all, that’s why I told you I didn’t want to talk about him or my mental health any more, it wasn’t because of you, I was just hoping the dreams would stop so I could forget and move on, instead of being reminded every single night of the biggest failure of my life. And of course I had angry outburst and shit, I have to live with this, I have to go to bed to a gore film every single night and I don’t get to drink like you do to cope, because it’s not good for TBI, and I can’t make TBI worse or somebody will die on me again. I have to do this entirely sober… and I don’t know how I can, without lashing out and hurting people I love. But I never meant to hurt you. I never wanted for you to be caught in the middle of this. I know you won’t forgive me, I know it’s over with us but… you should know that.”

There was a soft ice cold drizzle, a cold breeze, and Strike’s eyes focused on Robin’s sad blue-grey ones as his hand finally grabbed hers, his warmth enveloping her colder, smaller hand.

“Why aren’t you in Masham?” he asked unexpectedly. Robin shrugged.

“I was, returned today,” she replied. “Faking to be okay for too long for the family gets too exhausting and I figured… I might as well just come and wish him happy birthday or something. Take advantage of the flat being all to myself.”

Strike nodded slowly, organising his ideas. Then he squeezed her hand softly.

“You’ve always had me,” said Strike. “You didn’t seem to mind I was going through stuff and being a grumpy and surly bastard with everyone. You encouraged me to talk about the difficult things, and the medals and the army and everything that gives me nightmares, that I find hard to live with, my regrets, my ugly memories, my feelings. And I wish you always knew I’d be happy to do the same with you. That in my eyes… I will want you even if you’re suffering. Because you taught me one can deal with anything, and get over anything, if only one’s not alone. And I’d be happy to keep you company.”

“Would you?” he nodded. “But I broke you. I sent you a whole month to… God knows where. I became too much.”

“It wasn’t just you. When I left, I thought it was you but then I realized I was long overdue a holiday. I had never had one, you see? It was my first time travelling abroad for leisure. And I know it sounds very unlike me, but I went to Indonesian temples, I meditated, I did yoga and shit…”

“Did you?” she was surprised.

“Yeah,” Strike nodded. “And it made me realize you didn’t fill up the glass, you were just the drop to cause it to overflow, but only a drop. Before you were years of things that… they didn’t hurt any more, not so much at least, because of you, but that were still filling the glass. And if I emptied it, if I could truly move on and make peace with them, I could have a whole glass empty for you to fill. And when it overflows again, I can revisit things and get rid of it all again, forgive and forget and keep going. And then you can fill it again, as many times as you want. So I came back with an empty glass, and you’re free to fill it back up.”

“What d’you mean?”

“I mean that… love hurts, Robin. The more you care, the more overwhelmed you start to feel, but if you know how to take the right breaks, go on holiday, do something to recharge… then you don’t feel so overwhelmed and incapable any more. It’s like when we began to implement lunch breaks at the pub in the office, and our working efficiency improved, right? So why don’t we do that in our personal lives too, Robin?”

“How?”

“We give this our best, our all,” said Strike, and his forehead touched hers, their eyes locked together, “we care all we have to care, we love all we have to love. We look after each other. And when it feels too much, we can talk about it, we can go on holiday, we can figure something out, anything, instead of breaking down and throwing shit against each other. It would be so much easier to go through life if we let the other in and walked together.”

Robin took a deep breath, her hand still in his.

“Do you love me?” she muttered. The answer came surprisingly easy to Strike’s lips.

“With all of my heart. I love you.”

Her breathing caught, and she lifted her free hand, caressing his cheek.

“I love you too, Cormoran. I don’t want to lose you.”

“Then you won’t,” that said, he moved slowly and his lips found hers in a soft, chaste kiss which lingered, gently clasping her lip and squeezing it tenderly. Robin moaned, her eyes closed, and she tiptoed, kissing him back and putting her arms around his neck, their tongues brushing as the kiss deepened. Strike’s arms tightened around her waist, his large hands on her back, as he drove his face lower to kiss her more passionately.

It was a kiss unlike any other they had ever had. A kiss of forgiveness, of new promises, of love, of friendship, a silent promise of new, better beginnings, of loyalty, of support, of union against all darkness.

Chapter Text

Chapter 37: Home.

Strike opened the door to his apartment and held it open for Robin, taking her coat and hanging it on the rack before hanging his own. He took her hand and silently guided her to the kitchen, scooping her up on the counter and standing between her legs, kissing her tenderly. Robin gave him a soft smile when they pulled apart, her position slightly taller due to the counter. She wanted to cuddle with him, to be with the one that felt like home, that made her heart stop racing, or rather, race in a new way that didn’t fill her with anxiety.

“Would you have an improvised date with me?” asked Strike, and she grinned. He seemed younger, his eyes brighter.

“Yes.”

“Have you taken your pills today?”

“With breakfast as always.”

“So it’s safe for you to have a glass.”

“I shouldn’t with the TBI though,” she reminded him.

“Well that isn’t working, is it? Just one. I’ll make sure you don’t turn into an alcoholic,” Strike kissed her cheek, wrapping his arms around her. “I’ll feed you, I’ll hold you, I’ll kick all the nightmares away,” he nuzzled into her neck and she closed her eyes, throwing her arms over his back.

“Yeah…”

Strike kissed her again and moved to grab two beers. He couldn’t believe he got to kiss Robin Ellacott, that she loved him… but as he turned to look at her, to give her a beer, a small one, he caught the way she looked at him and he could only smile. She did love him. She did want him. And now, forgetting the pain she had unintentionally caused wasn’t so difficult.

They ordered pizza while drinking beer and making out in the kitchen like teenagers, and once it arrived, they snuggled on the sofa to eat it. Gulping the last bit of pizza, Robin leaned over Strike and kissed him deeply, pushing him down on the sofa and lying on top, their tongues brushing again as his hand buried in her hair, moaning into her mouth.

Robin just wanted to make him feel good. She wanted to love him, to devote to him, to show him how thankful she was for him, how sorry she was for having hurt him, to make him smile, to make him feel pleasure and joy and everything she could possibly give him. And she wanted to give him nothing less than the whole world. With that in mind, her soft lips touched his over and over, surprised at how tender his kisses were, how gentle and warm, and she kissed his bearded cheeks, his Roman nose, his curly head, his round chin, his stubbly neck, her hands travelling under his t-shirt to his belly.

“Robin…” Strike murmured. “Perhaps we shouldn’t… it’s only our first date.”

“I never thought…” Robin cupped his face, looking at him with love-filled eyes. “You’re my fire, Cormoran. And tonight… I just want to go home with you. I know you won’t hurt me. I know you… you’re everything. And I don’t want to wait to feel you as close as physically possible.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Make love to me, Cormoran Strike.”

Her flame lit something in him, and he sat up, bringing his arms tight around her and giving her an earth-shattering kiss filled with passion, her chest pressing against his as she waved her hips to grind against him, making him moan. Soon, their lips had become swollen by their affection, hands wandering everywhere, and his jumper flew, followed by his t-shirt, which Robin pulled up, her lips finding his large torso covered in dark hair, and kissing her way up the soft skin, pushing him back against the sofa. As her lips unmasked a little hard nipple below a mane of hair, they closed around it, her tongue repeatedly lapping on his nipple while her left hand caressed his other chest. Her free hand held onto his strong biceps, and she pressed her growing wetness against him, separated by their remaining clothes, feeling him harden slowly beneath her. The knowledge that it was she who was making him hard spurred her on, and she pressed harder, rubbing his torso and dragging her nails across his skin gently, making him moan.

“Come here,” Robin moved back up and took his face in her hands to kiss him deeply, longingly, taking the breath out of him. “My sweet Cormoran…” she looked down on him, caressing his face. “My tender, wonderful giant, I love you so much…”

“I love you too,” he reassured her, taking her jacket and jumper off with her help, and bringing her down to hold her, skin against skin as they kissed and kissed. “I won’t hurt you,” he murmured against her shoulder skin, as she sucked on his pulse point, “I’m never going to leave you… never gonna harm you… my love, I just want to cherish you…”

Robin moaned into his ear, causing his growing hardness to twitch.

“You gonna be good to me?” she asked, caressing his hair with one hand and his cheek with another, looking down on him as he kissed her freckled cleavage.

“Yes…” he whispered, and looked up to her, his eyes darkened with desire. “So good to you, beautiful. Always.”

“I want you so much, oh… ah…” he was pressing his bulge against the right spot through the clothes and she closed her eyes, arching her back as she sat directly over his growing erection.

He took advantage to sit up and trap her breast in his mouth, pulling down her bra before completely removing it and making her moan while his mouth sucked her nipple, using his best tricks to give her pleasure. He entertained the other breast with one large hand with calloused fingers, and with the other hand he opened her trousers to move her hand from her back down into her trousers and underwear, cupping and squeezing her arse as she held her in the perfect position to push up with his hips and press into her, both moaning.

“We should move to the bed,” said Strike between kisses over her chest, looking up at her, her hand buried in his hair and another dragging nails across his back. He was so big, so wide, there was so much soft meat and muscle and she could feel an orgasm approaching just from looking at him and feeling him around her, which had never happened before to her. “I want to make you comfortable…”

“Okay…” Robin pulled him up hard to kiss him again, so hard Strike had to inhale hard to get oxygen when they separated, and smiled, getting up and off him, and taking his hand, guiding him to his room.

As they entered the main bedroom, Robin turned around to face him, hair dishevelled and red, the only light a dimly orange one coming from his bedside lamp, and she playfully smiled, leaving her trousers on the floor and stretching her arms over her head, playing with one hand in her hair and another playing with her own nipples. Strike growled and crashed against her, kissing her hard and pressing her erect nipples against his own chest, filled with desire. It felt better than any other woman, it felt like coming home.

They fell on his bed, him on top with his trousers low to his knees, and he began viciously humping against her wetness, both their soaked underwear still on, both of them moaning, sighing and grunting in pleasure as his large hard shape brushed against her. She wasn’t usually so wet so fast. Sex with Matthew had never been satisfying really, but with Cormac it had been great. Strike, however, had a greater reputation, for what she knew, and she was exciting to see what he could do.

Seemingly growing too hot and bothered, Strike sat on the bed and began quickly removing his prosthesis, socks and trousers. However he took a beat too long and she threw a leg over his lap, straddling him and kissing him hard before raising herself and pressing his nose against her wetness. Her underwear was drenched and her smell was intoxicating.

“Let me take your knickers?”

“Yes, yes…” he lowered them and she moved to help remove them completely, throwing them to the floor, and then Robin had a hand on his hair and she was pressing his mouth where she needed it the most. One of his hands cupped her arse, a finger moving between her arse cheeks, lowering behind her to massage her entrance from behind, spreading the wetness and rubbing circles while his mouth chewed on her clit and nether lips, her wetness all over his face. His free hand was rubbing himself over his boxer briefs, and her moans and little screams were filling the room. “Fuck me… that tongue yes… fuck me… fuck…”

“Such a dirty mouth in bed,” Strike smiled smugly, biting the junction between her leg and her crotch gently, making her tremble. “Should I make you cum, love? D’you want to come down on my tongue? You taste so good…”

“Yes… gimme… there, Strike, oh, oh…” she began grinding hard on him, and then she held hard on his hair and pressed herself as hard as she could against his long, strong tongue, cumming with a silent scream.

Strike licked her up as she trembled with the aftershocks between his arms, and then they moved, and he threw his boxers away, lying on the bed and guiding her on top of him to kiss her hard, his hardness between them. As she recovered from the first orgasm, Robin began to masturbate rubbing herself on his length, both of them moaning hard as she coated him.

“Oh dear, you’re huge!” Robin commented, stopping their kissing to look down. “That’s gonna take some effort…”

“You don’t have to take it all… we could even do something else,” said Strike, all blushed, lips swollen, making her smile and kiss him again.

“Don’t worry,” Robin kissed him hard and pressed harder against him, transfixed in her pleasure, no longer able to be conscious of her own frantic moaning. She felt like an animal, urgently going for the second orgasm. “Can I… can I touch you?”

“Please yes…”

Strike didn’t know what to expect. After all, she wasn’t that much experienced, for all he knew, but when her hand squeezed his large sack and his much larger member, he forgot how to think. She knew exactly how much to squeeze, he liked it to the point where it was nearly painful and then release, rubbing up and down, caressing the head of his shaft with her thumb until he forgot his own name. His eyes were closed and he was hardly aware of her movement until he felt something wet envelop him and he looked down to the most erotic of pictures. She had established between his legs, and was taking him into her mouth without hesitation eyes on him. She had a hand gripping his thigh and another rubbing his stump in a relaxing massage, and he couldn’t help throwing his head back in a groan of pleasure as his hardness opened her throat. Robin didn’t even have to do this, but God if it wasn’t doing things to him.

When Robin positioned over him again, aligning his spongy tip against her wet entrance, Strike stopped her.

“Wait, condoms, I know I have some…”

“There’s no need,” Robin murmured. “I can’t get pregnant. The damage… I’m infertile Cormoran. I got it confirmed a year ago or so at a check up.”

“Oh… well, still, STI…”

“I’ve got none,” she was rubbing his tip against her, wedging the soft tip into her entrance with a little groan. “Do you?”

Strike took a deep breath, trying not to come undone just from the sight before his eyes.

“I don’t.” Robin then lowered herself several inches down in one sitting, her eyes going white and her mouth gaping, releasing a long moan. Strike moved and began sucking her breasts slowly, moving his thumb in circles over her clit while her other hand moved around her arse cheek again to massage the lower edge of her entrance to admit him inside more easily.

“There you go, my love… I’m inside you…” he kissed her torso, the freckles, the moles, the milky skin, the curves he’d long admired… she was driving him senseless. “We’re one Robin. We’re home.”

“Home,” Robin moaned, and canted her hips, trying to get more of him. “Home...”

Chapter Text

Chapter 38: Anything.

When Robin’s eyes opened, she found herself sprawled on Strike’s warm bed, rain ricocheting against the one window in the room, naked. The first thing she noticed, aside from Strike’s absence, was how restful she felt. She could not remember, for once, what she had dreamed, and she smiled already in a good mood, unwavering even as her eyes traced the long scar permanently etched on her right forearm. The night had been good, really good. She actually could not remember a previous time in which she’d been nearly the point of begging for the orgasms to stop, because she was trembling so much with the force of them, and wetting everything, but Strike had been relentless in a way she was grateful for. Sitting up in bed, Robin stretched, and sat quietly trying to discern if she could hear Strike. She could hear his voice in the distance, a soft murmur, but not any other voice, so she supposed they were alone and he was on the phone.

Looking around, Robin didn’t see their clothes, but she did see Strike’s dressing gown, which she put on, cold as she was getting. After a quick trip to the bathroom, which she found easily because Strike kept most doors open, to clean herself a little and make herself look respectable, Robin arrived to the small kitchen, where Strike, dressed in cotton joggers and a t-shirt with an open cardigan, was on the phone while making fried eggs. He smiled at her, mouthing good morning, and she smiled back, hugging him from behind and keeping a soft smile as she closed her eyes against his back. She could hear his heart, his voice inside of him, it was one precious symphony.

“Okay, be careful on your way back, love you, bye,” Strike hung up and wrapped an arm over Robin’s around his belly. “That was Ilsa, they’re coming back early from St Mawes because there are floods coming and otherwise they’ll be stranded and miss work, Evelyn will miss school, Leo will miss kindergarten… but she was doing her annual ‘how’s the first morning of the year going’ check up.”

“Bless her,” Robin sighed in content, hugging him close. Strike smiled to himself.

“How did you sleep?”

“Actually pretty good,” she admitted.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah… I feel so good. You’ve officially wrecked me.”

Strike snorted a laugh and turned to kiss her, cheerfully.

“So you’re making me breakfast?” Robin said as they separated, eyeing the food.

“Yes, and your clothes have been washed and are now in the dryer.”

“Aw, you’re the sweetest,” Robin pinched his cheek gently. “So we’re doing this?”

“Yes,” he put the eggs on a plate and turned to cup her face, caressing her cheeks. “I want to be with you. Just you.”

Strike’s face lit up in happiness, as if he’d just gotten something off his back, and a warm smile formed, arms wrapping around her. Robin beamed back at him, looking up into his warm eyes with butterflies in her stomach.

“Then you got me,” she said, and tiptoed to kiss him. “All of me.”

He seemed to get lost in her lips for a moment, before his stomach growled and they separated with a laugh, his ears red.

“How about my girlfriend sets the table and I bring the food?”

“She’ll love to,” Robin grinned, and began to grab cutlery and glasses. Strike grinned to himself, shaking his head in disbelief as he began frying bacon and sausages to go with the eggs. How did he get so lucky?

The new couple spent most of their day cuddling -and sometimes more- in Strike’s sofa, lazily watching TV, chatting or playing chess, before they decided to go get some fresh air and see how the first day of the new decade was looking. Robin slipped back into her clothes of the day before, freshly washed and dried, brushed her hair with her fingers because Strike owned no brushes, and took Strike’s hand as they walked around the neighbourhood, exploring and chatting.

They walked through Gwendr Gardens, getting to know each other in a more intimate level. Strike commented he liked to live in a place with names like Gwendr, Trevanion or Talgarth that reminded him of Celtic things and Cornwall, even if it meant living near the house where he’d found Owen Quine’s disembodied remains years before, and they talked about their favourite colours, sports teams -turns our Robin actually liked football and supported, without as much fanaticism as Strike, Manchester City’s women’s team, having gone to a few games while in Uni- and things like their favourite films, TV shows, food, music, their ten year plans, or their funniest memories. As they shared more intimate details, Strike found out what had actually caused Robin to be infertile; being raped had caused an infection which had been quite bad and required surgery, causing scarring at the cervix, so thickly that it disrupted her periods, and blocked the path for sperm to travel up to the Fallopian Tubes. As sad as it was, the time was still spent mostly to reconnect, laugh, and enjoy the mutual company they’d long missed.

Both of them seemed lighter now, younger, happier. Strike’s company, his large hand in hers, made Robin feel safe and confident to do anything she wanted to do in life, made her feel less afraid, more enthusiastic about tomorrow, more grounded in the moment. Robin’s company, in the other side, was like a breeze of fresh air to Strike, who, as he confessed what he’d done over his holidays, had to also confess he’d often wished Robin was there, because when she wasn’t around he always felt the day admitted improvement once she arrived. Robin blushed at that, loving the new, romantic, boyfriend Strike, and before they knew it, they had walked to Robin’s flat.

With Max and Wolfgang gone to spend the festivities with his family in Kent, Strike went with Robin and helped her pack a small bag and her studying material, having decided she was going to spend the remaining few days of holidays with him.

“I actually have to study,” said Robin with an apologetic expression as they got back to Trevanion Road and Strike asked if she wanted to go to the pub for lunch. “But we could do dinner, make a date out of it?”

“My pleasure,” he grinned, opening the door to his apartment. “Oh, let me give you this,” he dug in a drawer inside the office room and came back with a key he gave her. “It’s my backup key, so you can come here as you please.”

“Cool, thanks,” Robin grinned, sliding it into her keychain.

“D’you want to study in the office? You got a balcony and all.”

“That’d be nice, thanks,” Robin kissed him softly. “I’ll see you in forty-five minutes.”

“You’ve got it very calculated.”

“It’s what’s thought to be humans’ maximum capacity of concentration in a row, after that is all gibberish,” Robin chuckled at him, opening the office door, carrying her backpack with books, her bag of clothes left in his bedroom. “You’re welcome to kidnap me anytime though.”

With his lips closed, he curved them as much as he could, happy lines decorating his eyes.

“Will do.”

An hour and a half later, when Robin was supposed to be in her second forty-five minute stretch after a quick break to have a snack and watch some footy with Strike, she found herself midway through a second orgasm, her hand buried in Strike’s thick curls, her eyes barely able to discern the psychology notes in front of her while her boyfriend knelt under the desk, barely fitting, and his mouth did wonders where she needed him the most. As she finally came over the edge, she let out a choked scream and felt Strike’s smug smile against her inner thigh.

“You, wonderful demon,” Robin sighed, his lips finding hers, making her taste herself.

“Wanna take this to the shower?” asked Strike with a hint of excitement.

“What about your leg?”

“Had a bar installed,” Strike raised eyebrows. “I’d like to test it.”

“Well who am I to oppose a scientific investigation?” he laughed, burying his mouth against her neck, and she moaned again, her legs trembling. “It’s all for… science…”

“Just science.”

The day passed unexpectedly fast, in each other’s company. They went to a pub for dinner, keeping the vibe romantic, and then they got in their pyjamas and watched a film snuggled on the sofa, before snuggling in bed, both tired and happy. In the darkness, Robin caressed Strike’s profile with her finger, leaning forward to kiss him.

“What do you love the most about me?” she asked softly. She heard him take a deep intake of breath as he thought, his large hand cupping her hip.

“I love the way your presence lights up the room, no matter what. You always make my heart take an odd leap.”

Robin sniggered.

“Sure it’s not a heart problem?”

“It likely is a problem, but one I’m not looking to solve,” he chuckled. “What do you love the most about me?”

“Your eyes,” he answered without skipping a beat. “How they crinkle when you smile. I can’t stop staring when you do that.”

“Really?” he was surprised.

“What did you think it was?”

“My terrific sense of humour,” she laughed, shaking her head.

“No, but it’s a very nice plus,” Robin admitted. “Y’know what else I also love a lot?”

“What?”

“How big and menacing you are, but not with me. It’s like taming an ogre, I love making a teddy bear out of you.”

“Just for you,” Strike came closer, kissing her gently. “Got a reputation to keep.”

“It’ll be our dirty little secret. That and how big all of you is.” He sniggered against her lips and she grinned, pulling him closer, enjoying his weight on her as their lips met again and again.

For the first time in her life, Robin enjoyed having the unique power to turn a big, independent, generally gruff man into the biggest softie, his surly looks disappearing every time she entered the room. It was an incredible power, a satisfaction similar to that she’d felt taming Angus years before, the knowledge that she was that good that even a man like Strike would sink at her feet, sometimes literally, to attend nether regions, particularly to reward her when he quizzed her on her studies and she nailed every answer.

“Cormoran,” the name made her lips smile as she released it, on her last evening living with him, before the holidays came to an end and Monday arrived. She was hugging a pillow, face down and naked on his bed, and he was caressing her back, his lips delicately pressing against each freckle and mole he found.

