Chapter Text
The small grubby office sat in complete silence. The shabby, peeling black door which led onto Denmark Street now free from noise and excited chatter. The gaggle of paparazzi who’d stationed themselves there for most of the day having now dispersed. Abandoning their vigil and finally conceding defeat in their effort to capture a photo of the elusive occupant, Mr Cormoran Blue Strike.
The lights in the office had been turned off all day in an attempt to discourage the parasitic like journalists. The neon lights from the club outside the only thing preventing the room from being shrouded in complete darkness. Their luminescence bathing everything in a strange reddish-gold hue, giving the office the appearance of an old sepia photograph.
The computers were turned off and nobody was expected back till after the weekend. Strike having fired off a brief text that morning warning Pat and the agencies subcontractors to steer clear of Denmark Street. It wasn’t after all good for business if a Private Detective agencies employees had their photographs splashed all over the papers.
After sending the text message Cormoran had promptly turned off his mobile phone, and pulled the cable out of the office landline. Bringing an abrupt end to the surge of texts, phone calls and aggressive emails he had been subjected to since the announcement of Johnny Rokeby’s death.
The news had hit the headlines in the early hours of Friday morning. Shocking the world who had been unaware of the ageing rockstars fight against cancer. His plight having been kept a closely guarded secret by family and friends.
Strike had of course known. The illness had been used in an attempt to manipulate and emotionally blackmail him into complying with the Rokeby’s sudden desire to play happy families. Though Cormoran had refused to play the role they had cast him in. That of the outcast bastard son, finally accepted and welcomed into the Rokeby fold. In reality only there to assuage old Johnny’s guilt when he lay dying.
Forty fucking years to late, Strike had thought at the time. A sentiment he had maintained despite constant requests to meet his ‘father’ in the last eight months.
At first after hearing the news, Strike had attempted to carry on as normal. Determined his day wasn’t going to be altered any more than it already had been by that fucker and the swarming press outside his front door.
Strike had washed, dressed, then gone downstairs to the office. Sitting at the partners desk he usually shared with his best friend and business partner Robin Ellacott. He spent a few hours reviewing case notes, cross referencing sources and carefully labelling evidence. Placing items in chronological order in the manila files he had long favoured.
However, Strike’s usually sharp disciplined mind kept wondering as his focus drifted elsewhere. Eventually causing Cormoran to abandon his desk and drag his chair out, placing it in the centre of the room. Collapsing heavily onto it and gazing off unseeing into the middle distance, at an undetermined point on the wall.
Strike had been sat in this position now for most of the afternoon. Watching silently as the shadows moved and altered with the change of light. His seating arrangement enabling him to stretch out his long legs and ease some of the discomfort caused by his prothesis.
Time ticked slowly by as he remained motionless. The afternoon slowly slipping into evening. Strike’s rapidly racing mind running in complete contrast to his inertia.
Although Cormoran’s face was now partially masked by shadow given the late hour, anyone entering the room and seeing him for the first time would have been unable to mistake his mood.
The detectives broad shoulders were tight and his whole body held rigid with tension. Strike’s dark thoughts and recollections having caused him to silently seethe all day. Frustration now rolling off him in almost visible waves. His surly profile casting an alarming silhouette across the length of the room.
Cormoran’s whole demeanour radiated the image a man who was on the edge. Barely maintaining control of his jumbled thoughts and emotions.
A cigarette was clutched absentmindedly between Strike’s thick fingers. The glowing embers smouldering away as plumes of smoke lazily spiralled around him, filling the air with the fug of tobacco.
Usually Strike made a point of not smoking in the office, but today he was alone and really didn’t give a flying fuck. He wasn’t even smoking the bloody cigarettes now. Just finding an odd kind of comfort in the feel of them clasped between his fingers. Watching them burn and glow in the low light as midnight rapidly approached. Thankfully signalling the end to this interminable day.
A day sat in deep contemplation about Johnny fucking Rokeby.
Strike hadn’t really given a lot of thought about how he would feel when the terminally ill Rokeby finally died. Fleetingly he had suspected an ugly hidden part of himself would be glad. Pleased the old bastard had died prematurely. A sense of warped justice having finally been delivered. Retribution for the shit Rokeby had put himself and his mother through when he was growing up.