They had returned from their tenth date, she had massaged his stump after dinner, and he had been ‘compensating’ her.

“Hmm?” he asked, his lips still on her skin as he hovered over her.

“We’re serious about this thing we have, right?” she murmured. Strike’s beard tickled her shoulder and his nipple brushed her back as he hovered over her so his eyes could peek over her shoulder and he could watch her face.

“Yes,” he replied. “At work, we’re business but… outside work, I’m yours. Anything you want me to be.”

Robin rolled slowly, accommodating her body beneath his, moving her arms around his waist as they faced each other.

“Happy.”

“Sorry?”

“Anything I want you to be, and I want you to be happy. Happy in life, happy to share you and your life and your hopes and your dreams and your worst nightmares with me, happy. Just happy.” Strike grinned.

“Something tells me that’s not going to be tricky precisely,” he leaned to kiss her, a moan leaving her lips as his weight pressed her down with a delicious squeeze, their hearts beating together.

Robin moved her arms behind him to pull the duvet over themselves and hugged him, closing her eyes as he nuzzled into her neck, his breath tickling her skin. She drove a hand up to massage his skull and neck, and soon she felt him snore, and she began to drift off to sleep.

Chapter Text

Chapter 39: Here we stand.

A long breath left Strike’s lips as he held a warm mug of tea between his hands, his head thrown back over the reception’s sofa in front of Pat’s desk. It was Friday of Valentine’s Day, a day Strike wasn’t particularly good at, and a day that had been busy with work but that, empathetic to his employees now that he, too, had a girlfriend, had caused for him to allow everyone to go home an hour earlier to be with their loved ones, whoever they might be, or treat themselves.

Patricia Chauncey, their office manager who was often nicknamed Pat for short, was a middle aged woman, forty-eight, and her third husband was a robust gardener named Elliott Chauncey, with whom she had had her third child, who was a teenager, the first two, now adults, from her first marriage. From her firstborn, a daughter, Strike knew she had a granddaughter whose photograph adorned Pat’s desk. The office manager was there now, picking up her belongings before leaving for the day, with her black hair cut short now, her round glasses, and her unwavering air of professionalism.

“I’ll be leaving now, Mr Strike,” said Pat, and Strike opened his eyes, smiling softly at her, sleepy.

“Plans with the hubby, Pat?” he asked, because Robin kept reminding him to be kind, to get to know his employees, because then they’d trust him more, confide in him more, and the more comfortable they were the more loyal they would be, which was important in their job.

It was Robin that had caused his previously cold relationship to Pat to turn affective, specially once Strike had, in the last few weeks, learned from Robin that Pat’s two previous divorces had been because of her husbands being despicable cheaters, which made him understand her initial dislike to him came only because he reminded her of one of them, physically. She was now warming to him again, her eyes glinting pleased with his question.

“Dinner reservations, as it turns out. What about you, going anywhere with the boss?” their employees had eventually been informed, after suspicions had become too strong amongst the newer detectives, that Robin and Strike were indeed dating, but that it wasn’t going to affect the agency or their jobs in the slightest, no matter what.

Did Strike and Robin ever argue at work or in front of employees? Yes, but only about work. They made it clear that the personal arguments, which sometimes also happened, stayed at home.

“Yeah,” Strike nodded. “Takin’ her to an Amy Macdonald concert in Manchester tomorrow, some artist she fancies. So tonight I get to snuggle at home eating fancy dinner and not wearing clothes.”

“Ah, the beauty of being young and free,” Pat joked, making him smile. “Have fun.”

“You too Pat, make it a day to remind the ones you love that you give a shit.”

“You too! See you on Monday.”

When Pat left, the murmur of conversation echoed in the office. Strike was waiting for Robin to finish a meeting in what had been their inner office with one of her own clients, a businessman named Clint Ayre, who had hired them under the impression that his former affair, his secretary, was responsible for his company’s attempts to remove him as head of the company. Now it was up to Robin to break the ice and inform him that actually, the secretary and the affair weren’t to blame, but his own incompetence, because while Robin investigated why would his company revoke his position as their leader, she had found out strong evidence that he had been committing fraud and indeed deserved to be fired. Strike had wanted to stay nearby, just in case the businessman’s anger that his money had paid for his downfall, would make him lash out against Robin.

As expected, Strike heard a male voice raise in the office, and got to hear the unoriginal standard bits like ‘you motherfucking bitch’ or ‘who do you think you are’, but not hearing Robin’s voice, he smiled to himself, knowing she was acting like a snake. Snakes don’t roar. Snakes look at you from below with their tiny bodies before biting you in a deathly way and disappearing without making a noise.

The door opened and Robin stood holding it open, her gaze cold on a figure Strike was yet to see.

“I WILL HAVE YOUR ARSE FOR THIS! IF YOU DON’T HAND ME THOSE FILES—!”

“Mr Ayre,” said Robin calmly, as the man approached her, his nose flaring centimetres to Robin like a bull, “let me remind you that the contract your read and signed authorises me to hand the results of the investigation to the police if it turns out a major crime is discovered during the course of the investigation, I’m not obliged to hand them to you when that’s the case, and my license—,”

“I WILL SHOW YOU WHAT—!”

Robin stopped him raising a hand.

“My license stipulates I’m a law enforcer, not one of the minions you can control and manipulate. You will face prosecution for your crimes, and I am not obliged to return your money. Now get out before I get you out.”

The man laughed dryly, glaring at her, fuming in fury, and Strike observed him quietly as he hovered over Robin, bigger than him, trying to be menacing. But Robin was the girlfriend of a man 6’2 feet tall, with a chest of a metre long from armpit to armpit, and a weight of two hundred pounds, and because he’d been getting more in shape and losing weight. She was used to having a walking closet around her, and didn’t feel threatened by size. Specially when all the men had the same weakness, and the taller they were, the easier it was to reach.

“You’re a fucking bitch, you know? And I’m going to have a lot of fun ruining your—,” just as his breath ticked Robin’s eyelashes, from how close he was, Robin kneed his crotch hard and as the businessman shouted and groaned in pain, stumbling towards the door with hands in his groin, Strike laughed.

“Mr Ayre,” Strike got up and handed the man his coat. “Get the fuck out of my office before I call the police.”

“I will... have you…” the man raised a threatening finger, red with pain, clenching his jaw as he managed to stand again. “For assault!”

“What assault? I only saw you threaten my employee,” said Strike, playing confused. “Any idea what he’s talking about Robin?”

Robin smiled, crossing arms over her chest as she leaned against the wall, calmly.

“No, are you feeling all right Mr Ayre?” she asked innocently.

Cursing under his breath, the man left them and Strike snorted a laugh, turning to walk to Robin.

“My love, you’re going to build yourself a reputation,” he said, wrapping his arms around her waist.

“I should be thanked for saving the future, some men shouldn’t get to reproduce,” said Robin casually, and he roared in laughter before kissing her, one of her legs wrapping around his waist and pulling him close.

“Wait, we’re at work…” Robin realised as his lips found her pulse point. Strike glanced at the wall clock.

“5 o’clock, end of work day,” he said lowering his trousers and underwear and then hers and trusting inside, making her moan, throwing her head back and exposing her neck for him to devour. “You always say…” he pushed inside again. “I gotta be more… punctual…”

A few hours later, Strike held Robin in his arms, on his bed, as they ate pizza straight from the box and watched Max in the new BBC’s ‘The Musketeers’ on the laptop open on the mattress. Her skin felt soft and warm against his, and her perfume impregnated his clothes.

“Where do you see us in the future?” asked Robin, lazily stroking the hairs of his belly, the drumming of his heart against her ear.

“Us as in the agency or…?”

“As in romantically involved people.”

“Well…” Strike shrugged. “I see us more and more in love, sharing a home, growing old together. No kids, although maybe a dog, and the best detectives in the country, perhaps even travelling the world to resolve investigations for governments and big institutions like the WHO or United Nations. I see us happy, doing what we love.”

“And doing who we love,” she added with a smirk, and he snorted a laugh against her shoulder.

“See? That’s why we’re so perfect together.”

Robin closed her eyes blissfully leaning against his chest.

“I’d like the future you imagine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Robin leaned around to kiss him tenderly. “We could be like… 007, if he had been sexier, manlier and had a partner like me.”

Strike looked at her affectionately.

“Really? You think I’m sexier and manlier that freaking 007?”

“Of course. He didn’t have your huge heart,” she kissed his chest. “And your beautiful eyes,” she moved over to kiss his eyelids tenderly, forcing him to close his eyes. “And that wonderful smile of yours.” She kissed his lips, and he smiled against hers.

They held onto each other for a long moment, ignoring the end of the TV series’s episode in the laptop as time passed, both too content to move.

“Should we… go do something romantic?” asked Strike. “I could buy you roses and get a saxophonist or something to serenade you.”

Robin sniggered into his chest and he chuckled, both amused with the thought.

“You know what I really, really want to do?” she said.

“What?”

“Fall asleep in your arms,” she said. “Every time I sleep with you I sleep like a queen, and it’s too nice to pass.”

“Then let me just pick up this pizza box and all, and I’ll be right back with you.”

Once the bed was tidied up, Strike put his boxers back on, not really a fan of having things moving around while in bed, and slid into bed with her, opening her arms to let her cuddle between them, tucking them both. He stretched to turn off the bedside lamp, and kissed her forehead.

“I love you Robin.”

“I love you… Strike,” she pecked his chin and closed her eyes. Strike could’ve sworn he’d never had a better Valentine’s Day, even when they had agreed on no presents, considering their invaluable time a gift more than big enough.

As the weeks passed, their relationship progressed and intensified, and they began letting friends and family know they were indeed in love, indeed dating, and yes, very serious about it. Talks about moving in together began with the spring but, as they also worked together and already spent most of the time together every single day, it was decided moving in already would only rush things a little too much. Work was also going well, with plenty of cases, and even a political corruption big case that had them all over the news, so it was decided to just sit back and enjoy what they had, without a rush. Because they were so busy with said big case, Strike and Robin decided against going anywhere for Easter holidays, planning instead to take a good month of holidays in the summer together. Strike had it very clear, now more than ever, than resting and going on holiday was as key for success as hard work.

On one Friday night, Robin was in her bedroom in Earl’s Court preparing for date night. They were trying to squeeze one every week, and this was the Friday right before Easter Sunday, which they were spending with Nick and Ilsa, as they both worked, no matter the kids being on holiday, and weren’t going anywhere. Robin had finally dug her warm weather jeans from the boxes where she had put them at the end of autumn, and now, was trying to close them, but they weren’t doing it.

“Bugger right… off!” Robin hissed, and looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. She felt her belly, she wasn’t fat. She was fairly sure she hadn’t been gaining weight or anything, and she had needed a belt for those jeans the last time she’d worn them. Now, the zip wouldn’t close and the button wouldn’t reach the buttonhole. “Max!” she shouted, and rushed to her flatmate, who was sitting with his boyfriend Damien having a snack in the kitchen. They looked curious at her, with her fly open. “Do I look fatter to you guys?”

“Alarm, this is a trap,” warned Damien, and Max smiled at him before looking at Robin.

“No, come on, you have the body of a goddess,” he shrugged. “Zip not going?”

“No! And I last put them on in November, and needed a belt. What the heck? Have I grown arse over winter?”

“Christmas meals aren’t forgiving,” said Damien. “Hey perhaps it’s your period. Things get swollen, right?”

“I should be getting it soon…” Robin realized with a pout, and sighed. “Must be that. Thanks guys.”

“Put on that emerald dress, doesn’t he love it?” Max suggested.

“He does, he gave it to me,” Robin grinned. “Good idea!”

She rushed back downstairs and removed her jeans, putting on the dress instead. Felt a bit tight on her breasts now that she was near her period, but it wasn’t too tight. She smirked to herself, knowing how much Strike was going to love it. Going to put on her perfume, she was suddenly surprised it smelled so intense. She had been using less lately, if she stopped to think about it. It seemed like with the Spring, her smelling sense was stronger, probably stimulated with all the blooming of flowers these days.

Once she was finally ready, Robin bid goodbye to who she affectionately referred as ‘the boys’, which included both men and Wolfgang, and rushed downstairs. Strike was waiting in his automatic BMW, to get her to the hotel where he’d booked dinner, massages and bedroom with champagne.

“Hi!” Robin smiled, seeing him standing by his car, and he beamed at her, eyes widening as he watched her. They kissed and then he looked at her up and down. He was dressed smartly too, with his navy blue suit and a tie.

“Hello, looking real good!” he complimented. “More than one men and women is going to be dying to be in my shoes tonight.”

“Aw, you flatter me.”

“Won’t you get cold though? It’s supposed to be colder later, and we’ve got an outdoors table booked.”

“I brought a cardigan,” said Robin, sitting into the driver’s seat, because he always let her drive. Truth be told he didn’t love driving with his injured leg, and Robin always adored driving, so everybody won. “But honestly? With how hot this week has been I don’t think I’ll need it.”

“You Northerners, wild beasts,” Strike sniggered, sitting down, opening his window and lightning up his fag. She was forbidding him from smoking before kisses, but the taste of wine would take it away before the next kiss, anyway. “How’s your stomach now then? Better?”

“Yeah, thankfully,” Robin had been a few of weeks down with a bad stomach. Something she’d eaten, probably some take-out, had left her with an episode of diarrhoea, then constipated for a few days and then still with some vomiting for another few days. “Still a bit bloated, bit with cramps and uncomfortable, but not so much. I’m starved though, ‘bout to get my period, if it comes,” she commented, driving. It was curious how easily in their romantic relationship they’d begun informing each other of the less glamorous details and nursing each other, like when Strike had discovered unpleasantly a sudden severe allergy to an exotic fruit he’d tried a month before at a restaurant they’d gone to, and had ended up with fever for two days, and severe vomiting. Robin had stuck with him through it all. Similarly, when Robin was both shitting herself and vomiting and it was absolutely disgusting, Strike, who wasn’t squeamish at all, had insisted she’d come to his flat and he’d take care of her.

“Have you gone to your doc?” Strike inquired, relaxed in his seat as he looked at her profile. “You have to go for those headaches now and then anyway, right? To monitor the TBI?” headaches, sleepiness and dizziness were a bit frequent, soft, but came and went. They’d been a bit more frequent in the past couple of months, but it was part of her brain healing, just like her irregular cycles were part of the consequences of being sexually abused years before.

“Yeah, I should call maybe…” Robin said thoughtfully. “Could take advantage of the visit and make sure I got rid of whatever stomach bug I got, so I can feel normal again. But nothing’s gonna stop me from eating as much as I can tonight. I swear, I could eat you.”

“I might not be unhappy with that,” Strike sniggered, making her chuckle.

Robin continued to drive until she found a good parking spot near the South Place Hotel. She parked and the two walked past glass doors and towards the Angler restaurant. Strike had gotten them seats at the terrace, where they occupied two little white chairs across a small table. They were soon toasting to the year of success with wine, holding hands over the table, flirting and doing small talk, the two chatted away, and the hours began to pass. With a second glass of wine, they began to dig into their luxury dishes of the one Michelin star hotel.

“How’s your crab?” Robin asked, seeing him make a thoughtful expression as he first tasted it.

“Pretty good, how are your Cornish mussels?”

“You tell me,” Robin picked one mussel with her fingers and brought it to Strike’s mouth. Giving her a flirtatious glance, Strike opened his mouth and absorbed the mussel from the black shell. “So?” asked Robin with a side smile.

“Mmm,” Strike nodded, then gulped. “Y’know, tastes just like a half-priced plate of mussels in Cornwall.” He joked with a chuckle, and she giggled.

“Maybe you should’ve taken me to Cornwall instead.”

“Maybe I will,” she looked surprised. “I mean if you want…” he shrugged. “We could go in the summer. I do like to check on my family once or twice a year, since they’re elderly and alone.”

“You had me at mussels really,” said Robin, and cupped his face, pulling him in for a kiss over the table. They locked eyes while kissing, and Robin felt him smile against her mouth.

After the entrées were eaten, they both decided for the ravioli of mushrooms for the main course, and Robin refused a third glass of wine, so Strike moved on to a cocktail for something stronger, not feeling even tipsy yet, and she got a glass of water. They didn’t usually go to expensive places like this, but they were having Easter as an excuse, their business was going well enough to afford it, the celebratory wine felt almost mandatory. Robin, however, knew she couldn’t drink much any more if she wanted her headaches and dizziness from post-concussion syndrome to stick to a bare minimum, only drinking in special occasions or in very small amounts more regularly. Besides, she got tipsy easily so it wasn’t like she needed much.

“God this is amazing,” Strike complimented, grabbing two raviolis at once and stuffing his mouth rapidly.

“Easy tiger, enjoy, these are twenty pound ravioli, not your regular two pounds from Tesco’s,” said Robin with an amused smile, not having touched her plate just yet.

With the reminder, Strike immediately nodded, and began to munch slower, making her laugh. He tried to laugh with her with his mouth full, which nearly made him spit out ravioli all over her, which only made her laugh harder and forced him to cover his mouth with a large hand and try to gulp fast. Her laughter was ending by the time Strike managed to gulp all of that, teary-eyed.

“This is how you do it,” said Robin, and graciously cut one ravioli in half and put the first half into her mouth. “Now munching elegantly,” Robin said with a posh air, just for his amusement, making him chuckle. However as soon as the mushroom touched her tongue, Robin felt an unexpected revulsion and gulped quickly. And as soon as she gulped, she felt a sudden urge to vomit, so she shot to her feet and ran into the restaurant for the loo.

“Robin!” Strike frowned, confused, and stood up so fast he nearly collided with a confused waiter. “Sorry, my girlfriend, I think the mushroom…” he pointed to her plate. “Might not be good in her plate, I think it made her sick.”

“Oh, my apologizes Sir I will retire the plate and exchange it for something else, I’ll tell the chef.”

“Thanks, I’m gonna… check on…” Strike pointed inside and rushed, navigating the restaurant until he found the ladies’ restroom. He urged inside and heard vomiting in one of the stalls, but some posh women stood at the sink and stared at him.

“This is the ladies,” said one of them.

“I’m sorry, I… my girlfriend’s the one vomiting, I’m just going to… Robin, darling,” Strike knocked on the stall door. “My love, are you all right? Were the mushrooms in bad state or something?” he asked filled with worry.

The women ignored him and marched outside with an air of indignation.

“Oh God…” Strike heard Robin groan and a second later, the flush sounded, and the stall opened. She appeared pale and clammy and walked to the sink to rinse her mouth several times. “I’m sorry love, the damn mushroom…”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he placed a comforting hand on her back as she leaned over the sink to wash her mouth the best she could. “Told the waiter to take it away. Did you vomit it all out?”

“Entire dinner,” she nodded, and sighed. “Fuck, a hundred pounds down the flush…”

“I don’t care,” Strike pulled from her arm to take a good look at her, cupping her face. “You’re really warm Robin, you sure it’s just the mushroom? Perhaps that stomach bug is a bit more serious than we thought?”

“No I took antibiotics… shit,” the sudden realization hit Robin like a truck. She had by now witnessed two pregnancies of her cousin Katie, who was like a sister and a best friend all at once, and who’d been quite struck with symptoms all through the pregnancy, often complained about them on her phone calls. Then again, she’d heard about some others through Lucy and Ilsa when they had spoken of their own pregnancies. But it couldn’t be…

“What?” Strike worried more. “Are you still feeling sick? Should I take you to a doctor or…?”

“I think I’m not sick, Cormoran,” Robin looked at him with horror in her eyes. “I think I’m pregnant.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 40: You’ll be my resolution.

Strike’s eyes widened in shock, then he scowled, confused.

“But you can’t be pregnant. Your cervix is full of scarring so thick even the blood from your period struggles to pass through, you told me that,” said Strike, his heart beginning to accelerate with stress and worry. It just couldn’t be.

“That’s what my doctor said, three years ago now,” Robin scowled, confused herself. “I can’t be but… the stomach bug, the constipation, the headaches getting more frequent… Katie complained about those all the time when she was pregnant, both times. My temperature’s higher, I’ve had more night sweats, hormones can rise the body temperature… and earlier… I wasn’t going to wear this dress, it felt too fancy for a regular date, I was going to put on some jeans and a fancy blouse, but they didn’t close.”

“Perhaps you’ve…?” Strike didn’t want to say it, because he knew how sensitive women got with weight. “I mean I think you’re gorgeous but…”

“It wasn’t like that, I don’t have more belly or more arse it was… as if my hips had widened,” her eyes opened wide, and she gasped, covering her mouth with a hand. “Fuck… fuck!”

“Wait, relax, okay?” Strike took a deep breath. “Let’s not panic, let’s be logical. For all we know you’ve been sick, people get scares all the time and logic says there’s no way you can become pregnant. Look at Nick and Ilsa, they tried for a bunch of years and they proved it’s not that easy, and Ilsa doesn’t have any issues that we know of, right? She would’ve told at least you, women tell each other everything and you’re best mates, right? So, it’s impossible you’ve just gone and gotten pregnant with how severe that scarring seems to be, there’s no way.”

“Then how d’you explain all this? I vomited the mushroom either because I’ve been having episodes of nausea, which also isn’t normal, or because the taste suddenly repulsed me, and I like mushrooms Cormoran, unless… unless there’s a baby who doesn’t,” Robin paced around the restroom, her heart accelerating. She could not be pregnant. She refused. “Look I don’t want to be pregnant! I can’t! But facts are I’m full of symptoms, even my smelling sense… it’s been super heightened, didn’t Ilsa say when she was pregnant she could smell everything from a mile? I’m just… here are the facts, the evidence…! And it cannot be!”

“We have no evidence. Until a doctor says you’re pregnant, you are not,” said Strike. “And you’ve just lost all your food so let’s get out there, we eat calmly, write down your symptoms, get Nick to hook you up with someone ASAP tomorrow. Hell, he’s a GP, he gave you the antibiotics for the stomach bug he can check if it’s still going, okay?” Strike took her hands before she kept panicking. “Hey, look at me. It’s gonna be okay. You can’t be pregnant, it’s something else. We’ll find out what it is, and we’ll take care of you. You can’t be pregnant.”

Robin looked into his eyes and let him calm her down, both taking deep breaths at once. Strike kissed her forehead and held her close.

Managing to keep down cod instead of ravioli, Robin got to eat so as not to go home with an empty stomach, and Strike called Nick over dessert. He technically didn’t have work that weekend, but agreed to see Robin in his consult just because ‘she’s family’. Then after dinner, they went over to the hotel room Strike had booked, but neither was as focused as per usual and in the middle of the night, Strike found himself awake, anxious. Robin had a frown while sleeping, indicating she probably wasn’t enjoying her rest as much as usual either. Strike separated a bit for Robin and took his phone, trying to keep the light from awaking his girlfriend.

First, he searched if it was possible to become pregnant with cervical scarring, and found that depending on the severity of it, most women could, even if it might require professional assistance under some circumstances. With his heart accelerating, Strike googled for early pregnancy symptoms, and a page gave him forty. He scrolled down the page, more anxious by the second.

1. Sore, sensitive, heavy breasts. Well it could be. Strike looked over, lifting the duvet a little to look. Did her breasts look any bigger? He had cupped them just the same. She hadn’t liked them squeezed much lately, though, claimed her nipples were more sensitive, when usually he would’ve given them plenty of attention.

2. Breasts heavily marked with veins. Definitely not.

3. Nipples that feel more tender, more pointy or get darker. Strike looked at Robin’s breasts literally every day of his life for the past three and a half months, even if they weren’t having sex, and he could’ve sworn they were just normal.

4. Late or missed period. Yes but that was all the time, because of her rape, she’d told him.

5. Feeling a bit sick. A bit? More like whole ass yes.

6. Spotting or light bleeding. If so, she hadn’t mentioned it to him.

7. Period-like pains or stomach cramps. She had had discomfort and stomach cramps, but that was because of the stomach bug, left with the antibiotics for all he knew.

8. Bloating. She had just said she felt bloated earlier, hadn’t she?

9. Needing the loo more. Strike couldn’t possibly keep track of how often did Robin need or didn’t need to use the loo.

10. Constipation or diarrhoea. Red flags right there.

Strike couldn’t keep going, he felt anxious enough. Shutting his phone down, he got up and began getting dressed. As he moved around the room in the darkness, Robin stirred.

“Strike?” she asked sleepily.

“Sh…” Strike rushed over and tucked her in bed, kissing her forehead and softly covering her eyes with a gentle hand. “Go back to sleep, my love. I’m just gonna walk a bit, not tired enough just yet, okay?”

“But it’s late… it’s dangerous out there…”

“Y’know I’ll be fine,” he pecked her lips. “Just gonna tire myself a bit, don’t you worry. I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Mmm… okay… don’t take much.”

“Okay.”

Strike rushed down to the reception desk.

“Hi, sorry, d’you know of any pharmacies that might be open this late?”

“Is everything all right sir?” the receptionist asked with concern.

“Yes, it’s just… my girlfriend’s got a migraine, I was hoping to get her some painkillers?”

“There are a couple Boots nearby… I think perhaps the one by Moorgate station is open, just out the hotel, turn left, right there.”

“Thank you.”

Strike had never gone faster to any Boots, but to his disappointment, it was closed. Took him a while in his phone, while pacing and smoking, to find an open midnight pharmacy, all the way in Marylebone, so he took his car and as quickly as he could, spent thirteen pounds and returned to his hotel room with a pack of two Clearblue tests that were supposed to be extremely accurate. He’d wait until Nick checked Robin and if after that she was still worried… but it wouldn’t be necessary, Strike was sure.

In the morning, Strike drove them first to his place, where Robin kept some clothes, so they could both get changed, and then Strike drove them to Nick’s office in a small surgery in Wandsworth. He often worked at the hospital too, but not on a regular basis. Robin had bags under her eyes, was quiet and tense and hadn’t slept much, so on the way there, Strike tried to calm her down.

“Look, Robin, even if you were pregnant…” he sighed. “Would it be that terrible really?”

“Of course it would be. We don’t want children, have you forgotten?”

“I didn’t want them but… if there was one in you now…” Strike sighed deeply. “I think I’d want him or her. You know the story with Charlotte, you know it cost me forever to change my mind but eventually… I was fucking heartbroken for not having a baby. And I’ve become a great uncle and godfather over the years, and I love you with my whole heart… can’t help thinking us having a baby wouldn’t be the end of the world. Could be quite exciting, as a matter of fact, if… I mean, it’s up to us what we make of it, isn’t it?”

Robin fixed her eyes on his profile while he drove sticking to minimum speeds.

“If you wanted a child why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s not that, Robin, I didn’t actively want to seek one, okay? I’m perfectly happy never having a child, up to me I’d have it but I’m saying, if we happened to have made one… I’m not gonna turn away from my own baby. Of course it’s up to you too, I can’t force you into anything obviously but… just saying, you don’t have to worry about me rejecting the baby or you. To me it’s like… winning the lottery. I’m not asking for it, not actively trying to win it, but I’m not going to reject it if I somehow still win it, because I think it could be good. After all, you’ve brought me all sorts of things I had never dreamed with and now… I couldn’t imagine my life without you and all you bring me. Perhaps this baby is like that, something I didn’t know I wanted until I had it.”

She sighed deeply, and nodded.

“Well don’t get excited, I probably am not pregnant. Maybe I have a tumour.”

“Don’t even say that,” said Strike with a frown. “Too dark. But I go back to my question, what wouldn’t you want of that baby? Is it the whole motherhood experience you’re not fond of or is just fear or…? I mean I want to know what you’re feeling so I can help you and support you.”

“I’m terrified,” admitted Robin, her voice low. “It’s not motherhood. I used to want motherhood, you see? I wasn’t happy to learn I was infertile. But then I love our job and I figured… let’s make the best of a shit situation, right? More freedom, independence, get to work all I want without worrying about a child. I learned to be happy with it just like you learned to be happy with the idea of becoming a father. But now… I wouldn’t mind having to change my lifestyle for a child, our child, I love you, I know together we can do anything specially knowing you’d be on board it’s just… for someone who’s suffered the kind of trauma that rape is… bleeding, having surgeries down there, having doctors prodding, touching… I sweat cold and need anxiolytics just for regular gynaecology check-ups, Cormoran. That freaks the hell out of me already… the idea of my vagina undergoing such a tremendous thing as giving birth, the idea of more check-ups, gynaecology appointments, people sticking things in, looking, prodding, blood, pain…” she began to breathe hard and Strike panicked, parking quickly on a side of the road and grabbing a paper bag of those he kept for whenever his nephews or nieces felt like vomiting in the car, handing it to Robin, who was having a panic attack.

“Robin, deep breaths, it’s okay…” Strike rubbed her shoulder soothingly as she breathed into the bag trying to calm herself down. “Sh… come here, look at me,” Strike took her hand to his lips and she looked over, eyes tearful and filled with fear. “You have said it yourself, we can achieve anything together, Robin, anything at all. Now I know pregnancy can be terrifying, specially for a woman, specially for you with your trauma, and that’s without mentioning how terrifying parenting is too… but look, I am sure there are plenty of doctors out there familiarised with helping women with your type of trauma go through labour in a less traumatising way. And I would be with you, okay? If it ever comes to that… I would be with you, every step of the way, no matter what. I would make you laugh, distract you all I could, comfort you, soothe you, get you the best painkillers… I know it would still be the hardest thing you ever do, probably, but there would be a full team of people taking care of you. It wouldn’t be like what you went through, not this time. If you are pregnant, if you do decide to have it… then it will be us having our baby, our little person, and I’m on your team forever, whether that’s giving birth, dealing with pregnancy symptoms, giving our child an education… I’m in here for the long run no matter what, no running away, not going anywhere. So please try not to worry so much and just… step by step. Focus on what’s directly ahead of us. And whatever comes later, we would do like we always do. We research, investigate, make a plan, face the world together. Okay? Together.”

Robin nodded, squeezing his hand.

“Okay,” she took a deep breath. “I trust you Cormoran.”

“Good, ‘cause I love you,” Strike kissed her cheek. “Let’s find out what’s going on, love. I’ll take care of you, no matter what. You’re my family, baby or not.” He smiled at her warmly and she nodded tearfully, moving to kiss him.

Once they arrived at the surgery, they walked straight to their friend’s small consulting room in the second floor. Immediately upon entering the room, Nick’s eyes widened at the sight of them. Their friend sat at his desk with a white shirt on, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, his short fair hair quite receding by now.

“I’m guessing not good morning?” Nick looked at them and Strike sighed, closing the door. “Oh… what’s going on guys? You had me worried on the phone.”

“That’s what we don’t know,” said Robin, flopping on a chair across his desk, Strike taking the other.

“Okay, let’s just…” Nick leaned, seeing her distress, and took her hand over the table, his soft brown eyes searching to her blue ones, in full calm doctor mode. “Just breathe and tell me what’s wrong, okay?” he said tenderly. “You’re in good hands, I’ll take care of everything.”

Robin took a deep breath and nodded.

“I uhm… l feel odd. Last night we went out for dinner to this fancy restaurant, no more questionable take-out right? And we both got these raviolis with mushrooms, Strike was loving them and I’ve always liked mushrooms so… I began to try them, just half, because we were joking and anyway, it was only half a ravioli. But the moment the mushroom touched my throat it was just… yucky. I gulped, and immediately I just had to throw up.”

“She threw up her entire dinner, barely made it to the restroom, and had a bit of a temperature,” added Strike, leaning back in his chair and trying to stay relaxed.

“All right,” Nick nodded. “How long have you been experiencing some level of nausea?”

“Well there’s the stomach bug, so… a few weeks, I don’t know, six weeks or so? Occasionally, it’s not like every day…” said Robin. “But it’s like the bug doesn’t go away. I’ve been quite warm all the time lately, I still feel weird in my belly, like uncomfortably, bloated… the bathroom stuff is fine now so I don’t know but… and we sat thinking and suddenly I thought I could be pregnant like, a lot of stuff adds up but then again I can’t, right? Because of my scarring, I can’t. My gynaecologist said it was impossible, that the damage was too big, too many adhesions, it can’t be so… what if I have stomach cancer or something Nick?”

“Will you please tell her she doesn’t have cancer before she causes herself one with panic?” asked Strike softly. Nick produced a small smile.

“Robin, I understand you’re scared and worried, but I guarantee stomach cancer has some big red flag symptoms we would’ve noticed right now. To me you just look a little pale, your palm feels a bit warmer than I’d usually expect, but you don’t look like a very sick person. So if you want, we can do an abdominal examination, and I can palpate your belly and see if I find anything odd with your stomach, or liver, or anything weird in general.”

“Okay,” Robin nodded. “That’d help.”

“Good, if you can please go behind the curtain, take off your shirt, loosen and lower your trousers a bit, and sit on the examination couch?”

Robin nodded and moved over. Strike stood in standby, and held her clothing for her while Nick rubbed his hands with sanitizer.

“Okay so just to be completely sure we check for everything, and because you have quite the history with your brain injury, I’m going to take a look for any symptoms of concussion like unequal pupils or rigidity in the neck and that type of thing, okay? And since you were feeling a bit warmer these days, if you could please keep this thermometer under your armpit for a bit in the meantime? Good.”

Nick began checking her pupils, neck, jaw, even her mouth and eardrums, but not finding any signs of trouble, he motioned for her to lie down, taking the thermometer as it beeped.

“Tiny bit higher than regular, but not enough to be a proper fever to worry about,” he said, discarding it. “Okay, lie down, and tell me if I’m hurting you or you’re uncomfortable…” he gently pressed around and Robin did her best to relax and focus on Strike’s hand caressing her hair and cheek.

“Ugh, there,” Robin gasped. “It bothers quite…”

“Okay well it’s tense here, with gas,” said Nick calmly. “Not passing your gas well lately?”

“I’m not farting all the time if that’s what you mean,” said Robin, and Nick chuckled.

“You’re bloated, but that goes with a bunch of things, even stress can cause bloating,” said Nick. “Do you eat a lot of potatoes, Brussels sprouts, cabbage, broccoli, wheat…?”

“I uh… not sure, the normal amounts I guess?”

“Those cause bloating too,” said Nick, and finished palpating. “I’m going to auscultate you, okay? Just lie down, relax, breathe…”

Once he was finished, she got dressed again.

“So?” Robin asked, anxious.

“So there’s no sign of anything severe,” said Nick calmly. “I could order blood tests but all I see is bloating, Robin. You had a bad stomach bug, you were quite constipated and then with the diarrhoea and vomiting… I think it could be a million of things, not cancer. You could be allergic to gluten, you could be having some other type of food intolerance, it could just be stress and anxiety.”

“So could I be pregnant?”

“We uh…” Strike puffed. “I went onto a site online last night while Robin was sleeping, just ‘cause you were so worried about the idea of being pregnant and I wanted to be able to tell you it was all in your head but truth is… a lot matched, and I stopped looking because I was losing my shit. But she’s been looking after her diet a lot, Nick, we’ve done everything you said, fibre, healthy stuff, no more take out. And I eat what she eats, and I don’t get sick. But she… she’s been quite warm, even sweaty sometimes, she gets nauseous with smells and some meals and she smells everything like Ilsa did, and there’s the dizziness, the headaches getting worse lately, and she… tell him about your breasts.”

“What?”

“How sensitive they are you hardly let me come close, remember?” she blushed hard, but nodded.

“That’s true. Lately it just… yeah. And my trousers are tighter around my hips too…”

“Well, thing is you’ve got a very unique situation where different things could be giving you symptoms. Post-concussion syndrome covers a vast amount of those, add in some sudden food intolerance just like suddenly Oggy’s allergic to some fruit, all the stress with all those complex cases you guys are navigating… could be anything. But let’s say is not post-concussion syndrome because you’ve had your regular scans coming clean, and all that’s happened is that the headaches and dizziness got more frequent this past month,” said Nick, “and let’s say is not related to what you eat because you haven’t made any drastic dietary changes lately. It is possible that you… might be pregnant,” he admitted.

“So it can be?” Strike asked.

“I’m no specialist, but for what I know, yes. It’d depend on how severe the scarring is but… you guys use condoms?” asked Nick professionally. This time, both Strike and Robin blushed hard.

“Not really,” Strike admitted. “We thought… Robin was super sure there was no way, and we’ve got no STIs…”

“Well, you should’ve asked a gynaecologist in advance,” said Nick. “Sperm can soften the cervix and could have influenced in helping things.”

“Wait what?!” Robin’s eyes widened.

“It contains prostaglandin, that’s why it’s advised for pregnant woman to have sex near the end of pregnancy, makes the labour go smoother,” said Nick matter-of-fact. “And many women get pregnant with your type of issue and all, Robin. In some cases it resolves on its own over time, sometimes medication like… some of those you’ve been taking like Ibuprofen, can help with scarring too. And the fact that you’ve been having your period, albeit irregularly, does indicate there is some room for things to flow. If blood can come down, sperm could make its way up. And if your trousers are getting too tight… to me that’s a bit of a giveaway, no stomach bug or concussion is going to give you that. I think you should see your gynaecologist, specially if you guys haven’t been careful at all.”

“Blimey,” Robin flopped on a chair and sank her head in her hands. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…” Strike took a deep breath.

“Any chance you can ask some favours and get blood test results super quickly to confirm or not?” asked Strike. “Because you know the NHS, it’ll be days until she can see her own GP, and then could be weeks to get an appointment… and look at her, she’s dying with anxiety.”

“Haven’t you done the stick thing?” Nick frowned, worried for his friends.

“Not yet, we will, but… those things fail sometimes.”

“Okay… well I suppose I could call in some favours and get results by Monday, maybe,” said Nick, and put a comforting hand on Robin’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s get some blood, uh? Don’t worry Robin, it’s gonna be okay…”

“No is not,” Robin began unexpectedly crying. “I’m pregnant, I bet…” she sobbed out, heaving. “And I can’t abort it, I can’t have it, I… I…”

“Breathe,” Nick rubbed her back, squatting by her side. “Robin, you’re going to be all right, a pregnancy’s not the end of the world, there are things you can do—,”

“It’s easy for you to say, you’re a man!” Robin cried out.

“Nick uh…” Strike doubted for a moment. He knew his friend was the utmost professional, but he did have to deal with two very painful miscarriages and he didn’t want to put him in any uncomfortable situation. “Robin’s not just going through the typical anxiousness of finding out you’re going to have a child, she’s scared of the process, you understand? Because of her rape. Sex’s fine, with me, with Cormac, with Matthew, with people she trusted and cared about, but otherwise she doesn’t… she panics just with going to the gynaecologist. She can’t have anyone else touching her there, looking, prodding… she freaks out, it’s just PTSD. And going into labour is not less scary than a gynaecological exam, precisely.”

“Oh…” Nick frowned in realization. “Oh, Robin… I see now, of course, I’m sorry I…” he sighed deeply. “D’you want me to call Ilsa? We’re just two blokes here but if you’re really freaking out and you feel you need a girlfriend, I’m sure she’ll be happy to come right away. And she’s given birth twice, I’m sure she can take a lot of the fear away.” Robin just cried into her hands and Strike pulled her up gently and hugged her tight.

“There…” Strike let her cry into his chest. “Let it all out, it’s okay,” he kissed the top of her head and they waited for a few minutes until she could calm down, and then they took blood for tests. While Nick carried the sample to be sent to the laboratory, Strike sat with Robin and wrapped his arms around her. “Listen to me,” he said softly, caressing her upset face and looking down on her, “for the sake of argument let’s say your pregnant. Robin, you’re good with sex. You have fun with me, right? You can have me inside of you, and it’s okay, right?”

“But that’s different…”

“Because it’s me. Because you love me. Because you trust me. Well I’m telling you, I’m not going to miss a single doctor’s appointment. I’m not going to stop holding your hand and helping you relax. I’m gonna push away any doctor who hurts you,” he reassured her, and she smiled softly, taking a deep breath. “Look I know some things in life get really scary, so we avoid them as much as we can but… sometimes it’s just a matter of doing them with the right people, like I’m fine being driven around if you do it. Y’know how I stopped freaking out and could finally get in a car the first time?”

“No,” said Robin, who knew he’d had authentic panic attacks just with the idea of vehicles after the IED, so much that they’d had to sedate him to take him home from the hospital.

“Ilsa physically pulled me into her back-seat with her, and spent an hour soothing me down,” said Strike. “A whole hour, a bit of tough love, many breathing exercises… and eventually the panic passed. It still returned a bit each time but when it did, she, or Nick, or Lucy, or Ted, or Joan would help me calm down again. Sometimes I needed to just sit in the front and keep a hand on the arm of whoever was driving, and I’d squeeze when I was scared and they’d glare at me but… they didn’t complain. And eventually, I felt moderately safe again. And I know you will feel safe again, we just need to do this slowly, take our time, make sure you have doctors you trust and who are good to you, and make sure you don’t do this alone. We can do those classes of preparation for labour, we can research painless labour methods, we can do like Nick said and fuck like rabbits,” Robin sniggered, and he smiled warmly at her. “My point is, you’re afraid about an idea, not about a real thing, love. And we’re going to do everything to make it less scary for you, and at the end of this, if you really are pregnant… then you and I will have our own little boy or girl to love, to pamper, to raise… and if I’ve learned something seeing Ilsa and Lucy deliver so many babies is that apparently once you hold the kid that cost you so much effort to have, everything else gets forgotten, everything is worth it, everything is perfect. Our baby will be worth it, Robin. I know it.”

Robin took a deep breath and nodded, looking more determined.

“All right,” she nodded, and took another deep breath. “You’re right, and right now… there’s no point on stressing out, right? If I’m pregnant, I have months to prepare and it would mean I’m no longer infertile and that would be good, right?”

“Of course, the end of the adhesions could help with your periods and everything, it’s to be celebrated.”

“Yes, and… we’d be having a baby… the best of you and the best of me,” Robin smiled softly at him, allowing herself to get a little excited. “How can something made of us be so scary, uh? You’re a softie, and I’m… me.”

“Fearless, courageous, tough, wonderful, brilliant you,” he said with a nod, and she smiled a little bigger. Slowly, she felt more relaxed, more okay.

“I can do this,” she nodded, determined. “I will do this. Let’s take the pee stick, and rip off the bandage.”

“I bought some last night, when I went for a stroll,” Strike pulled the sticks out of his coat, the little package in his hand. “Want to go to Nick and Ilsa’s? It’s close by, and Nick’s parents were taking the kids to the zoo so Ilsa could do some at home work. We go, you pee it, and if it’s positive Ilsa will tell you how things truly work, and if it’s negative… we have a beer and try to relax until the blood test results come.”

“Okay,” Robin nodded. “Let’s do that.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 41: Little gifts of life.

An hour later and after updating Ilsa on the situation, Strike and Robin sat on the floor of the Herberts’ ground floor bathroom, hands intertwined and eyes on Strike’s watch, counting five full minutes. The package said three, but they wanted to make sure it’d have all the time in the world.

“Still all in, if it’s positive?” Robin asked Strike with her head against the wall.

“Hell yeah,” Strike chuckled at her. “We’re pretty much parents already with the agency, and it’s just a child, a miniature human. How bad can it be?”

“That’s like when the stupid person in the terror movies asks ‘what could possibly go wrong’? And then the killer appears with an axe,” Robin chuckled, and he giggled, nodding.

“But seriously… we’re good people. We have very supportive friends and family. We know what bad parenthood look like to avoid imitating… we’ll have a little Sherlock. Family business, uh?”

“You’ll teach them Latin, surveillance, how to know when someone lies, how to know when the meat is cooked enough, and to not be afraid of the dark.”

“And you’ll teach them bravery, kindness, compassion, empathy, wittiness, quick thinking…”

They exchanged a warm look, and Strike caressed her cheek.

“You’d make a great parent, Cormoran.”

“How d’you know?”

“That’s just the type of stuff one knows,” she replied. “I can’t think of a better bloke to have a kid with.”

He grinned tenderly.

“And I can’t think of a better person to make a family with. So should we look?”

Robin took a deep breath, and nodded. They took the two sticks wrapped on toilet paper on the floor between them and looked at once. Robin gasped.

“Pregnant.”

They stared at the sticks for a long moment, just assimilating the news, and then they turned at once to look at each other, and Strike gave her a small, nervous smile.

“Well we’re not naming the baby Sherlock, I’ll tell you that.”

Robin couldn’t help herself, and she broke into sudden laughter, and then she couldn’t stop. Strike joined in, both somehow relieved and happy about something that less than a day before was a motive of anxiety and worry.

“Wait till I tell my Mum your dick cured my infertility,” Robin laughed, and Strike laughed harder, becoming red.

“On the plus side,” he said when he could stop laughing, brushing off tears of laughter, “bet ya nobody will ever catch us tailing again with a baby on tow, uh?”

Robin grinned at him, moving to kiss him.

“My love,” she said, cupping his face, “you’re finally going to be a Dad. You’re gonna be the best Daddy, Cormoran, for real now. For real.” The meaning of things after what Strike had undergone with Charlotte hit him suddenly, and his eyes filled with tears, smiling at her, and nodded, speechless.

“I get to be a Dad now,” he murmured, nodding, and his emotion rubbed on Robin, who found herself tearful.

“God, our child’s so lucky already,” Robin kissed him softly. “Got the best Dad… fucking lucky.”

They got to their feet and hugged, swaying a little and holding tighter as news sank in completely. Strike had never until that fake pregnancy wanted a child… but now, with Robin, he was exuberant that this was how it was going to happen, with no other than Robin by his side. He couldn’t have asked for anything better.

Hand in hand, the two eventually walked out of the bathroom and found Ilsa and Nick anxiously waiting in their sitting room, their heads looking up at them when they heard their incoming steps, expectant. Robin and Strike exchanged a small smile, eyes swollen by emotion, and Robin sighed.

“So,” she said, “I’d expect you’ll be godparents, or what?”

Ilsa let out a little scream and jumped to hug her. Nick chuckled, getting up and giving Strike a hug.

“Congratulations mate!”

The foursome eventually sat down for lunch, and Ilsa brought wine for toasting, Robin taking her last sip of wine for the following months as Strike finished her glass for her, and she switched to water. They still had to wait for the blood tests results and for Robin’s GP in Earl’s Court to send in a gynaecology appointment as soon as there was one, but two urine tests were quite the giveaway.

“So what’s the plan?” asked Ilsa as they sat on the sofa.

“I’m gonna get my shit together once and for fucking all,” said Robin nodding, eyes thoughtful. “And we’re gonna face whatever comes next as a family. And we’re gonna have a baby, and we’re gonna raise a good person… and I’ll do whatever it takes to be the mother this child deserves. This baby’s not to blame for any bullshit and deserves parents who’ll put him or her first, who’ll do whatever it takes. So that’s what we’ll do.”

“Damn right,” Strike kissed her temple, wrapping an arm around her softly. “For the baby, and for family.”

Several days later, the blood test confirmed Robin was completely fine, just pregnant, approximately six weeks at the time of the blood drawn judging by the amount of Human Chorionic Gonadotropin (HCG) in her blood, but it was early to tell anybody aside from Nick and Ilsa, because usually until the twelfth week miscarriage’s odds were still quite high. They had managed to arrange an appointment with a gynaecologist and obstetrician at Chelsea and Westminster Hospital that, if the blood test had nailed it, would come by the time Robin was ten weeks pregnant, so until then, they had to try and do life as normal as possible.

With the pregnancy diagnosed, Robin’s GP could at least provide some treatments to relieve her symptoms without harming the baby, so she was able to feel a little better, and the wait could be a little less extenuating. Once the specialist had checked the baby, they could try to find better relief, but first they had to check everything was okay. In the meantime, Robin was still living with Max, keeping events in the dark and focusing on work.

Early on May, on the morning hours before the doctor’s appointment, Strike woke up in Robin’s room and yawned, looking around for his girlfriend. They were coming in and out of each other’s apartments, not wanting to start any planning until the doctor said the pregnancy was all right, both somehow not completely believing it until they saw the ultrasound, and there were very few nights they didn’t spend together. Strike put on his boxers and his prosthesis and, hearing the shower running, he walked over to the bathroom. He could hear Max snoring in his room, and Wolfgang liked to sleep in his bed.

“Robin?” he knocked on the bathroom door.

“Come in,” her voice came out muffled by the shower.

Walking inside, Strike looked ahead. Robin and Max didn’t have a curtain in the tub, but a transparent shower screen, so Strike could see Robin was under the shower, her forehead against the wall as she looked down, her fingers delicately stroking the very slight swell of her belly. The water had reddened her skin and darkened her soaked hair, and steam came out of the shower. Strike lowered the toilet seat cover and sat on top, by the shower, watching his girlfriend intently. He’d been giving her space, understanding that each had to come to terms on their own a little, needing it himself too.

But by now, Strike was absolutely sure he was thrilled to become a father. It was odd, after many years of not wanting anything to do with children, but after the pain Charlotte had caused him he’d gotten to understand that he just hated the classical idea of fatherhood, and the classical idea of raising a human being. He wanted to do things in his own way, to enjoy getting to know someone as stubborn as himself and as wicked as Robin, to be an unconventional father just like his mother had been unconventional, but to find the right formula that Leda hadn’t quite found. He had to search within himself, to look at his own parents, to understand their flaws and their virtues, to try and make sense of his own chaotic childhood, before deciding to be a father. And in that search he had understood that Leda had done many things wrong but that in the end she had three children who, with Ted and Joan to guide them, had become really good people, and who in spite of their bad memories with their mother, all had no doubt of how much she had loved them, in her own odd way, how much she had tried, and how her downfall had just been her naiveness and innocence. He was yet to understand why Rokeby had been what he had been, but he was on it too.

Whatever was the case, it was Strike’s understanding that he was searching within himself and Robin was searching within herself. They were figuring out who they were, what they were a product of, and who they wanted to become, specially for their child, but it was an individual and independent inner search, one that would take them years, perhaps whole lives, and one whose results would speak for themselves, rather than being very vocally shared between them.

Robin’s head moved after a few minutes, and she turned to Strike through the screen, the corner of her mouth twitching into a tiny smile.

“It’s odd, isn’t it?” she commented. “How if I didn’t know better, I’d think I’m eating a bit too much chocolate this days? But our baby’s here. Their head is somewhere here…” she touched lower with a finger. “and I think their back is around here… I mean I can’t feel it obviously but…” she shrugged. “I heard is supposed to be the size of a strawberry, isn’t that amazing?”

“Pretty wicked,” Strike nodded. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” Robin nodded. “I was just being in awe for a bit. Life goes so fast you gotta take a moment sometimes, or it’ll pass you by.”

“You’re right.”

“And I was thinking,” Robin looked up, imagining, and her lips drew a bigger smile. “I thought how our baby could look. Obviously big, because all our families are tall and big except for Lucy, and she clearly got more Fantoni blood in her than Nancarrow. I imagine chances are it’s a boy, because both our families are full of boys… or it could be a surprise and turn out to be a girl. Curls are pretty much guaranteed,” she snorted a laugh and Strike chuckled.

“I’ll be apologizing forever.” Robin sniggered, shaking her head.

“Why? I love your curls. I always found hair as straight as mine bit boring,” she confessed. “Maybe our baby won’t have such thick curls, like Harry… Lucy only has plenty of waves, could be like that too. Straight hair is a recessive gen so… chances are happily low for that. Probably a brunette, since my Dad’s a brunette, his parents were brunettes, Martin is brunette, you’re super dark haired, and so are Harry, Ted, Jack, Adam, your Mum…”

“And my grandparents,” said Strike. “I’ve only seen them in black and white pictures, but Mum told me. Grandpa Edward had the looks of Ted and me… dark eyes though. And Grandma Eleonor had black wavy hair, and light green eyes, and was stunning like Mum. They both had those thin lips Jack has.”

Robin nodded thoughtfully.

“Then I guess dark curls are for certain. At least waves… and possibly blue eyes. Green and blue are both recessive but they’ve made it big in your family, even Harry, Jack and Adam got blue eyes like Lucy. And you and your Mum and Ted got the most beautiful green eyes from your grandma then… it’d be nice if our baby had them too. Gosh, I hope it has your eyelashes at least.”

“My lashes?”

“Most beautiful ones I’ll ever see. Let me,” Robin peeked out of the screen and took Strike’s chin with her wet hand, sniggering as he batted his eyelashes for show. “So handsome, my man…” she leaned to kiss him and he hummed happily into his lips. “You do have pretty genetics to make a baby with. I would’ve never thought about it but… truly pretty.”

“Aren’t you afraid you’d have the grumpiest, surliest baby?” he teased, and she grinned.

“Then it’ll be a baby with character, that’s lovely. And a very stubborn one, that has no way out with our personalities…”

“Woah, we’re going to have a mini detective innate, if the baby gets half our stubbornness, curiosity and need for truth. We’re gonna spend our lives answering questions and trying for our child to not tell everyone at kindergarten Santa’s not real.”

Robin laughed, washing her hair under the shower.

“Yeah,” she smiled at him, her breasts large, round and generous. She saw his eyes move there. “So are you coming or should I satisfy myself? Not like you can get me pregnant twice, uh?”

“Yes ma’am,” Strike removed his leg and boxers at fast speed and drowned her laughter with a kiss.

A couple hours later, the two were walking into Chelsea and Westminster, the large hospital not too far from any of their flats, hand in hand as they found the consultation room of Dr Zainabu Mpini, the gynaecologist Robin had one check up with once a year since she moved to Earl’s Court three years previously, having had a different one when she lived in another area with her ex. Zainabu Mpini was a large, warm lady with dark Tanzanian skin, dark eyes, and her hair usually in a high, enormous bun full of braids. She was a mother herself, the pictures of her children adorning her desk, and she was attentive, caring, and a woman Robin trusted implicitly, so once they sat in the little white room at her desk, it wasn’t hard to explain the situation. While she listened to them and to Robin’s concerns, Dr Mpini gave them her undivided attention, ignoring her computer, eyes locked between Robin and Strike.

“All right,” she nodded at last. “Well first I’m gonna update your computer record, so we have all the family details for the baby, and then we can proceed with an examination, an internal examination to check the state of your cervix, and figure out what exactly is happening and then find out how we can deal with any possible issues, if that’s okay?” she said softly.

“Yes,” Robin nodded, a bit less nervous in the presence of Dr Mpini. Internal exams always made her anxious, but Strike also had her hand in his, so that helped.

“Essentially since I have your entire medical history the information I don’t have is the father’s side so is it okay if I make some questions?”

“Sure,” Strike nodded.

“Name’s Cormoran Strike right?” she began to type in her computer.

“Yes, careful a lot of people write Cameron, it’s more like the bird, Cormoran.”

“Great, and your age is…?”

“I turn thirty-six next November.”

“Past or present smoking, drinking or drug using habits?” asked Dr Mpini. “I’m not here to judge, it’s just… routine information we gather to foresee any possible issues with the baby.”

“Right,” Strike nodded. “No drugs, unless cannabis in my teens counts, I’ve drunk alcohol for ages but not abusing it, and I do smoke, for years. But I’m not smoking in front of Robin, and I’m going to drop it ASAP, I’m working on it.” It had been his first decision as a father.

“It’s fine, I understand nobody was planning to have a child initially so it’s normal to be caught with some pending homework,” she smiled warmly at him. “Any physical or mental health issues with you or any biologically related family in your side?”

“Uhm…” was this the point he mentioned they could see the dead? No, not likely. “Well, I only know my mother’s side, my father’s Jonny Rokeby, I know he’s done drugs and alcohol his whole life but I don’t know more than you or anybody reading the magazines, I never really met him.”

“I understand, your mother’s side then?”

“Uh…” Strike nodded, and Robin squeezed his hand. “My family’s from St Mawes in Cornwall My grandfather was a violent alcoholic, died young from liver disease because of his heavy use of alcohol and the addiction to painkillers he developed in the seventies after suffering an accident that left him wheelchair bound. My grandmother died earlier, suffered domestic abuse and killed herself. There’s a history of depression of anxiety, my grandparents had it, their children, my siblings and I… sorta runs, but I guess it has to do with having shitty childhoods. And uh… My Mum only has a brother, who’s still alive thankfully, he’s got no other health issues I’m aware of, keeps himself young pretty well, tough guy, lives in Cornwall with his wife. My Mum was murdered before her forty-seventh birthday, I know she had depression, anxiety… she began drinking and smoking while still underage, began doing drugs in her twenties. I know she was a heavy drinker, smoker and addicted to cannabis and LSD, mainly, but she tried nearly anything. I was in my twenties when she died so she told me all about it.”

“All right…” the doctor continued to type professionally. “What about your siblings?” Strike realized just then Lucy had had to answer these questions too, after three pregnancies, and wondered what her answers had been.

“All of them are half siblings,” he answered calmly. “I’ve got two on my mother’s side, four on my father’s side. The Rokebys are all over the gossip magazines—,”

“I don’t read that, so anything you know, as little as it is, it’s good. The goal is to be ready and prevent for anything your child might get in his DNA, like Down’s Syndrome or developmental issues,” said the doctor. “And anything you tell me stays here, completely confidential.”

“Right,” Strike nodded. “Well there’s none of that in my family, Down’s Syndrome, developmental issues and all, as much as I’m aware… I’ve got three Rokeby sisters and a brother, and all of them seem pretty healthy as far as I’m aware, but I only met them in my adulthood. I grew up with my Mum and my half siblings there. There’s Lucy, she’s three years younger than me, she’s fine, I think. We’re all a bit depressive like I said but… she’s all right. She’s got three perfectly healthy kids, two boys and a girl, so… well, one of them the first one, he was premature, but only by few weeks, not much, and he had no problems later, went straight home. I think he was just too big, but we’re all big. And there’s my brother Harry, he’s a teenager. I think he had some issues when he was born, both his parents were addicts, his father killed our mother and he was a very dangerous guy, I wouldn’t be surprised if he did all sorts of drugs… so Harry was born with withdrawal syndrome, bit underweight, but he got better, he’s been perfectly healthy for over a decade.”

“All’s good to know, I’ll just type in the things that run in the family, so we know to look for problems history of alcohol and drug abuse cause, although if you’re not following the pattern, it’s unlikely your child develops issues just from having addicts as grandparents, if that makes you feel better.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“And your own medical history? Were you born with any issues, if your Mum was doing drugs?”

“God knows,” Strike shrugged. “I know my Mum used to say giving birth to me was horrible, but I think it was because of how big I was. Little preterm too, but by days I think… and well there’s the cleft lip, yes,” he touched his upper lip, were a scar parted his moustache to his nose. “Almost forgot I had it, suppose there’s risk for that, uh?”

“Well, if you only had it because your Mum wasn’t looking after herself, it’s less likely your child has it.”

Robin glanced over at his mouth. She had never really paid attention to the long scar, and tended to forget the story behind it, that Strike had been in the theatre since birth.

“Right, well it wasn’t a complex one, just a slight malformation… didn’t affect my speech or teeth,” said Strike. “Quick surgery after birth and solved, no lingering issues, I just forget I had it all the time. But my Mum wasn’t as much as an addict when I was little, got worse later. She just had me very young, at twenty-six, so… and I don’t have any more issues as far as I know.”

“Aside from we recently realised he was allergic to a tropical fruit, something extravagant we thought of trying for curiosity,” Robin reminded him. “Poor thing vomited like crazy.”

Dr Mpini chuckled, nodding.

“Allergies are unfortunate, but luckily they shouldn’t affect during labour and early life, as long as you’re both mostly fine.”

“I’m also an amputee, but that’s ‘cause I was a soldier,” said Strike, not knowing if that should be mentioned. “It’s not like my child’s gonna inherit a war injury, right?”

“Fortunately not,” the doctor smiled warmly. “Is there any history of blindness, deafness… anything in your family?”

“Some of our relatives use glasses, but it’s not that bad,” replied Robin. “Father plays deaf if there’s footy on, but that’s just pretend.”

“Hey!” but Strike chuckled as she giggled, teasing him. “I’ll have you know no matter if you have a boy, a girl, or a freaking dinosaur that kid’s getting an Arsenal onesie.”

“I’ve no doubt,” Robin smiled warmly at him. She was already grateful he was with him.

Amused, Dr Mpini smiled and continued.

“So what’s the situation, you both work right?”

“We’re professional partners, we own a detective agency,” said Strike. “We’re making good money lately, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Suffices to say we ought to limit stress during pregnancy, all right? Take it into account for work.”

“’Course,” Robin nodded. “And I live with a friend, but I’ll move in with Cormoran to raise the baby together, he has a flat. We’re just waiting a bit, since we haven’t been dating for too long. I mean we’ve been best friends for years, so trust’s not an issue or anything, and we love each other deeply, but we began dating in New Year’s and baby or not we didn’t want to rush living together too much, so it doesn’t break us apart.”

“That’s up to you, as long as you have the right support?”

“Plenty of support,” Robin nodded again. “My flatmate’s a sweetie, we’ve both got very close friends, the baby already has godparents even, my family will probably be running here from Masham the second the baby’s born and trust me we are many Ellacotts, and Cormoran’s sister lives just in Bromley, and she’s always very supportive and there for us. She’s going to be the happiest when we tell her she’s finally gonna be an auntie.”

“Let’s just say while we weren’t expecting to have a child, my family has been praying for it,” said Strike, and the doctor laughed.

“That’s really good news, you’ll be surprised how useful a good support team can be once you have a child,” the doctor smiled cheerfully. “And d’you know if there’s any history of miscarriages, stillbirths or multiple pregnancies in the family?”

“Not as far as I know,” said Strike. Robin shook her head.

“I’ve got three brothers so I don’t think my parents had any issues. And my brother Stephen is on baby number two now, all good.”

“That’s good to know. Okay, so,” she introduced the last information, “in regards to the health concerns you’ve been having and seeing the blood test results, I think it’s safe to say it was all a combination of the pregnancy with residual post-concussion syndrome. It’s common in pregnant women to have heightened senses which can makes some smells or tastes that before were pleasant suddenly unpleasant and provoke vomit, nausea, etc. Has the provisional treatment your GP gave you been helping?”

“Yes,” Robin nodded. “Plus diet changes and working less, I’m getting close to no headaches or dizziness, my stomach’s more settled down, the bloating has improved a lot… there’s some residual discomfort but not too big any more.”

“It’s likely it’ll improve with time, pregnancy symptoms greatly vary from one month to another and if the blood test was completely accurate, you’ll be past your first trimester in weeks and then things begin to settle down a bit, now you have all the hormones all over the place doing crazy stuff, bit like TBI.”

“So what do we do now?” asked Strike.

“We’re going to work out Robin’s body mass index which helps calculate the baby’s, measure blood pressure… did you bring urine samples?”

“Oh, yes,” Robin dug in her purse and pulled out a small plastic bag she handed the doctor.

“We’ll send this to the lab too, and since the blood test already cleared for HIV, syphilis, etc., and it’s all good, we can move on to the physical exam. So while I get this to the lab, you can get ready, the routine, no shoes, no clothes, there’s a gown ready for you on the examination couch.”

As soon as the doctor was out of the room, Robin turned to Strike.

“Ready to see what we’ve done?”

For all answer, Strike smirked, and gave her the kind of kiss that leaves one breathless. Robin gasped as they separated and smiled, bringing him for another kiss.

Chapter Text

Chapter 42: Here’s family.

Dr Zainabu Mpini was only gone for five minutes, but when she returned, Robin was waiting ready, sitting on the examination couch with a hospital gown on, and Strike held her clothes, standing nearby. The doctor checked Robin’s head and neck first, to ensure everything was looking healthy, then lungs, heart, breasts and abdomen, but everything looked well, and extremities, for swelling, reflex reactions, blood flow or anything else that could indicate issues, but she seemed happy not to find anything worrisome.

“All good, we’ll proceed with a pelvic exam if that’s okay? Just the routine.”

“Okay,” Robin took a deep breath and got in the familiar position, on her back with her knees bent, falling open towards the end of the table. The doctor pulled the gown up to expose her and Robin looked up to Strike’s eyes as he looked down on her, a soft smile in his lips. With a free hand, he caressed her cheek, supportive, and she felt more comforted.

For a few moments the doctor examined the external areas, making sure to be verbal all the time to prepare Robin step after step. She winced a bit when the speculum was introduced to check inside, but she took a couple of deep breaths and focused on Strike.

“I’ve gotta say,” commented Strike glancing down during the pap test, as Robin winced a bit once again. “Being a woman is hard, dude. And we complain about prostate exams, they seem child’s play next to this.”

“I do value your appreciation,” Robin commented. Dr Mpini nodded, smiling.

“All right, now for the final part I’m just going to palpate outside for your ovaries and uterus, so I’m gonna press out here a little, and I need to insert two fingers with my other hand to feel inside too. Then I’ll check your rectum with one finger, and we should be over, okay?” Dr Mpini understand.

“Okay.”

“Jesus, even your arse?” Strike winced in empathy. “I’m so sorry baby, I’ll give you a good back rub when we get home in compensation.” Robin chuckled.

“You better,” she hissed uncomfortably as she felt two fingers go in. It wasn’t like the doctor wasn’t being careful and gentle, and Strike was surely bigger than a couple fingers, but she had never managed to be as relaxed as she should in these things, and besides, the only way this could’ve been comfortable for her was with Strike’s mouth in her clit. “Fuck, gentler—,” she gasped as her cervix was touched.

“I’m sorry, there’s quite the adhesions in your cervix indeed,” said the doctor.

“Sorry I didn’t mean to curse…”

“It’s okay,” the doctor smiled warmly.

“You’re doing so good love, just a few minutes more,” Strike kissed Robin’s forehead gently.

A bit later, the doctor finally finished, removing her gloves and substituting them for new ones, helping Robin put her knickers back on.

“Well everything looks to be okay, the only thing that really concerns me is the cervix,” said Dr Mpini, looking at them from her stool, putting Robin’s legs stretched again and wheeling next to the couch to pull the gown higher and expose Robin’s belly. “It is better than I think it was the first time we met, when I found a total blockage,” she explained, “which is why I’d thought you were infertile, but now it seems to have improved a little, a healthy sexual life could’ve been a key factor, and I could wedge the tip of a finger, so definitely sperm can now come in and out and I think it’s safe to say that once you begin having periods again after pregnancy they should be coming more normal. I also didn’t see or perceive signs of infection or bacteria, but I took a swab just in case to analyse in the lab, if there’s anything to worry about we’ll know in a matter of days, but I don’t think there is, it’s just routine.”

“If all is well and she’s doing better why is it worrisome?” asked Strike with a frown.

“The worrisome part is that it’s not entirely gone, even if it’s better,” explained Dr Mpini patiently. “I’m going to proceed with an ultrasound to really check everything in as much detail as we can, and then I can tell you more if that’s okay?” they both nodded, and the doctor got up to wheel the ultrasound machine to the bed.

The classical scene Strike had only seen in TV and films before developed before his eyes. The doctor applied a gel on Robin’s belly, they looked into the computer screen, and the doctor explained this and that organ. The doctor then decided that to get an ultrasound with a probe inside instead of from outside the abdomen would be better to check the cervix, so she moved on to do that, and Robin winced slightly, but no much this time.

“All right I think it’s not too bad, just something we need to check frequently, so we’ll schedule ultrasounds more close together to see how it develops,” said Dr Mpini. “This should be the only internal ultrasound because it’s still so early in your pregnancy and it’s easier when it’s soon, so the others will be more comfortable.”

“Okay,” Robin nodded. “So what do we do about my cervix?”

“For now, observe it and not worry much unless we absolutely have to. Let’s take a look at that baby, uh?” she smiled, and pointed at the screen as a heartbeat began to sound. Both Strike and Robin turned to the screen in stunned silence, and Robin reached to squeeze his hand. “That’s the head, the hands… the fingers are still developing, so it looks a bit weird, but I promise you, this baby looks like any ten weeks foetus, nothing abnormal about him or her.”

“Ten weeks?” Robin asked. “So the blood test was right?”

“It was, I would say. Week forty is the first of December, so you should be giving birth anytime between late November and early December.”

“Merry fucking Christmas,” Strike blurted, staring at the baby with a feeling of dizziness. He couldn’t help snorting a laugh. “Look at that bloody head, that’s a Nancarrow for sure.”

“You laugh, you’re not the one who has to push it out,” Robin smiled warmly, her eyes teary, and brought his hand to her lips. “Look at that… it’s like an alien.”

“It’s perfect,” said Strike, and leaned to kiss her. “You’re bloody marvel, Robin. Can we get a picture Dr Mpini?”

“Yes, you’ll get one,” she nodded, smiling, and let them look for a while more. The baby seemed to wave a little with a fist, moving a tad, the heartbeat strong.

Strike and Robin watched in silence, both too amazed to even think. Then Robin pulled Strike closer.

“Y’know what this means, uh?”

“That our baby’s going to arrive right when everything’s super expensive so we better buy it all in the summer,” said Strike. Robin chuckled.

“Yes, but also… happy birthday. Only a week before due date.”

Strike’s eyes widened in realization and he nodded, grinning.

“I think I’m gonna like this birthday Robin.”

“I think so too.”

“Let me tell you, Miss… you got one of the good ones right here,” Dr Mpini smiled at Strike and Robin chuckled, nodding in agreement.

“Damn right I do.”

Once they were back in clothes and comfortably sat at the desk again, Dr Mpini gave Robin the pregnancy diary with all the information on appointments, confirming the Due Date for December 4^th, and they sat to discuss the possible complications of the cervix issue.

“Okay so,” Dr Mpini began, and Strike wrapped an arm around Robin as they sat across the desk. “In general, everything looks great. Robin you’re not even thirty, with your age chances of complications are minimal, I can’t detect any indications of tumours, health issues, illness, malformations, nothing, it all looks really well and that’s fantastic. The tests we’ve done today and whose results we’ll get later are done because it’s routine and it’s always good, but I honestly think they are likely to come perfectly clean, and if they don’t chances are it’s nothing severe because otherwise the rest of the exams would have noticed there’s something going on. You have a good heartbeat, good breathing, good diet, your blood pressure’s slightly low but in your record it’s always a little low so is not pregnancy related and is not bad, specially not if you have anxiety, because it means there’s more your heart can take than if your blood pressure was over the roof. So I think overall, we have really good results.”

“But…?” Robin inquired.

“There’s the cervix issue and in reality, I think things have really improved. The first results I’ve got in your record are from 2012, when after the rape you got that bad infection and needed surgery and got the adhesions,” explained Dr Mpini. “But that was seven and a half years ago, and the body heals over time, specially with the level of care you’ve had in Yorkshire and then here. Back then, the adhesions were in the upper part of the vaginal affecting your cervix and causing total blockage, so you were essentially infertile, and by 2015 when I next have results it wasn’t better, but in the 2016 checks it does look a tiny bit better,” said the doctor, checking her computer for Robin’s medical record. “2018 shows it’s cleared a little,but the cervix is still pretty scarred and you were still deemed infertile… It’s possible that between 2018 and now things have begun to clear out more.”

“But why? ‘Cause I have sex? I was single all of 2018, and 2019, no funny business at all,” said Robin, confused. “Did you mistakenly diagnose I was infertile? Because… I dealt with the pain of it and imagine my surprise when I tell my boyfriend it’s okay not to use condoms or anything and now I’m pregnant. We’re lucky we’ve come to terms to be positive about this, otherwise I’d be suing this entire hospital, honestly.”

“Robin, calm down,” said Strike softly. “Let’s just let her explain what she knows.”

“I understand it’s frustrating, unfortunately there’s only so much I can tell. There were multiple reasons to indicate fertility issues back then, not just scarring, but hormonal changes, ovulation changes with your cycles getting erratic, there was damage to the cervix big enough to cause a narrowing, aside from the scarring, and changes in the cervical mucus which wouldn’t have allowed sperm to travel to the uterus… there was a perfect storm. But now, over time, you’ve completely healed from the infection you had, and your body seems to have healed on its own, with the cervical mucus recovering, cycles becoming less abnormal, hormones self-regulating again, scarring changing… I can tell you for sure there were plenty of reasons for you to be infertile then, and now circumstances have just changed. It could be a mystery as it often is, it could be just giving it time, it could be your lifestyle and dietary changes, it could be the medications you’ve been taking… but after the exam today, even if you weren’t pregnant, I’d deem you absolutely fertile.”

“Right…” Robin nodded. “So is the baby gonna be okay?” she asked with a worried frown.

“For now it is. Luckily, the placenta’s in a good place for what I’ve seen, the foetus is in good position, and the scarring of the cervix is within the cervix, doesn’t reach the uterus, so the baby won’t be brushing much. There are always odds for miscarriage,” said Dr Mpini, and Strike clenched his jaw, Rubbing Robin’s back gently. “Specially in the first trimester, so to lower the risks you shouldn’t smoke, shouldn’t drink alcohol, should stay as far away from other people smoking or contaminating smokes like fireplaces, stick to the healthy diet you’ve got, keep exercising, try your best to not get stressed and anxious, stay away from caffeine, protect your body physically, and always wear seat-belt. I’ve got a prevention sheet here, with all the suggestions,” she added, producing a paper she handed Robin. “You can stay active, continue your life as normal, just manage stress better. You could even try yoga, antenatal exercises, there are dozens of options.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” said Strike, eyeing Robin.

“But what about labour?” inquired Robin, her heart accelerating anxiously. “If my cervix is damaged… how’s the baby supposed to get out?”

Dr Mpini nodded slowly, her expression stoic.

“That’s the part that worries me most, Ms Ellacott,” she confessed. “We can do a lot to prevent miscarriage, still it happens sometimes unavoidably and it’s nobody’s fault but labour… there’s less to do. We will discuss the options when we get to the third trimester, but it’s possible you’ll require a C-Section, only possible, not mandatory. We’ll monitor it closely and give it time, it could still improve a lot during labour. Sex helps soften the cervix, and if anything we could get you a pelvic floor therapist so they help you during pregnancy to resolve the issue before labour even begins.”

“So we have options,” said Strike, and Dr Mpini nodded. “See? Robin, let’s not worry, okay beautiful? We do everything to keep you healthy and relaxed, we dodge the bullet of miscarriage and we could try all those classes Nick and Ilsa did to prepare for labour and read books and do exercises and whatever it takes to make labour sail smoothly, uh? Worst case scenario, c-section, which sucks but at least you’ll both be okay.”

“Right…” Robin nodded.

“Don’t worry Ms Ellacott, we’ll take good care of you and the baby,” Dr Mpini assured with a smile.

Leaving the hospital, Robin released a deep sigh and Strike rubbed her back gently, walking with her to the car. Robin kept trying to readjust her bra, frowning and surly, and Strike chuckled, holding the papers the doctor had given them and staring at her.

“Robin, stop it. Let’s just go buy you pregnancy bras or something.”

“But I’m not even fat yet,” Robin looked down at herself.

“Half your trousers don’t close any more, and it took you three attempts to choose that bra,” said Strike with a small smile. “Love, your hips are wider and your breasts are engorged, and you ought to be careful. Let’s go shopping, fuck work today, uh? We could get some books, see what the stores have for mamas-to-be, perhaps they got fancy massage stuff or something.”

Robin rolled eyes, standing by their car, but then nodded.

“So you’re excited about shopping with me?”

“I’m excited about this,” Strike pulled the photograph of their baby from an envelope they’d been given. “Our baby, our family, doing life with you… so let’s do this.”

It took them hours to figure everything out, and Strike partially regretting insisting, because sitting down while Robin tried on bras, shirts and trousers without being able to have sex was very boring. But at last, she had more comfortable stuff to wear and they moved on to the maternity stores and departments, full of baby products. They agreed on not buying anything for the baby before week sixteen, when they would begin to tell, delaying the announcement a bit further than usual. Nick and Ilsa had promised to keep the secret too, and so had Max, who had figured it out on his own, living with Robin.

At last they arrived to Earl’s Court, just in time before it started to rain, and Robin got into her pyjamas and snuggled in the sofa with Wolfgang while Strike cooked dinner. Max wasn’t going to be home until late, so they would start without him. Sitting at the table to eat, Robin noticed Strike had turned thoughtful and quiet, and she nudged him gently.

“Anybody there?” she teased with half a smile.

“Yes,” Strike kissed her cheek. “Sorry, were you saying something?”

“No, what are you thinking?”

“I just… all those questions from Dr Mpini, got my brain stuffed a bit.”

Robin looked at him somewhat concerned, trying to discern whether he was upset or something. Perhaps he needed to smoke, and he couldn’t in the apartment with Robin there. Perhaps he had gotten stressed up.

“Those questions don’t mean anything, Cormoran,” she said softly. “I’m sure the baby will be completely fine, you heard her, the baby looked perfectly ordinary, no six foot or anything.”

“It’s not that, I just…” Strike put his fork down and sighed. “I’m thinking about Rokeby.”

“What about him?”

“D’you know what happened between him and my mother?”

He eyed her without accusation. Robin could have Googled, but she hadn’t. For what she had heard over the years, the man had left Leda pregnant and disappeared, but she didn’t know more and had never asked, always having the feeling that it was a painful topic, specially to Strike.

“Not exactly,” she replied.

“My Mum met him in 1982. She was twenty-four, he was twenty-eight, she was travelling the country like a backpacker, following her whims. She had a beautiful voice, my Mum, and was gorgeous, so she charmed her way around, got to sing in some gigs as a backup singer, and in the 82, ‘The Deadbets’ hired her to be backup singer. She was the most beautiful and most talented of them all, I’ve seen videos,” Strike shrugged. “You could tell Jonny had his eyes on her from the start, but he was married to Erica Harper, a model, who was pregnant. But after months flirting with each other, fooling around, touring the world in concerts… they finally slept together. They began an affair, and Rokeby had his daughter, my sister Prudence, waiting here, a year above me. My Mum told me she began to fall in love with him, that she thought he’d leave his wife, ‘cause you don’t cheat on someone you love, and he wasn’t cheating on my Mum. Then, between all the drugs and alcohol and shit they did, my Mum got pregnant, she told me she lost count of pills and stuff, Rokeby didn’t like condoms. And she shut up, tried to pretend she wasn’t pregnant, but he found out and he abandoned her and fired her from the band.”

“Son of a—!” Robin blurted, indignant, and Strike cut her, smiling.

“Yeah. Worst is months later, the doctor told my Mum I had cleft lip, and so chances were I’d develop issues with speech, feeding, be disabled, y’know. My Mum was smoking and drinking, and then she got scared she was gonna miscarry or not be capable of raising me… she even considered abortion. But then she thought she’d tell Rokeby, and he’d be reasonable, he’d come back to help, offer money for world class doctors and stuff. Y’know what the bastard did?”

“What?”

“He gave her a contact for a doctor that did abortions even that late in pregnancy, when it’s not legal,” said Strike. “It was under the radar, in black.”

“Rokeby gave her a contact to abort you?” Robin looked horrified, offended in his behalf.

“Yeah,” Strike nodded, looking grim. “He said he’d pay for it. Bloody eager he was, to get rid of me. Said it would only be out of compassion, because of my cleft lip. Tried to convince my Mum, telling her having me just for me to suffer was selfish. But my Mum… she couldn’t do it. She told me that she could feel me kicking, see my feet against her belly sometimes… and that I was her best friend. That she was all alone except for me, that she’d spend hours talking to me…” his voice broke a little, and he took a deep breath, frowning and pushing his plate aside, not hungry any more. “She couldn’t get rid of her son. She wanted to see if with surgery I could get better, she knew Ted and Joan would help, she wanted to try her best to help me. Stopped smoking and all that shit, never again did she smoke or drink or anything while pregnant. Harry got intoxicated because she inhaled the fumes from Whittaker, but she wasn’t doing anything herself, ‘cause being pregnant with me she knew the fear of having fucked up your child before they were even born. She did her best… and told Rokeby she was gonna have me, told him he was a dickhead and a child-abandoner. He laughed in her face. She was in love and he… he was just afraid his wife was gonna forbid him from seeing Prue again, so he said. But everyone knows he had money for good lawyers, it wouldn’t have happened.”

“What a bloody bastard…!” Robin puffed, and took Strike’s hand. “So you never met him?”

“I wish,” he said hoarsely. “I mean Mum was heartbroken enough but she always said I became her man, and she moved on from him, fell for Rick Fantoni instead… and Rick was all right, you know? He’s the best guy she’s ever been with, they were actually together for five years. They started dating when I was nearly one, had Lucy two years later, broke up when I was nearly six. He’d come with us to St Mawes or wherever we went, he took care of us, said we were his family, all of us, even me. Said I was his boy. And I called him Dad, for a long while, he always sent us both birthday cards and presents… even when they broke up, he’s always looked after us, even gave us a bedroom in his house when he got married to Lucy’s step-mother, he’s always telling us to call if we need anything, and he’s incredible with Jack and Adam and Leda.”

“Why did they broke up then?”

Strike shrugged.

“My guess is Mum was too crazy for him, she didn’t like settling down,” he replied. “My point is, things were okay for a bit, and Mum stopped giving a shit about Rokeby. But after Rick left, I was older to be in school and all and I began to notice all my classmates and their parents were aware I was Rokeby’s son, and that he was a big deal. Back then, I didn’t even know who he was, thought my Dad was Rick. Mum had to tell me the story, when I was six… and by then Rokeby was about to divorce his second wife, with whom he’d had Danielle, who’s about four years below me I think, and Gabrielle, who’s five years younger than me if I remember correctly, so I thought, hell, I’ve got Lucy but also these other three sisters, one of them a big sister, the only big sibling I’ve got, and maybe this guy was just young and stupid and he’s grown up. Perhaps he regrets it. Perhaps he’s been trying to find me but we travel so much he never did. I thought… I’m his only son, for fuck’s sakes, you know? He has to love me. He was to want me. He must be regretting what he did, and we ought to give him a second chance.”

“And you convinced your Mum?”

“Yeah,” Strike nodded. “Tosser I was.”

“You were a child, love.”

“Well she got me in my smartest clothes, always too short ‘cause I grew so bloody fast… I was living in St Mawes then, so Mum left Lucy with Ted and Joan and took me to London to meet my father, first time I was here ever. I didn’t even care about the fame and the music, the world knew about us ‘cause my Mum had had to prove he was my Dad in court so he’d pay child support, it was gossip for them… but for me, I just wanted a Dad, like Rick. I was heartbroken Rick turned out to be only Lucy’s Dad, I cried like…” he sighed. “Rick had to swear to me on the phone I could be his son if I wanted, to console me. I wanted one for myself, y’know? I thought it’d be like Rick. That Rokeby would call me, send me letters and birthday cards and just… just know I existed, just give a shit. Maybe teach me to play the guitar. He was the idol for my classmates’ families, for half country… it made me think he had to be a good guy. But we went to see him in his hotel, after a concert. Mum had some old contacts and a very slutty dress, got in… I had made her excited. I had convinced her Rokeby had to be wondering where we were, to have regretted what he did… I think she still loved him some, deep inside. She wanted to be hopeful. But then they wouldn’t let us in, and she began yellin’, shoutin’ and Gillespie, Rokeby’s lawyer, and also some manager came shoutin’ at my Mum calling her a whore…”

Robin felt her stomach fall to her feet in sadness. Strike’s expression was heartbreaking, haunted by one of his earliest memories, and she wanted to take all the pain away, and found herself powerless, unable to do so.

“I remember crying, begging them to stop calling my Mum shit,” Strike shrugged, sighing. “I was her man, y’know? I was supposed to protect her.”

“You were a child,” she repeated again, her eyes glassy for him. She wrapped an arm around his shoulders and kissed his cheek gently, taking his hand. Strike took a deep breath, and nodded.

“The noise made Rokeby come. He was high, as always… he began shoutin’ at my Mum, and I pushed him off her, ‘cause he was gonna hit her. I still remember how he looked at me, realizing who I was, seeing the scar in my lip… he looked disgusted. He shouted at me.”

“At you?”

“Yeah. Said I was a little shit, fucking mistake he’d done, told my Mum she was a bitch bringing ‘the accident’ over, that she wasn’t gonna get more money, and told me to never dare to touch him again or he’d get me another scar.”

“He threatened you?!”

“Of course he did. He was a entitled bastard, rich, famous, king of the fucking world he felt, touring the world, idolised by everyone… and high and drunk. And he didn’t want me damaging his career and reputation. And after that… I was done with him. I never once forgot that day. Mum says I didn’t speak to her until a week later, that I was mad at her too, didn’t even want to eat. And we moved to London two years later, but I never wanted anything with him. Told anybody who’d listen that he was a piece of shit who had abandoned us, but nobody cared, they just wanted me to get them autographs… every time they gave me something for him to sign, Mum broke it. She was angry for real then, I think that’s when she really stopped wanting anything with him, when she saw how hurt I was. Took me to Rick whenever it was his turn with Lucy, I guess she thought it’d be consolation and it was but… I could never forget I had a real father who just didn’t give a crap. It wasn’t until my teens that I began to see Ted as my father, and by then my childhood was fucked up.”

“Have you ever seen him again afterwards? ‘Cause you know your siblings, right?” Strike nodded.

“When I turned eighteen, the year Harry was born, I was looking at Universities, preparing my A-Levels. I got them months later, when I graduated, and I got a scholarship for Oxford. My family was so bloody proud, first one of us to go to a big Uni, first one to be offered a full scholarship. They said I was bloody bright.”

“That’s because you are,” Robin smiled softly, gently squeezing his cheek. He smiled softly.

“Wasn’t enough for Rokeby. I received a letter from him, saying how proud he was, saying now I was 18 I could have full access to my child support money, which he’d gotten a judge to freeze in an account years before ‘cause Mum mismanaged it, part of the reason we were miserably poor my whole childhood and teens, couldn’t even get proper winter shoes every year when I outgrew them…” Strike sighed again, shaking his head. “I didn’t believe his good intentions this time. I knew it was PR.”

“Smart boy.”

“I went,” said Strike. “Just ‘cause I hadn’t forgotten him tryin’ to touch my Mum. Put on my only suit just to tell him to shove his money up his own arse,” Robin chuckled, and he smiled small. “He took it very bad but… whatever. Then when my leg was blown-up, it was all over the papers, I don’t know if you…”

“I was twenty-four and in the middle of a lot of mental health shit, not very attentive to the news I’m afraid,” Robin said shaking her head. “My parents and Stephen do remember seeing you on the telly then, though.”

“That’s fine,” Strike nodded. “Anyway, thing is I was getting relevant, with my decorations and shit, and press were digging up my past, pointing at Rokeby for abandoning me, and it wasn’t the eighties any more, now people actually judged him, he lost fans… I was in hospital and Prudence came to see me, with her wife Sera, and with my other siblings. Danielle and Gabrielle, who were in their late twenties, and Al, who was just a boy, twenty, came out of boarding school to see me. They were freaking excited. I wasn’t nice at first, thought it was PR… took many meetings to understand that they’d grown close together, because of Rokeby pushing them to stick together, and felt that even if Rokeby didn’t want me, I was part of the group, and they actually wanted to get to know me, not ‘cause I was suddenly famous. They told me they figured out how to find me from the telly, but that they’d always wanted to meet me. And they’ve been great since, y’know? Getting coffee with me, giving me gifts, calling me just to check on me.”

“I’m aware,” Robin nodded.

She had already, in her short time as his girlfriend, answered Strike’s phone while he was in the shower to some Rokeby sibling more than once, and they had always been great to her too. They called the office sometimes, looking for him, too. Prudence was the most down to earth and humble, kind of a cool hippie woman who didn’t like paparazzi, social media nor attention, Danielle and Gabrielle didn’t like all the attention but liked living rich, and Al was the one who enjoyed it all most, but also the one who wished the most to have earned what he had, to do well in life on his own like Strike did.

“Anyway, my siblings are another story…” Strike sighed, feeling an incoming headache. “Point is Rokeby is a dickhead. My siblings convinced him I was worth knowing, worth fathering, tried to push him to come to me but… his PR or something are shit. Wanted to look good for the press so they offered me a shit ton of money, from my child support, and I refused. Then I had to accept on a loan because I was left with nothing after the army, you know? England pays its soldiers like shit. I had to survive.”

“That’s the loan that took us so long to finish paying with interests, right?”

“That’s the one. And Rokeby still doesn’t remember my birthday. Still doesn’t want shit with me, neither do I. But a part of me wishes that… that he’d give a damn, you know? And now that I’m gonna be a Dad I was thinking… I figured perhaps there were things I didn’t understand ‘cause I wasn’t a Dad. That one day, perhaps I’d get it. But now here we are and… I look at this,” Strike pointed with tears in his eyes at the photograph of the baby, which they’d put on the fridge with a magnet. “That’s my child! That’s my kiddo! And I still don’t get how can someone abandon their child like that, I could never leave you both! And why…? The man knows how to be a father, his children idolise him, even when he cheated in two of the three mothers, and had affairs, they still idolise him Robin, so he must’ve been good, right? So why not with me? What have I got? Is it my lip? Is it that my Mum wasn’t rich and famous? Did he think I was so poor I’d just sink in drugs and disappear, and problem solved, he’d never have to worry I’d take him from his throne?!”

“Cormoran, sh…” Robin pulled him in for a hug, sensing how upset he was, kissing his temple and holding him close. “It’s not you… it was never you, it was never your Mum, I promise you.”

“I just don’t understand,” Strike said hoarsely, a silent tear escaping his eyes. “It’s five of us… why did he marginalise me? Why could he father everyone but me? He wasn’t even there when Mum died Robin. He never even called me, or texted me or… nothing. I lost everything and Rokeby didn’t give a shit. How can somebody be like that, then go on and be idolised father to four?”

Robin took a deep breath and closed her eyes, squeezing him close.

“I don’t know, love. I think he just bribed your siblings or… they choose to remember better. Memory does funny things, sometimes.” She didn’t know, but she swore she was gonna find out.

Chapter Text

Chapter 43: Mother pride.

As the days passed and Strike seemed to go on like nothing, burying things as per usual and focusing on work, Robin could not get the conversation out of her mind. She was so indignant, so hurt, so furious on his behalf, and every time she touched her own belly it was like she could hear her child telling her off like ‘are you really gonna let that bastard get away with treating Daddy like this?’. At last, she decided she had to intervene.

So while Strike was doing late night surveillance one night, Robin called Prudence to see if she could meet Rokeby and try to ‘mediate’ between her and Strike. Prudence had come to the office a couple times, one of which with Strike’s niece, an adopted girl who was about eight now, and she and Robin got along pretty well. Prudence was indeed happy to invite her over to drinks with the Rokebys on Thursday evening, which worked well with Robin, because Strike had a job in Bristol and was going to be out from Thursday morning until Saturday, and she didn’t want him to know until it had happened.

She dressed up for the occasion, getting out of work early for just once, putting on her emerald green dress, so Rokeby saw his son didn’t need his money, and for the first time, she removed the bracelet Cormac had given her, but not without smiling affectionately at it, kissing it before carefully putting it in her jewellery box. She also removed the necklace of Strike’s Mum, which Strike had returned to her, in case Rokeby recognized it, and put on a fancy necklace with a sapphire that her parents had gotten her ahead of her thirtieth birthday, and her watch. She smoothed the dress with her hands, feeling it a little tight over her belly, but luckily she wasn’t showing that much quite yet, and put on high heels, did her make-up, and let her hair loose and beautiful. She wanted for Rokeby to be jealous of Strike.

“Let’s defend your father’s pride, shall we?” Robin smirked, caressing her belly, and took her purse and car keys, walking out of her apartment and driving to the fancy club Prudence had texted her the address for.

The family had booked a terrace, and were having drinks dressed fancy, not celebrating anything, just because they could.

“Robin! You look stunning,” Prudence hurried to greet her at the door, hugging her. Prudence looked nothing like her father, and was a beautiful brunette with warm eyes and a round face, tall and dressed with a dark shiny dress.

“Hi Prue, thank you for the invite,” said Robin with a warm smile.

“No problem, Corm not coming?” she added, confused.

“He doesn’t know I’m here,” Robin admitted as they stood at the luxurious hall. “I was hoping I’d talk to Rokeby first, then Cormoran… you know, go slow.”

“Ah, gotcha,” Prue smiled again. “It’ll be best like that, they have such a terrible relationship… come, let me introduce you to everyone,” she took her hand and guided her to her wife and daughter first, and then to the other siblings and their partners, and Rokeby and his third wife, Al’s mother Jennifer Graham.

Everyone, and particularly Rokeby, were delighted to see her and learn she was Cormoran’s girlfriend and business partner. Rokeby stood with his drink in hand at the terrace, looking at her up and down. He was now sixty-six, oddly androgynous, with tight leather trousers, a shirt with one too many buttons open exposing a tanned chest, divergent blue eyes, and his hair was long to his shoulders, black and wavy, obviously dyed. His nails were painted violet, and his skin barely showed winkles. He only resembled Strike in his general size, and was otherwise hard to believe he was Strike’s biological father. It was strange, how the only guy who seemed like his father was Ted.

“Robin Ellacott, I’ve heard so much around the press,” said Rokeby with a perfect smile, which Robin returned coldly. “You’re both famous now, aren’t you? My son’s done good for himself.”

“Yes,” she replied. “He’s the best detective in London, no thanks to you, right?”

“Spicy, I like it,” Rokeby chuckled. “Can I offer you a drink?”

“I don’t drink, just water,” Robin accepted a glass of luxury water from a waiter, and sat with the others around a long table.

“It’s not every day that we get such a guest of honour,” said Rokeby, his voice a bit done with, as it often happened with rock stars once they aged after so many years of singing at too high volume, and their chords got damaged. “Prue told me you might be able to reconcile my lost child and I, I would like that very much.”

“Really?”

“I don’t know what he’s told you about me,” said Rokeby. “I assume nothing good. I wasn’t the best father when he was little, but I’ve improved with years and experience, and it’d make me happy to see all my five children reunited, having a drink with me here.”

“Then why don’t you call Cormoran, ask him yourself?”

“Last time we spoke it didn’t go well,” replied Rokeby. “And I happen to really like my nose.”

“He can come to his father anytime, in good intention,” said Jennifer, a stunning producer, next to her son. “Al is always talking wonders of his brother, I can’t say I’m not curious, right darling?”

“Right,” Rokeby agreed, nodding.

Robin took a deep breath and realized she couldn’t sit and play pretend with something that touched so… not close to home. Touched home, directly. She turned to Prudence.

“Prue, I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t mean to take advantage of your amity,” said Robin, and Prue looked at her confused. “Truth is I’m not here to mediate. I like you, I like your siblings, I don’t want to hurt you but… I love Cormoran, and I owe loyalty to him first. And you,” she turned to Rokeby, glaring at him calmly, “what you’ve done to him is unforgivable, and I thought it was time someone said to your face the piece of scum you are, and Cormoran’s clearly too tired with you to do it himself.”

“Lady, you better go,” said Jennifer, suddenly cold. The siblings had gotten tense.

“No,” Rokeby looked surprised. “Nobody confronts me any more these days, all those managers and PR only tell me what I want to hear. Takes a lot of nerve for someone to come all the way here just to insult me to my face, I respect that.”

“I didn’t come here to insult you,” said Robin. “I came here because I want answers to bring the man I love so he knows the bloody truth like he deserves. He deserves to know why you cheated on several women and still made sure to give child support, look after your children, love them… but he and his mother were exceptions. He deserves to know why you gave Leda Strike money and the number of a doctor to perform dangerous illegal mid-pregnancy abortion in secret, not caring if she died in the process, just to get rid of him.”

“You did what?!” Al glared at his Dad, who clenched his jaw.

“He didn’t want Cormoran, and not content with that, when Leda went to ask his help because Cormoran was diagnosed with cleft lip and she wanted for your Dad to help recruit the best doctors to deal with his condition when he was born, he told her to get rid of the baby, who by the way, didn’t have a serious problem, Rokeby. His degree of cleft lip was low, and even in the eighties surgeries were quite evolved, one simple surgery and he was all right to go,” Robin turned from Al to Rokeby.

“Sera could you please take Emma to the park or something, love?” Prudence turned to her wife, who nodded, seeing it was better their daughter didn’t hear this argument, and took her to a play area not far, in the terrace. Prudence turned to her father. “Is that true, Dad?” she added with a glare.

“I did what I thought was best, having a disabled son would’ve been cruel—,”

“What if he’d had Down’s Syndrome, would you also have considered that a reason to kill him?” Gabrielle snapped in disbelief.

“It was the eighties, not the resources of today.”

“You’re a fucking liar,” said Robin to Rokeby, feeling unexpectedly fuming. She wondered if she was feeling her child’s rage too. “You didn’t care, just like your affair with Leda lasted right until she told you she was pregnant, and then you fired her from the band. She was a great singer, I’ve seen videos, you fired her just because she was having your child and refusing to abort it. And then, six years later, when she came to you to introduce you to him, to give you another chance, because she wanted to believe perhaps you regretted what you’ve done, perhaps once you saw the bright boy Cormoran had grown into, you called him… what was it?” she played stupid.

“You can’t fucking know. The boy was six, I hardly remember, let alone him.”

“You hardly remember because you were high, but good luck getting Cormoran, who has a detective’s memory, to forget the day his father tried to hit his mother in his face, and shouted at him that he was a little shit, a, and I quote, fucking mistake you’d done. You told his mother in his face that she was a bitch for bringing ‘the accident’, as you called him, you threatened your six years old son when he pushed you from hurting his mother, and told him not to dare to touch you again or else you’d get him another scar aside from his lip one.D’you think Cormoran’s ever forgotten a word you said, you bloody wanker?” Robin stood up, glaring down at him. Rokeby stood up, his jaw clenched.

“I think it’s time for you to go.”

“Not so amusing to face a spicy woman when she doesn’t suck your cock, uh?” Robin snapped.

“I’m calling security,” said Jennifer.

“No, Mum, you’re not,” said Al, getting up too. “I wanna hear what Dad’s got to say.”

“Besides,” Robin said with a small smile, “if anyone touches me, I’ll have this guy ripped all over the papers. I’m pregnant, Rokeby,” she added with a cold smile, “and if I have a miscarriage because anyone here puts a hand on me, you will hear from my lawyer. She’s a criminal lawyer, has dealt with bigger scum than you.”

“So that’s what this is about,” said Rokeby coldly. “You want money for your kid. Your well paid silence.”

“Wrong. Like I said, I want an explanation, not your fucking money, I got everything I could ever want there’s no way you could ever bribe me.”

“Everyone has a price.”

“I’m not everyone,” Robin snapped, making his face twitch. “You abandoned the man I love when he was a baby. You abandoned a woman who was in love with you. And thanks to you, Cormoran’s spent his life thinking there was something wrong with him, because you pampered and loved four children and for some reason decided he wasn’t good enough. Now it’s my job to tell him every day he’s good enough, that there’s nothing wrong with him, that he’s no less than Prue, Gabby, Ellie, or Al, that the only person there’s something seriously wrong with is you. And this is your very last chance to explain why you’ve treated Cormoran like that. Perhaps you could also explain to your kids that Cormoran didn’t threaten you, not ever, that he would’ve never broken your nose, that the last time you spoke he was eighteen and you were offering him money so that when he went to Oxford and press came looking for him now he was adult and it was legal, he wouldn’t say shit about you, you offered him a shit ton of money and he told you to shove it up your arse and left. He never threatened you, and you know it. And that money? It was his child maintenance, which you froze in the bank, driving Cormoran’s family into poverty. Your son went winters without shoes or a coat, did you care to know? So tell me. Why?”

Somewhere online, Robin had once read Rokeby was known for a bad temper, but she had forgotten right then, until she saw his nose flare, his body tense, and she knew he was about to hit her. She caught his wrist right before his palm could collide with her face, slapping his hand away before driving her hand backwards in the opposite motion, to collide her knuckles hard with his nose, closing her fist in the way. His nose cracked loudly and began to bleed as the old man cursed and made a big deal of it, covering his face and crouching in pain.

“You bitch! Bloody fucking—!”

“You try to touch her once more,” Robin froze, turning away to find Strike standing there, in his travel clothes, glaring at his father, ashen and more rigid with fury than Robin had ever known him, “and I will put you through a pain that will make military torture look like child play.”

“Cormoran, how—?” Strike advanced to Robin and Rokeby, standing between them. Rokeby stood back up, his face covered in blood, and they saw each other eye to eye, Rokeby fearful, Strike analytical, somewhat taller. Robin began to feel honest fear Strike was gonna kill him, and put a hand on his arm for restrain. Nobody dared to move.

“Al texted me if I’d come tonight with my girlfriend, I thought it was weird, so I came,” said Strike slowly. “I’ve been listening from a corner, quietly. It’s impressively easy to pass unseen here when you’re not dressed fancy.”

“Why don’t we all take a deep breath and—?”

“I’m sorry, Prue,” said Strike, turning to look at her briefly. “Robin and I will be leaving, but Daddy dearest hasn’t answered yet, and I’d very much like an answer, if that’s okay.”

“You can go straight to hell and get out of here before I call the police,” said Rokeby.

“You deserve to be confronted for what you’ve done, to give an explanation you owe him,” intervened Al, angrily.

“Al’s right, Dad,” said Dani, crossing her arms over her chest. “Calling the police won’t fix you with us.”

“It’s okay, I get it,” Strike said calmly. “Rokeby has no answer because there isn’t any other reason than the fact the he is an amoral man-whore, who only cares about money, fans, and keeping his fame, good name, being a rock-star. If you abandoned me, no repercussions. But their mothers are a producer, a model, an actress… famous celebs who would’ve ruined your life, isn’t that right? You bribed them through bribing your children, that’s the type of despicable trash you are.”

“You know nothing…”

“Oh I know trash when I see it, you know why? ‘Cause I grew up between addicts, rapists, murderers and thieves. I know your kind, and you are far too egotistical to care about anything other than yourself, you don’t know any other way to solve something than with money so… how many ponies did you get them? How much jewellery did you get your lovers and wives? How many boarding schools? Al went to La Rosey, didn’t he? Switzerland, Jennifer must’ve been happy, weren’t you?” he eyed Jennifer. “And meanwhile you fucked who? All your groupies? Works well.”

“He didn’t…! You didn’t,” Jennifer looked at her husband, who was busy glaring at Strike, his face covered in blood, fuming with anger. Robin was sure he would try to kill Strike, if Strike wasn’t half his age, and much fitter ex soldier and ex boxer. “Jonny?! Tell them you didn’t…”

“He did, Mum,” Al clenched his jaw. “Piece of scum he is.”

“Oh…” Jennifer clenched her jaw, pulled Rokeby to face her, and slapped him soundly. “You’ll hear from my lawyers!” she shouted, storming away. Al stormed after her.

“Happy?” Jonny glared at Strike. “Ruined my fucking life now?”

“No,” said Strike. “You ruined my mother’s legacy. You fired her when she could’ve been a great singer, you reduced her to whore and bitch over and over and over again, always said the same to press and anybody who’d listen. You didn’t even bother to call me when she was murdered.”

“She deserved it.”

Strike took a deep intake of air and nodded slowly.

“Maybe so. But I’m gonna let you live your life, I’m gonna do mine. I’m going to be the father you could never even dream of being, and raise a child that when I’m dead, keeps my memory alive with pride and love, and his grandmother’s. But when you die, in twenty, thirty, forty years if your liver holds up, I’m going to put all over the papers what you did. I’m going to tell my family’s story. That way, I will destroy your legacy like you did to my mother. They will believe a famous detective former Sergeant of the United Kingdom Army, twice decorated with highest honours, don’t you think? You’ll lose your good name, your fans, people will remember you like the scum you are. And I will still have enjoyed a bloody good life, Rokeby. Without you. I should’ve hit you the day you touched my Mum. I should’ve stood up for her better, but I was just a boy… now I’m a man. And I swear to you, if you ever hurt my family again, I’ll make your death be extremely painful, Rokeby. Goodbye.” He took Robin’s hand and began to walk away, but just before leaving the terrace, he turned to his stunned half-sisters. “Oh, I’m very sorry I… you guys shouldn’t have been caught in the middle of this, I do apologize sincerely to you. I’ll call you and we can have dinner some day, uh? Talk things out.”

“Don’t worry Corm, we’re good,” Prue assured him and Strike nodded, dragging Robin away.

Strike had taken the train, so they went to Robin’s car and she began to drive, too afraid she had fucked up to speak. They arrived to Trevanion Road in silence, Robin changed back into normal clothes she had there, both keeping some clothes at the other’s apartments, and found Strike nursing a beer sitting at the table, seemingly calm. He gave her a small smile.

“It’s funny though,” said Strike, “as beautiful as you’re with that dress, the jewellery, the make-up… I can’t help but find you even more gorgeous just like this, with nothing but some simple clothes.”

“You’re not furious at me?” asked Robin, surprised.

“Furious?” Strike smiled warmly, and shook his head, standing up and taking her hands in his. “I’m moved. I knew you’d be a protective fierce mama but… I didn’t think you’d extend the privileges to me too. I just feel lucky to have someone who loves me so much, and who will go to such extends for her family.”

“But I made you get off the train and come running, I—,”

“It was Al,” Strike reminded her. “And I’m very glad I witnessed what you did. Trumps that job over and over,” Strike pecked her lips softly.

Robin smiled against his lips, putting her arms over his shoulders.

“So… feeling any better?”

Strike snorted a laugh and shrugged.

“Funnily, yes, like a weight lifted off me,” he admitted upon quick analysis. “I feel like I understand things better now. I know I come from a royal bastard but… I know that doesn’t mean anything. Look at Harry, Whittaker’s son and he’s completely different, or Ted and Grandpa. We’re not our parents. We’re St Mawes’ sunrise, the ocean’s waves, we’re a laugh at the Victory Inn over Cornish bear and Cornish pastries, we’re Cornish humour, we’re Ted’s bravery and morals, we’re Joan’s sweetness and loving nature, we’re Mum’s kind and generous hearts, her dark sense of humour, her chaos… we choose the bits of them we want to keep alive in us. It’s a choice.”

Robin grinned at him, cupping his face.

“I couldn’t have said it better.”

With a small side smile, Strike carefully knelt and, to Robin’s astonishment, pulled up her shirt and lovingly kissed the small swell in her lower belly. The doctor had told them to talk with the baby, so when it was born, it recognized their voices, but neither had practised it much yet, feeling weird about it.

“Kiddo, I promise you, you’re gonna have the best Dad in the world, okay? You don’t worry,” Strike murmured against her belly. “I’ll be the best of Ted, the best of Rick… and the best of my bloody own. Maybe I’ll curse too much and force you to sit and watch footy with me but… I’ll love you like no other, I’ll support you fiercely, I’ll protect you, I’ll make you laugh and teach you to read, to walk around the world with your head held high, I’ll teach you about values, and morals and ethics, and what matters and doesn’t matter in life… and we’re gonna have an awful good time, little one. You will have a Dad right here, any time, when you need me, okay? And you and your Mummy will never, ever be alone, or suffer misery, or doubt how loved you are, because I won’t let that happen. That’s a promise, uh? You remember my voice in there… and this voice will always guide you home.”

Robin felt an unexpected wave of emotion hit her like a train, perhaps because of the hormones, but instead of teasing Strike for being bloody cheesy, she pulled him up and hugged him tight, sniffling because he was so sweet, and good and perfect.

“Bloody hell Cormoran,” she gasped, squeezing him tight. “I love you so much.”

Strike smiled and held her close, closing his eyes against her hair. Home.

Chapter Text

Chapter 44: Detectives and parents.

Over the next few days of the hot May, the tabloids erupted with news about Rokeby’s third divorce, and as both Strike and Robin called the Rokeby siblings to ensure they were all okay, Al confirmed his mother and himself had cut ties with his father, considering learning the truth about him was too much of a big deal to ignore. Although neither of the siblings conceded interviews, the family’s PR released a statement to the press saying that the family had distanced from Jonny over fundamental disagreements with his life style, his character, and the way he had decided to behave with his own family, stating feelings of betrayal and deep disappointment. But the siblings seemed grateful that Strike had gifted them the truth and opened their eyes, and all of them were okay with Strike and sorry they had ever insisted Strike reconciled with their father. Jennifer Graham sent them flowers to the office, and Strike was feeling happier and lighter than he’d felt in a long time, even feeling that he breathed better.

For weeks, he and Robin hardly saw family or friends because of work, their politics’ case ending all over the press when they finally resolved it and got a major political ploy exposed, several Members of Parliament losing their jobs, and forcing Strike and Robin to dodge press and paparazzi once more, their fame growing, each time bringing a new wave of clientele. But the distraction helped Robin hide the beginnings of her bump, so she began to use loose blouses and summer dresses that only tightened under her breasts and fell loose, because she knew if she started to tell people she’d begin to get very excited and the pain, if she miscarried, would be worse. But after week sixteen, and with all her tests having come perfectly clean, the risk of miscarriage was below five percent. And it helped that Robin was now feeling great, aside from constantly having a congested nose, back aches, and feeling her breasts swollen and enormous.

Once they got the fourteen weeks ultrasound, where their baby looked less alien and more human, Strike and Robin made a deal to not tell family and friends for another month, and not tell their employees at all unless they discovered it, putting bets on how fast could their detective employees notice she was pregnant and have the guts to mention Robin was fat. Robin won the fifty pounds bet on week fifteen, during their monthly agency meeting, because Strike had bet it’d take them over eighteen weeks.

So it was understandable that on the day of the eighteen weeks milestone, with July’s warmth and sunlight and everyone in a good mood, Strike woke up particularly excited.

“Today’s the day,” he whispered into Robin’s ear, waking her up in her morning. She smiled softly, eyes still closed, and felt Strike move over to her belly. He’d been singing lullabies, regaling her and their child with his sweet, lovely deep voice. “Today we tell everyone you’re incoming, little one.” She heard him say, and felt his lips on her round belly.

Truth was it would’ve been a miracle to reach this point without their employees pointing out her pregnancy, because each week she seemed to get impossibly bigger. That morning, standing in Strike’s bathroom naked, staring at herself in the mirror, Robin had to admit she had gotten big quite fast. Her breasts were rounder, heavier and more generous, her face looked rounder, her skin brighter and smoother, her arms and hands a little fuller, her back was more curved, and her abdomen had become quite round and large, forcing her into maternity clothes quite quickly. But to Strike, she was gorgeous. Robin was beginning to suspect he was finding out he found big women a turn-on, judging by all the sex they were having.

“Look at that,” Strike smiled softly at her, watching her get dressed as she returned to his bedroom, which had become theirs. He was blushed and his eyes full of smile lines. “So beautiful… God…”

“Pick up your drool,” said Robin teasingly, walking over to kiss him, adjusting her maternity dress. They were going for a Saturday dinner at a restaurant with friends and family, children with babysitters, to supposedly, celebrate the agency’s rise in fame and the political scandal they had caught, secretly hired by the government no less.

“I might never get tired of seeing you like this,” Strike admitted. “I just can’t believe I’m so lucky.”

“We’re the lucky ones,” said Robin against his lips, feeling the usual magnetic pull between them. They made out for a few moments, entranced in each other, before Strike pulled apart.

“There’s something about the baby name that I wanted to do,” said Strike.

“You’ve started brainstorming? I was going to wait until we knew the gender,” said Robin, surprised, and began doing touch-ups on her make-up while listening to Strike.

“Oh I haven’t, it’s more a surname thing,” said Strike. “I was thinking how odd it kinda is that I’m the only Strike in my whole family, with Lucy having chosen Nancarrow for her clan and Ted, Joan and Harry being Nancarrow…”

“You want to name the child Strike so you’re not alone?”

“No,” said Strike, picking a shirt from his closet and putting it on. “I think my Mum liked it for herself, liked it for me… and that’s cool, but I think we should leave it at that. After all, my Mum just grabbed the surname from illusionist William Strike, a circus guy she met and married being really young… he’s nothing else in our family, and I’m not even related to him. And it’s too famous of a surname, I kind of don’t want our baby having it. Y’know, with the amount of enemies I’ve acquired, thinking of the Laing case… I kind of want to make sure our baby is not so obviously traceable to me just by his or her name. Make it less of a target.”

Robin pursed her lips in thought, and glanced at him over the little mirror she was using to do her make-up.

“Then Nancarrow?” she suggested.

“No,” replied Strike. “Neither of us has it, it’d be confusing, weird… no, I was thinking that, if you’re okay with it… our baby could be Ellacott. Of course you’re quite famous too, but most people find you really loveable, and your family is so large people wouldn’t automatically assume this Ellacott is our Ellacott if they’re pissed off at us, it wouldn’t make the baby a target so automatically, don’t you think? And the more I think about it…” he finished buttoning his shirt and fetched some smart trousers he slid into, thoughtful. “Our child would feel lucky to be named Ellacott. It’s a name that represents a good family, that can only be associated to good people, good things, good values… and you and I aren’t married so legally it’d also make more sense. I don’t know, of course it’s up to you too but if you agree, I think we should make our baby an Ellacott by name.”

Robin stared at him for a long moment, in thought, trying to discern if there were any hidden intentions of not wanting to be easily recognized as the child’s father, but ultimately decided against it. Strike had the dark genes, which were dominant, so chances were their child would be quite obviously his child, and he loved this child, there was no reason why he wouldn’t want the world to assume they were father and child unless it was for the child’s safety.

“Okay,” said Robin, smiling. “Ellacott it is. You’re sure, right?” Strike smiled warmly at her, and nodded.

“I always found it very weird that traditionally only the father’s name goes on in Britain.”

“Yeah…” Robin nodded, finishing her make-up and pulling her hair back into a semi up-do, navigating Strike’s bedroom and putting on her earrings. “D’you think the baby will see the dead too?”

“Perhaps,” Strike replied, adjusting his belt and shoving his shirt inside his trousers. “For all I know it’s only been transmitted down the mother line, not from father to child, so maybe not. Ted didn’t get to become a medium, and even Lucy and Harry haven’t been that skilled as such, maybe Lucy’s the only one who can transmit it and in that case, it’ll either end with Leda or with her own children if she chooses to have them when she grows up. Are you worried about that?”

“Not really,” replied Robin, and she stood up, considering herself ready and turning to watch Strike while he tied his shoes. “Want me to pick a tie for you?”

“If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it.”

Robin smiled, opening his closet and finding the little ties’ rack with very few ties hung there. She picked a dark green silk one that went with his eyes, and stood in front of him, working on tying it around him. She always liked the intimacy of those acts.

“You look really beautiful,” Strike murmured, staring at her as she helped him. She smiled, blushing a little while her fingers expertly adjusted the knot. With two little brothers, she could not remember how many times had she helped knot a tie. “Will you move into this flat then?”

“Yeah,” Robin nodded. “Max and I have been talking about it, I didn’t want to leave him with half a rent to pay and a problem all of a sudden. But it appears that Damien will move in once I move out, so it works out well for everybody, two couples getting to walk ahead. And he said if we sink, I can always return,” she added with a little smirk.

“Ah, I love the positivism,” Strike joked sarcastically, and pecked her lips as she finished doing her make-up. Robin chuckled, using her thumb to remove the lipstick from his lips.

“I have to confess I’m still half waiting for you to freak out.”

“Me?” Strike walked ahead to pick a blazer.

“Well I know how you’ve traditionally been about commitment. You didn’t get engaged to Tracey because she wanted a child, you took years to ask Charlotte to marry you, you wouldn’t spend more than two nights in a row with Elin or Lorelei,” Elin Toft and Lorelei Bevan were the only serious girlfriends Strike had had since Charlotte, before Robin. “And you and I, at the end of the day, have been together for five and a half months, Cormoran. And we’re having a child, and moving in together… I understand a lot’s happening in a very short time frame, it’d be normal to freak out.”

“Do you freak out?”

“I’m asking you.”

Strike turned to her, finally ready, and after a moment of thought, he shook his head.

“I partly expect myself to freak out too but… I’ve known you for three years, and it’s been the best years of my life. And I know I’m in love with you, Robin, I already dealt with my fatherhood issues before we even knew each other, the one good thing Charlotte forced upon me and… thanks to you I dealt with my daddy issues too. Now I see all your things over my flat, baby product catalogues hanging around, feel the baby move inside of you sometimes when I touch you, see our baby’s pictures on my fridge every day… and it doesn’t scare me. I’m excited. Surprisingly, I know, but… you just feel right. I think sometimes things just feel right or they don’t, and when something truly feels right it’s not scary. And I keep thinking of before I met you, when I kept dreaming of Whittaker hurting you and my Mum told me how you…” he stopped, realizing he’d never told her.

“Your Mum told you how I…?” Robin raised a questioning eyebrow.

“How you’re a pure soul,” he replied. “Strong and vulnerable, pure good,” he smiled warmly at her, and Robin stared surprised. “I don’t know how she knew, but she did. And she insisted you’d be a good presence in my life, a loving presence, and that love’s the strongest force there is,” Robin smiled tenderly, touched. “Now I know that’s cheesy to vomit rainbows,” she chuckled, “but still… I can’t help but feel you’re light, our baby’s light, and none of it is scary. But if you freak out, I’ll understand.”

Robin walked over to kiss him.

“I don’t freak out.”

“No?”

“Nope. I’ve been moving in slowly waiting to see if you would, actually,” he smiled at her sneakiness. “And to be honest… you’re the only thing in my life that doesn’t make me anxious.”

“Good, ‘cause I don’t want to make you anxious.” Strike cupped her face, kissing her again. “Now shall we go?”

Robin drove her Land Rover with the happy smile of someone who knows she won’t be slim enough to drive comfortably for much longer and wants to take advantage of the opportunity. Strike watched her satisfied profile, always in a good mood seeing her in a good mood, as she navigated the streets of London and they put bets on who was going to have the guts to comment she was huge first, considering it was usually seen as impolite to comment on other people’s weight.

In London, July provided warmer days, sunnier, if it was day time, and fresh and comfortable nights. Traffic was unforgiving as ever, but still they managed to make it to the restaurant soon enough. They had a table with views in a second-floor corner, in a restaurant Vanessa and Oliver had highly recommended. It’d be them, the Herberts, Lucy and Wyatt, and Eric and April, because Max and Damien were busy filming a lot and usually knackered whenever they weren’t filming, and they already knew about the baby, anyway.

Before leaving the car in the parking lot, Robin eyed herself.

“Should I try to look less pregnant and then do the reveal?” Strike couldn’t help snorting a laugh.

“Mind clarifying how exactly?”

“Sod off,” Robin half smiled, shaking her head and leaving the vehicle.

The two walked resolute, hand in hand, into the restaurant, happy to see their friends after quite the long time, despite everyone living in the same city. Truth was everybody had been extremely busy. Those of them who didn’t have three children had very demanding police jobs, and Vanessa had been promoted recently, which gave her even more workload to deal with, while her husband Oliver was a forensic analyst and had many hours of work as well, reason why they weren’t even considering kids yet. Vanessa was about Robin’s age, so they had plenty of time anyway. Wardle and Strike had worked together the politics case, which had been huge, and Robin had also worked in it intensively, but she hadn’t actually physically coincided with Wardle anywhere, so he didn’t know she was pregnant in spite of their collaboration.

Arriving at their table, they found only Nick, Ilsa, Vanessa and Oliver were sat, chatting amicably. It was curious how over the years, their friends’ groups had mixed and converged into one with such ease. Vanessa looked up and her jaw dropped.

“You miss are pregnant!” she got up, hurrying to hug Robin. “Oh my God!”

“You’re so right,” Robin grinned, hugging her back.

“You’re having a baby?” Oliver shook Strike’s hand, smiling. “Congratulations mate!”

“Thanks, how are you guys?” Strike casually greeted everyone, hugging Ilsa as usual, and then Vanessa when she finished squealing with Robin in frantic excitement.

“Why did nobody tell me?” Vanessa dragged Robin to sit on the empty space by her side, looking at her up and down in disbelief. “That’s at least a few months of hiding Robin, you sneaky girl. I’m gonna assume you knocked her up,” she pointed a finger at Strike, who laughed, nodding.

“Guilty as charged.”

“Eighteen weeks today actually,” said Robin. “Nobody knows, only Nick and Ilsa ‘cause Nick’s a doctor and at first I just thought I was sick, and Max and Damien because of our living arrangements, but we were keeping it quiet until the risk of miscarriage decreased enough.”

“So we’re happy?” Vanessa inquired, and Robin smiled and nodded.

“The only unhappy part is we’re having expensive wine and I can’t even smell it!”

“And the vomiting,” added Strike.

“And the vomiting,” Robin agreed, nodding. “But how about you? How’s everybody been?”

While they waited for the other four, they sat catching up, and once the others arrived and immediately noticed Robin’s belly, they had to repeat quick explanations and began ordering drinks for everybody. Finding out she was gonna be an auntie, Lucy was quick to grow super enthusiastic, making them laugh, and tease her brother grandly.

“I thought you didn’t want, under any circumstance, to father a child? Which constellation aligned for this to happen?” Lucy excitedly grinned, sandwiched between Strike and her own husband, and patted his back fondly.

“Well it wasn’t planned, obviously,” Strike admitted, not wanting to use the word accident under any circumstance. “But you know what? We have Charlotte to thank for that, because after she faked that pregnancy that made me seek therapists to like the idea of a child, her thing was fake but mine wasn’t, I got to want a child and then she took it all away. And we thought Robin’s health issues made her infertile so this is miracle baby, and I’m damn right going to be appreciative.”

“I for one am dying to see how you navigate a baby in the office,” Wardle teased him with amusement. “But seriously, congratulations guys.”

“Thanks Eric,” Robin smiled.

“So this is the first time you’re telling, your families don’t know?” asked April with curiosity, her hair dyed red for the occasion. She always liked to play with different dyes and piercings.

“Yeah, nobody else knows. I suppose after today we’ll start calling and telling, of course,” explained Strike, analysing the menu. His stomach was calling for the biggest steak he could find.

“And Cormoran’s officially quit smoking, which ought to be celebrated,” added Robin.

“Come on, really?” Nick grinned at him. “You did it Robin, you’ve broken our guy for good!”

“I swear all I did was get pregnant!”

“Smoking around a pregnant woman is not good for the baby, and I need to make my apartment smoke free so Robin and our baby can live with me, and besides…” Strike’s eyes found the right dish in the menu, and he smirked. “Robin refuses to kiss me if my breath stinks of cigarette.” He teased, eliciting laughter across the table.

“That’s right Robin, set the rules,” Ilsa complimented.

“Ugh, wish I succeeded that much on keeping Eric from smoking,” April said admiringly.

“But why did you guys wait so long to tell?” asked Lucy with a mixture of curiosity and surprise, holding her own menu in her hands. “You know it would’ve been fine like six weeks ago, right?”

Strike and Robin eyed each other a bit more serious before Robin answered.

“It’s uh… bit of a risky pregnancy. The doctor said it was riskier in the end than now, but still, we didn’t want to let ourselves get too excited too fast and then lose it,” Robin explained, earning glances of commiseration.

“Risky?” Lucy scowled, suddenly worried. “Are you all right, does the baby have some problem?”

“The baby’s completely fine, so that’s great. It doesn’t even look like it has cleft lip like Cormoran did, it was sucking its thumb in the last ultrasound yesterday,” Robin clarified. “And I’m fine, is just that… I’ve got some cervix adhesions. They were worse years back, and there were other issues too so I was technically infertile, and I didn’t really realize I’d healed enough to not be any more, so that’s how we weren’t careful to prevent pregnancy, we thought we didn’t have to be. And now it appears that most the problems are solved, but there’s still some remaining scarring that could complicate vaginal birth, so perhaps we’ll have to go for c-section. But we’ll see, for now there’s like a long list of dietary changes, exercises and stuff I’ve been doing to try and keep risks to an absolute minimum.”

“Doctor’s really good though, we went to Chelsea and Westminster,” added Strike.

“That’s a pretty good hospital, yeah,” Wyatt nodded. “I’m sure things will resolve, they deal with all sorts of complicated issues all the time, right Nick?”

“Right,” Nick agreed across the table. “And it’s good they’re seeing what could become an issue way in advance, so they can plan for it better. And even if you needed a c-section, these days they’re done really nicely and people keep having kids afterwards like nothing happened.”

“Yeah, so we’re trying not to get too anxious, at least not yet,” said Robin.

“Better for you, you don’t want to get super anxious and then have that be the cause of problems,” Ilsa commented. “Has anybody decided what to eat then?”

They called the waiter over to get their orders, and then Lucy turned to her brother.

“So when are you telling Joan and Ted? I don’t want to spill by accident.”

“I’ll call tomorrow,” he compromised. “Have a guest room prepared, if I know them they’ll be coming here as soon as Harry goes on holiday, Joan’s been praying for the day I had a child too.”

“And Harry’s turning the big eighteen next month, so you might want to organize him a party.”

“Me?” Strike frowned. “Why me? You’re the party organizer.”

“You’re his big brother. Take him do something adult, I don’t know, his first legal drink…”

“You can take him to his first brothel,” Wardle jokingly suggesting, and Strike, Wyatt, Oliver and Nick laughed, while April slapped her husband’s arm and Lucy rolled eyes.

“Well, if that’s what gentlemen do…” Lucy said with resignation.

“I’ll take him for drinks at the pub, toast in his honour,” said Strike, conscious that his baby mother was right next. “Pinky promise, gentlemen’s night, get Wyatt and Ted too, boys’ night.”

“And Joan and I will make him a nice cake,” said Lucy, pleased.

“I’ll help, let men have their fun,” Robin offered. “Won’t he want to go out with his friends, though?”

“Oh, Harry doesn’t have many friends,” said Strike. “Bit of a nerd, our baby brother, fancies writing poetry and composing music rather than going out, for what I’ve heard.”

“He’ll make more friends in Uni, when he meets people like him, whatever he chooses to study,” said Lucy optimistically.

“Not everybody could be like good old Oggy at eighteen, uh?” Nick teased.

“How was he at eighteen?” asked Vanessa out of curiosity. “Let me guess… awkward giant, got all the girls.”

Nick and Ilsa sniggered, and Strike rolled eyes.

“I was perfectly normal, really.”

“He got all the girls,” Ilsa confirmed. “And a few boys tried, didn’t they Corm?” she teased.

“Aw… success, mate!” said Wardle messing with him. Robin chuckled, turning to Strike.

“Really, boys too?”

“I didn’t correspond and besides it was just some odd friend Nick had who started blubbering whenever I walked by,” said Strike defensively. “When I turned eighteen, the most memorable thing that happened aside from a few flings and Harry being born just months before, was that Nick and I had a joint birthday party best-known because he and Ilsa met and shagged for the first time, so I’d say they had the interesting gossip of the year. I was just off to the same as always, drinks, ladies, and fun, but these too,” he pointed an accusatory eye, “fucked that night, am I right?”

Ilsa and Nick blushed, and they laughed.

“A lady doesn’t tell,” Ilsa murmured, drinking her wine.

“You did tell! To me, next time we met,” said Strike with a laugh. “I’m telling ya she looks all lawyer-y and serious but she’s the worst of us all.”

“As if you didn’t tell me your dirty things,” Ilsa teased right back. “Olivia Jennings, Cornish summer 1999? One wishes not to have heard.”

They had fun teasing Strike for the story, mocking lightly, and he blushed, drinking his beer.

“Oh I know that blush,” said Robin, and her jaw dropped. “Wait a second you were fourteen that summer!”

“Oh my God, you lost your virginity at fourteen? Way to go!” Wardle complimented admiringly. “Beats me!”

“Beats us all I’m sure,” Nick sniggered. Strike blushed, but nodded slowly.

“Don’t be so vulgar, we’re at a restaurant,” said Strike jokingly, with a smug smile.

“I just want to know if the child’s father broke your legs afterwards,” joked Vanessa with an amused expression.

“Oh but Olivia Jennings wasn’t fourteen,” Ilsa clarified, and Strike earned more light teasing. “She was what, seventeen? Yeah, my big sister was a year below her in school, St Mawes born and breed, the Jennings, and she was the local policeman’s daughter, so miracle he didn’t get his legs shot.” She side smiled at Strike, who chuckled.

“Okay, shush, you’re making me look weird,” said Strike. “Olivia Jennings was the sexiest teenager in St Mawes, everybody my age was looking at her, she was older, so she had better boobs, better body, these huge blue eyes and everything, but at the same time nobody wanted to openly approach her because they were afraid of her father, not that her mother, our principal, was any less scary.”

“Going for risky sports there Corm,” Oliver commented with a smirk.

“Yeah well… The situation meant every guy was so afraid to approach Olivia that she was still virgin and had never even kissed a guy, and she had her eyes on me, for some strange reason, given I didn’t even live in St Mawes then, but in Hackney, where I went to school with Nick,” Strike explained.

“A bunch of the girls had eyes on Corm, actually, because his coming and going gave him a mysterious air girls found attractive. They used to ask me to play matchmaker because we’ve been friends since birth,” added Ilsa.

“And I’m forever grateful you ignored them,” said Strike.

“Then again it didn’t help that you looked seventeen at fourteen, tall as he was, and with all the boxing he was doing, guy had stubble already.”

Robin envisioned it in her mind, and couldn’t help getting a little horny, which she dissimulated, looking from Ilsa to Strike.

“Anyway I was at the beach and Olivia was going through her rebel ‘sick of her parents’ teenage stage, and she came over, I was alone enjoying my bath, and began flirting pretty heavily, and she kissed me. She was so desperate to lose her virginity she tried right there in the water,” Strike explained, shutting for a moment as the waiters lowered plates onto the table. “And I rejected her, I was fourteen and it felt like she was using me of course. But then she didn’t relent. For weeks, every time she could she tried to talk to me, flirt… I wasn’t even interested, ‘cause I was a grumpy bastard as always and I was still a tad too young to be more excited about girls than about football.”

“That’s true,” Ilsa nodded.

“And so then, what was the rumour Ilsa, that we were together, was it?” Ilsa nodded. “Yeah, half the town thought Ilsa and I dated, so Olivia began to ask me if that was true, and to bully Ilsa out of jealousy, didn’t she?”

“She was a bit of a bitch,” Ilsa conceded, nodding. “Until I told her she could go fuck Cormoran for all I cared. Small town squabbles, after all.”

“And so she did,” said April, raising eyebrows. “Sounds a bit like abusing a minor in my eyes, but I’m not the cop.”

“Oh he loved it, smug he was,” said Ilsa rolling eyes at Strike, who sniggered.

“Hey, I’m happy to be used depending what for, and besides, she didn’t actually use me, we dated. She spent weeks charming me, writing me letters, old fashioned way. She had a motorbike and would take me to cool places and stuff… all behind her parents’ backs. She didn’t try to kiss me again, and eventually I gave in and fucked her in the back of her father’s patrol car,” Strike admitted blushing, and the table erupted in a mixture of admiration for his courage and recklessness, and surprise.

“That’s why she was so smug that summer,” Lucy realized, dropping her jaw. “I thought she was just your girlfriend!”

“But she was. For the short summer,” Strike shrugged. “We had sex a bunch of times, went on a handful of dates, continued to write to each other when I returned to London after the summer, but I told her I wasn’t interesting on anything long distance.”

“Mum said you told her you were too young for girlfriends,” Lucy corrected.

“That’s what Mum wanted me to tell her.”

“And now Robin’s benefiting from two decades of experience,” Vanessa snorted a laugh, putting an arm around her blushing friend.

“And on that none, I have a baby pressing my bladder,” Robin chuckled, getting up. “Be right back, Vanessa if he touches my plate you can arrest him.”

Robin entered the luxurious loo right on the edge of needing to pee really badly. As she relieved herself, she couldn’t help feeling happiness rise in her stomach. Look at them, sitting together, talking nonsense, joking about old anecdotes just to have a laugh and forget the stress of adult life. She cupped her belly, happy her child was going to come into lives so well filled with friends, with laughter, with happiness, and become a part of their eternal, amusing nonsense. With a smile on her face, she opened the stall’s door to get out, and her smile instantly dropped as she came face to face with Charlotte Campbell.

Chapter Text

Chapter 45: Last attempts.

Robin had only seen Charlotte from a distance in her life, on few occasions in which she’d crossed paths during their investigations, appearing to try and drag Strike back into her life. In the four years since Strike had left the socialite, she had become married to Jago Ross, Viscount of Croy, and together they had a boy and a girl, fraternal twins who if Robin had heard correctly from gossip magazines, were nearly two years old, if they hadn’t turned them already. But even though Robin and Charlotte had never spoken or had direct contact, the way Charlotte was looking at her with her steel cold grey eyes suggested they were long-enemies.

Despite having two children, Charlotte’s body continued to be as perfect as an ice sculpture, her long dark hair falling in purposeful waves, shiny and evidently taken care of with expensive products that were miles away from Robin’s cheap one pound shampoo and conditioner. Her features were a reminder of Matthew’s, perfectly symmetrical, with her skin so flawless Robin couldn’t even see her pores. Her eyes looked at Robin up and down, making her feel naked, and her lip tugged into a smile that instead of appearing friendly, gave Robin chills.

And Robin decided to pretend she didn’t know her. Standing tall and proud, she composed a polite smile.

“Excuse me,” she moved around Charlotte, who was standing in the middle a little, and to the sink, to wash her hands calmly.

“I’m going to assume he knocked you up for real, or is that a pillow?” said Charlotte coldly. Robin frowned and dried her hands.

“Who do you think you are to talk to me like that, ma’am?”

“You know who I am.”

“No,” Robin lied, turning around. “Only a very rude woman. Goodbye.”

But before she left, Charlotte spoke again.

“I’m Cormoran Strike’s ex fiancée,” she said. “And I know you’re Robin Ellacott, the woman he’s fucking and apparently… impregnating.”

Robin turned around and looked coldly at her.

“So?”

Charlotte stood elegantly in her dress, glaring coldly at her.

“I’m going to be so kind to warn you,” said Charlotte, “you’re a farmer girl, you don’t know anything about London’s upper class, after all. But Cormoran’s mine. You have his child… for now. It’s only typical Cormoran to stay once he knocks somebody up, but I’ve been there Robin, he tells you he loves you and all now… but he will leave you. Once he sees how big and disgusting your body’s gonna be, who d’you think he’ll come for? Me,” she gestured to her own flawless body. “We are meant to be. It doesn’t matter who we are with right now, we’re endgame, so I suggest you take that child and return to the farm you came from, because trust me, you’re not prepared for this world.”

Robin’s face got rigid, and she took a deep breath, caressing her belly. Do not let her get to you. Do not stress. You heard the doctor.

“You’re not worth my time,” said Robin simply, turning around and leaving. She identified her table by the laughter emanating from it, but her feeling of fun had lowered considerably.

She wasn’t afraid of Charlotte Campbell. She knew she just wanted to get to her, to provoke her, perhaps to publicly embarrass her if she drew enough attention, she liked the satisfaction of being the centre of attention, of causing wreck, drama and havoc in Strike’s life for revenge. She did what she did because it was her idea of fun. But her words… ‘you have his child for now’. She worried she had some nasty plan to hurt their child, to hurt Strike gravely through hurting his growing family. For what she’d heard of Charlotte from Ilsa, Nick and Lucy, and also bits from Strike, she knew Charlotte was the type to wait until you had relaxed to deliver a final, devastating, coup de grace. She enjoyed having the last word and no one left her, no one messed with her, no one was superior to her… which meant she’d really want revenge for what Strike had done leaving her.

Robin had been so absorbed in her own thoughts, not paying attention to the animated conversations on the table, that it drew Strike’s attention, seeing she wasn’t even eating, her eyes lost in her plate.

“Robin?” he murmured, putting a hand on her back. “Are you feeling all right? Is something wrong?” Strike worried anxiously, and it forced to look up and shake her head, a smile not reaching her eyes. She looked around, but couldn’t see Charlotte’s table anywhere, or her.

“It’s nothing,” said Robin, not wanting to worry him. “Sorry, what were you guys talking about?”

“You look pale,” Ilsa noticed with a frown. “Are you having nausea? I can walk outside with you for a bit if you need some fresh air.”

“I’m all right,” Robin reassured her. “It’s just uh… nothing important but…” she sighed and conceded. “I saw Charlotte at the ladies’.”

“Charlotte?” Lucy frowned. “She’s here?”

“I haven’t seen where she’s sitting, could be downstairs… but she was at the ladies,” Robin assured.

“Did she do something to you?” Strike asked. “I’ll look for her and—,”

“Don’t give her the satisfaction, you know she only wants your attention,” said Robin, taking his hand to prevent him from getting up. “She didn’t do anything to me, she just wanted to make me fear her, which of course she didn’t manage she just… made me a bit uncomfortable, that’s all. Was saying you’re hers and it felt like she was implicitly threatening me if I don’t leave you. And she knew exactly who I am, even that my family own a farm, she knew I’m pregnant of you… it was creepy, that’s all.”

Strike’s eyebrows raised in surprise and then lowered into a frown.

“Is that creepy ex-fiancée Charlotte?” Wardle asked with his own frown, and Robin nodded. “Could get you a restraining order if you feel better that way. She would have to stop nagging.”

“No, what for? She’d always find a way, it’s Charlotte,” Robin reasoned.

“I’ll talk to her,” said Strike.

“No, that’s giving her what she wants.”

“I know, but Robin, you heard the doctor, this pregnancy needs to be calm and it needs to be stress free. That means work adjustments and personal adjustments, and the sooner I can find out what she wants and discourage her, the sooner she might back off,” said Strike calmly. “If there’s one thing she fears is getting her public image ruined, she has to either be the star or the victim or both, so I can always threaten as much as she can threaten me. But sitting here doing nothing while she goes after you or our child… that’s not going to happen.”

“I’ll go with you, if you want,” offered Ilsa. “Give her a reminder of the law.”

“Maybe,” Strike nodded, and kissed Robin’s temple. “You relax, love. We’ll handle everything.”

Robin nodded in resignation and sighed.

“Anyway, let’s just enjoy the night, uh? We haven’t seen each other in forever and we’re celebrating, let’s not let her take that away.”

Strike watched Robin sleep in his arms quietly that night, thinking of how to approach the situation with Charlotte. With his large hand, he cupped Robin’s stomach and, feeling some movement under his fingers, he knew he ought to do something, for their child, for Robin, and for what they were about to become together.

With determination in his mind but not a clear idea, Strike wasted no time and, as soon as he could find some free time during the week ahead, he met with Ilsa for a coffee near the office. Robin was doing surveillance, her belly proving to be a perfect cover, but Strike had told her he was going to enlist Ilsa’s help, so it wasn’t like he was lying or doing anything behind her back.

Ilsa was already at the café, checking her phone with bespectacled eyes while Strike, who knew her order, placed the two coffees on the table and kissed the air by her ear sitting next to her.

“So what are you thinking?” asked Ilsa.

“I don’t know,” admitted Strike, and dragged his eyes off a ghost that was trying to get the waiter to hear his order, back to his friend. “All I know is that I despise Charlotte, and that I fear she might try something, I don’t know what, right when Robin’s pregnancy is more advance and she’s more delicate and vulnerable. I don’t need to tell you what’s at stake, Robin could lose the baby, develop further complications, go into pre-term labour which with her cervix would be an even more very dramatic situation…” he sighed. “What do I do, Ilsa?”

“You play smart, Corm,” said Ilsa, putting her hand on his. “You show that woman who she’s messing with.”

“I’m going to need your help.”

“You know you have it, always.”

The two finished their coffee and walked outside to Ilsa’s car. Ilsa drove them following Strike’s guidance to the manor the Viscount of Croy had in the outskirts of North London. They had a whole state in Croy, north Scotland, but Strike knew during the summer the family was frequently in the London manor, a large modern house with miles of garden around itself. They parked just outside, and walked to the tall fence, which had an intercom at the door. Strike pressed it, and after a few moments, an unknown voice responded.

“Hello?” the voice said.

“Good morning,” said Strike, “I’m Private Detective Cormoran Strike and this is my lawyer, Mrs Ilsa Herbert. I’m an old friend of the Viscount of Croy and his wife Charlotte Ross, I was hoping I could have a quick chat with him? It’s important.” The intercom had a camera, so he smiled politely at it.

“Have you got an appointment?”

“It’s an urgent matter, didn’t have time to make an appointment. Could you at least ask the Viscount when would it be okay for him to meet me?”

“I’ll ask, wait here. The Viscount might be busy.”

The communication turned off and Strike puffed, annoyed. The two stood waiting for a few minutes and after a while, the voice returned.

“Mr Strike, the Viscount and the Viscountess of Croy will be happy to meet you now. Please walk ahead to the main entrance.”

“Thank you.”

The large fence doors opened and Strike and Ilsa walked through a long trail through the immaculate gardens, were met midway by security officers who registered them for weapons, and then guided to a large, immaculate foyer inside the old house. There, a butler received them, an elderly man wearing a suit, tall, with the head held high and the composure of the upper class.

“Mr Strike and Mrs Herbert, I suppose?”

“Yes,” said Strike.

“Martin Corse, the Ross’ representative, nice to meet you,” he shook hands with both of them.

“I thought we would meet Mr and Mrs Ross?” Strike inquired.

“First, I have to know what the matter’s about?” he said politely.

Strike eyed Ilsa with annoyance but Ilsa nodded and smiled politely.

“Mr Corse, my client’s been suffering harassment from his ex fiancée the Viscountess of Croy, a relationship he terminated years ago. We were thinking of presenting a formal complaint in court in order to terminate all contact between Mrs Ross and my client once and for all, but given her high social status and what this could do to her public image, considering it would doubtless make it to Tatler’s front cover, we have decided to try and settle this matter in a private meeting with her and her husband before just going to court. We want to keep things in peace, if possible.”

Corse’s face became rigid for a moment, but he didn’t lose his manners and composure, instead giving a contained nod.

“Very well, come with me.”

They followed the man through large marble corridors with tall windows and plenty of paintings, as if they were walking through the National Gallery, and at last arrived to a small room in the second floor which contained only a couple windows, a couple of luxurious small sofas in ‘L’, decorative objects such as statues and paintings, a large rug, and a small glass table.

“Please get comfortable, the Viscount and the Viscountess will be right here, I’ll go fetch them,” Mr Corse left the room and Strike and Ilsa sat on one of the sofas, looking around.

“Imagine raising children here?” Ilsa murmured. “Leo would’ve already spilled his drink on this sofa, thrice.” Strike snorted.

“Nothing beats an old fashioned bed, a naked woman you love by your side, and a cheap TV with footy, if you ask me.”

Ilsa sniggered, and the door opened, but instead of the Ross family, came a house maid, judging by her uniform.

“Hello, would you like something to drink? Tea and pastries perhaps?” the lady said with a polite smile.

“Yes, thank you,” Ilsa smiled back and Strike nodded.

The tea and pastries had just arrived when Charlotte and Jago came in, followed by Mr Corse, who carried a chair to sit with them.

“Cormoran, what a surprise,” Jago offered him a tight smile and shook his hand a tad too hard. They had never gotten along at Oxford. Ever. “Mrs Herbert, is it?” he offered Ilsa his hand too, which she shook.

“My pleasure,” said Ilsa.

“Bluey, it’s so nice of you to come here,” Charlotte smiled, kissing Strike’s cheek soundly in a way that made Jago’s eyebrow twitch and Strike’s jaw clench, and then she eyed Ilsa coldly. “Ilsa, of course.”

“Charlotte,” she murmured, glaring at her through her glasses.

“I will be staying, since I also happen to be Mr Ross’ advisor,” said Mr Corse, sitting on his chair while the others took their respective sofas.

“So let’s get this over with, what’s the nonsense that my wife’s harassing you?” inquired Jago, dressed smartly, with his black hair brushed back with plenty of hair product.

“I have a collection of messages and missing calls she has been leaving me frequently from 2016 after I left her, to 2019, when I changed my number officially. I can send them to you, to any address you provide,” said Strike.

“2019 is not this year,” said Jago simply.

“It’s not, this year she has begun to harass my business partner, who also happens to be my life partner, Ms Robin Ellacott,” said Strike. “She has been receiving anonymous letters in our office with Charlotte’s handwriting, with threats, and a few nights ago I believe we coincided at ‘L’Assiette’, the French restaurant, three Michelin stars? I was there with Robin last Saturday, and she encountered your wife in the ladies’ restroom.”

“Is any of that true?” Jago asked his wife.

“Of course not,” she said as if repugnant he was even considering it. “It’s all lies, how you dare, Cormoran?”

“My client’s a private investigator, and so is Ms Ellacott,” Ilsa intervened. She didn’t need to ask Strike what he was planning, they knew each other for so long they worked as one. “And like my client said, we will have absolutely no problem sending you all the evidence, even before we go to court, but we will only do it if we end up going to court, otherwise it’d make no sense for us. Problem is, if we go to court, given your high profile and my clients’ high profiles as renowned investigators who’ve been on the press day in and day out lately, I have no doubt it would all be all over the press before any jury or judge could decide if Mrs Ross is guilty, or even if you had any involvement with this harassment, perhaps providing Mrs Ross with private information we don’t consider she should be having about my clients’ lives, something that would oblige us to even request a full investigation seeing their privacy has been violated by your wife.”

“This is ridiculous,” Charlotte shook her head, glaring at Ilsa.

“You can go and put all of that over the press if you wish, you will only be ridiculing yourself once the judge proves it’s all an elaborate scam,” said Jago. “Only somebody like Cormoran could fall so low.”

“Perhaps you are right, Mr Ross. But are you willing to risk the most well-renowned Private Investigator in our nation, veteran decorated with the George Cross and the Military Cross by the Queen herself, a man who’s worked for some of the most important politicians in the country and resolved some of the most enigmatic high-profile murders in London’s history, digging up you and your wife’s dirty laundry and exposing it all over the press?” Ilsa said calmly. “Let me remind you our Constitution, in Human Rights Act 1998, Article 8 states, and I quote, the right to respect for your family and private life, your home and your correspondence. We have, I assure you, plenty of evidence your wife possesses private information in regards to Mr Strike and Ms Ellacott indicating she has breached their rights to respect for their privacy, if we dig a little more, and they don’t need anybody’s permission to launch an official investigation, it could even splash you too, damaging both your reputations greatly. A journalist from ‘The Sun’ has been pressing my client for an interview for years, it would be perfectly legal for him to concede the interview and talk about what he believes you and your wife have been doing harassing him and his partner, it would be on the front cover, wouldn’t it Corm?”

“Yes indeed, knowing my mate,” Strike smiled politely.

“So if we leave this room without an agreement, that will happen today,” said Ilsa, turning coldly to Jago and Charlotte. “An investigation would launch today, I would present a formal complaint in Court on Monday… it would take weeks, even months for a judge to decide if your wife and you have done something wrong or not. How many interviews, do you reckon, my clients will be asked to concede by press all over the country once ‘The Sun’ publishes the interview next week? How many people do you think will want to hear it all about the ups and downs of the relationship between Mrs Ross and a decorated veteran well admired by the nation? By the time a judge solves this, perhaps you’re both declared innocent, it’d be the first time Mr Strike and Ms Ellacott lose a case, but good luck cleaning up your public image. Are you willing to risk it?”

Jago clenched his jaw and glared at his wife.

“She’s bluffing, Jago,” snapped Charlotte.

“Maybe so,” intervened Mr Corse, serious. “But Mr Strike’s reputation precedes him, and so does Mrs Herbert. You got a few terrorists in 2017 convicted, didn’t you Mrs Herbert? And the sentencing against Larry Parker in 2011, Roland Yves 2015, Karl Ellan 2018, Wren Dalmann 2019… what’s your success rate, 8 out of 10?”

“I see you’ve done your homework,” said Ilsa, and Strike’s lip curved smugly, watching Ilsa.

“One of the very few lawyers left in the country who get the job done even when it seems impossible, both as barrister and solicitor depending on what’s needed, both in accusation and defence,” Mr Corse informed his clients. “She’s not the type to fabricate evidence, I’m afraid. I advise you reach a peaceful private agreement here, and refrain from further contact, and everybody will get our unharmed, right Mr Strike?”

“That’s my intention,” said Strike.

“Oh please, if they had anything harmful they would’ve already gone to court,” said Charlotte.

“Why?” inquired Strike. “As you’ve found out, my partner is pregnant, it’s not convenient for us to be on trials right now, we’re busy detectives and busy parents to be, all this mess is as inconvenient to us as it is to you, so our interest in resolving matters peacefully and quietly here is mutual. But also, you know I’m a very protective man when it comes to family Charlotte, and have no doubt,” he leaned forward, his eyes coldly glued on Charlotte. “I will do whatever it takes to put you through the worst misery if you dare approach my family again and stick your nose in our private matters, even if it’s inconvenient to me given my current circumstances. I value things that benefit me in the long run.”

“Very well,” Jago hissed. “What do you want then, Cormoran? We’ll settle this right here right now.”

“I want you, your wife, your entire families, to stay the hell away from me, my partner, and our relatives and close friends,” said Strike. “I want all contact severed, I want her specifically permanently out of our lives. And I want my private life private, and I’ve got evidence Charlotte’s been snooping. I want a verbal oath that you and your wife will do as I request, and it’ll be up to me and Ms Ellacott to decide whether our agreement is violated in the future, in which case I won’t be so kind to come and warn you, I will go straight to do as Mrs Herbert stated, no warnings. I also happen to have, over a decade of on and off romantic relationship with Charlotte, plenty of private information to share with the press if she pisses me off enough, stuff that the high society would be scandalised to learn of a Viscountess no less, even if belongs to the past. This is a formal warning. Fuck with me, and I will fuck with you, big time. You wanna see if I’m bluffing? Piss me off enough and we will have all England decide if I’m bluffing or not. If my girlfriend does as much as smell any of you are even breathing too close to us, I will go straight to the press, period.”

“How you dare to threaten me in my own house?!” Charlotte stood up, glaring at Strike, who stood up too. “I have plenty of information about you to ruin your life too! What would the world think if they knew about your little chats with the dead?”

“What are you talking about Charlotte?” asked Jago with annoyance.

“I don’t know,” said Strike. “But I don’t expect to understand everything someone with such a psychiatric history as Charlotte says or does, do I?” he looked coldly into Charlotte’s eyes.

“You bloody… I will ruin your life, I will expose you and that Robin’s dirty laundry all over—,”

“Go ahead,” said Strike. “Because the country doesn’t think you’re crazy enough, does it? How much more do you want to publicly embarrass yourself Charlotte? How much more shame do you want to bring to yours and your husband’s families, uh? You’ve been out in the press since you were a child, scandal after fucking scandal, all your lies, the press knows it, the world knows it, your parents and siblings know all about how fucking crazy you are, so go on. Make up shit, tell them I speak with dead people, hey, why don’t you also tell them I see them? Tell them I cross people to the other world, oh hey, that’s the script for ‘The Ghost Whisperer’, ain’t it? Your Dad’s the TV Presenter and your Mum’s the producer, they surely will know plenty about it. Tell them… I don’t know, why don’t you make up some gore story about Robin too? Like… oh, I know! Tell everyone she was buried alive, something dramatic will draw attention. Tell them I have a third nipple, or that I need artificial help to ejaculate,” Strike mocked her with a little smile. “Go on, I don’t fucking care, Robin won’t either, we know you’re just a crazy, mentally unstable liar, but we will still ruin your life, Charlotte. Good thing is, the judge might decide you’re just crazy and lock you in a facility for good once and for all. Humiliate yourself all you can please.”

“I believe we’ve finished here,” Ilsa stood up, and dragged Strike out of a fuming, seething Charlotte. “Like we said, Mr Corse, I trust you’ll keep your clients in their best behaviour, or it’ll be our turn to take action.”

“It won’t be a problem, Mrs Herbert,” said Mr Corse, and shook hands with her formally. “Am I right Mr Ross?”

“Yes,” said Jago between gritted teeth, glaring at his wife’s figure. “I assure you Mr Strike, you won’t have to complain any more, and neither will your family, you can rest easy.”

“Keep your wife on a short leash before she ruins your family’s entire reputation and pushes you off the posh class, Jago,” said Strike, and stormed out of the room with Ilsa.

They walked fast to the garden, and Ilsa let him go ahead, fuming as he was because even though he felt victorious and exhilarated, he always hated the power she still had over him, the constant threat of her presence upon their lives, the constant need to walk ten steps ahead of the most revengeful woman he knew.

He let out steam through fast walking, and waited for Ilsa by the car as she strolled calmly, letting him calm down. The two entered the car and Strike released a deep breath, putting on his belt as Ilsa did the same and began driving them away.

“They have gulped it then,” said Ilsa cheerfully. “You don’t have letters, do you?”

“No, but I would’ve found out something else, enough to get her in court so we can ask the judge for a restraining order,” said Strike, and Ilsa chuckled. “You were incredible Ilsa, thank you.”

“Oh I loved it, did you see how angry she was? And Jago?” she snorted. “I’ve no doubt we could’ve sunk them in court with a bit more time, if we weren’t on such tight schedule trying to make Robin’s life easier. You were extraordinary, that stunt mixing truths with inventions to mock her? Flawless.”

“Robin likes devouring BBC dramas, maybe I’m learning a bit too much,” Strike half smiled at her, and then released a deep breath more before growing serious. “Is this what fatherhood is like, Ilsa? My child’s not even born yet, and it already has me bluffing people, threatening, getting all anxious and worried and angry by the slight possibility of a threat…”

“I’m afraid that’s absolutely normal,” said Ilsa calmly. “You know how calm and collected Nick always is? Well you should’ve seen him when Evelyn told him someone at school was calling her names. I thought I’d be the protective beast, but by the time I found out he had already called in fury the entire school staff, threatening with a formal complaint at the Ministry for Education, with press and God knows what else. I’ve never seen him so furious and out of himself before in my entire life, and I’ve known him for eighteen years.”

Strike snorted a laugh.

“Really? I always thought his Zen was impenetrable.”

“Me too,” Ilsa half smiled. “But he’s an incredible Dad, and so are you. And incredible Dads do incredible things if their children or their loved ones require it.”

Strike looked at her intently.

“Do you really think that of me?”

“Of course,” said Ilsa, matter of fact. “You were always a Dad, Corm. You were the most responsible of our friends, the one to make sure we’d all get home safe and sound after every outing and party, even if you were drunk, the one to come as anybody’s knight in shining armour, you fathered Lucy, Harry and even your own mother when necessary… you have always been the person to keep a cold head in times of crisis and come to anybody’s aid and protection whenever it was needed, specially to vulnerable people. And you’re a remarkable uncle, godfather, boyfriend, friend… and don’t think I didn’t notice you avoided calling your baby an accident. That child Robin is carrying is a extremely lucky child, Cormoran.”

Deeply touched, Strike gulped a knot that had appeared suddenly in his throat, and nodded.

“Thanks Ilsa. You don’t know how much that means to me.”

“Robin’s told me what happened with the Rokebys so… yeah, I know,” Ilsa reached out with a hand and squeezed his as he drove. “You’ve got a team behind you, Corm. Nobody learns to be a father from one day to another, shit I’m learning motherhood every single day but… you do your best, you surround yourself with a good team, and whatever you can’t do, there’ll be someone who can. Someone ready to step up when you need it.”

“I wish I had stepped up more for you and Nick, and sooner,” Strike confessed. “I left you guys alone so fucking much, specially when I left for the army. I haven’t been the best friend always, I know.”

“Don’t worry about that, past is past. Besides, you’re our best friend, but we’re also each other’s best friends, that’s the base of our entire romance,” said Ilsa. “We’ve never been alone, while you were gone.”

“And you’ll never be, if I get a say,” Strike smiled small at her, and she glanced at him briefly before looking back at the road. “I don’t think Robin and I will have more kids but… I’m very glad we did this. I’m very glad you and Vanessa and Lucy have been giving her the strength and courage when she panicked the most, that you’ve considered her family from day one… the baby’s hella lucky but shit so are we, having people like you.”

“Anytime, Corm. You know that.”

“Yeah… I know.”