But the vileness of those thoughts, and the depth of hatred they engendered had never materialised. Strike being a far better man than he gave himself credit for.
Anger had in fact been the predominant emotion Strike had experienced today. A deep seated anger born from old hurts and long ago memories which had materialised in Strike’s mind. Followed by an old unanswered question he had told himself as an adult didn’t matter any more. A question that had once burned inside him and threatened to consume him as a young boy.
Why had he been rejected?
Strike remembering over and over again with starling clarity the small boy he had once been. Stood in his best clothes snotty and sobbing his heart out when meeting his father for the first time. Hearing himself labelled as nothing more than an ‘accident’. An inconvenience. Conceived due to a drunken, drug induced moment of madness.
Unwanted and deemed unworthy of Rokeby’s time or affection.
Unworthy of his attention.
That was until he had gone and got his fucking leg blown off in Afghanistan!That had made the bastard take notice Strike had remembered angrily. The media attention attracted by the ‘estranged war hero son’ demanding Johnny pass comment to the vying media. Alluding to a relationship that didn’t exist between them to avoid bad PR. A damning act that had infuriated Strike at the time and even now rankled.
All these thoughts kept playing over and over again in Strike’s mind. Though today he had realised marked the end of an era. Johnny Rokeby was dead. Any opportunity to gain clarity and insight into his actions and motives throughout the years gone with him to his grave.
Strike had sat mulling over this sobering thought. Questioning and analysing his own behaviour and reason for continually declining the opportunity to meet with Rokeby when it had presented itself. Denying himself the answer to question he had once obsessed over.
Finally and pragmatically Strike reached the steadfast conclusion that he didn’t regret the choice he had made, in not meeting Rokeby. To have acted any other way would have been disingenuous to his own feelings. Not to mention the memory of his much loved mother, Leda.
Rokeby was not his father and never had been. That role had been taken up by his Uncle Ted a long time ago. Ted’s kindness, intelligence and integrity instilling in the young Strike all the qualities that had made him the man he was today. He had many faults but he was respected, loved and cared about by those who knew him. That was enough for Strike.
It had to be.
Yet it seemed even in death Rokeby had the last laugh. Strike’s refusal to bow to his wishes and pay court to the dying rockstar now responsible for possibly ending his relationship with his half-brother, Al.
Cormoran had received several messages from his enraged half-siblings in the weeks leading to Rokeby’s death. Non of them affecting him deeply. He didn’t after all know any of them.
However, the email he had received from Al that morning full of angry recriminations and bile had hurt. The younger man lashing out in his grief over his father’s death. Even going so far as to unfairly accuse Cormoran’s ‘heartless refusal to a dying man’ as being responsible for hastening Rokeby’s demise.
Despite their very different upbringing and lifestyles Strike liked Al. He had picked up his mobile phone numerous times during the day. Tempted to switch it back on so he could ring or email his brother.
But what could he possibly say that would mend the situation? Sure any attempt at reconciliation with Al whilst the pain of grief was so prevalent and raw would be counterproductive. Strike instinctively thinking inaction was oddly the best course of action. For the time being at least.
Strike had also wanted to avoid turning his phone back on as he knew it would contain yet more messages from well meaning friends. Messages which though kind somehow weren’t pitched quite right. The few he had read only irritating him further like the one he had received from his sister Lucy that morning.
Lucy had offered her sympathy and regret. Emotions which didn’t seem appropriate to the situation or match Strike’s feelings at all. Sympathy after all suggested he was sad and grieving.
Which clearly he wasn’t.
Ilsa and Nick ever practical had messaged him and offered refuge from the press in their Wandsworth home. Ted had simply text ‘I’m here lad if you need me.’
Strike had been grateful to them all for caring about him enough to contact him. But at the risk of sounding like an ungrateful bastard he hadn’t wanted to get back in touch with any of them. Not even Ted. Feeling unequal to company at the moment and not wanting to talk or discuss his feelings in his present mood.
There was only one person he had really wanted to hear from or better still see. Only one person who could sooth him, and understand him without him even having to speak a single word.
Robin.
Though to his surprise no message had materialised that morning before he had powered off his phone.
Robin had not been in touch.
In fact Strike had not seen Robin for a few days. On his own insistence she wasn’t even in London, having taken a much needed break to visit her family in Yorkshire.
Not that she had agreed to such a venture without a fight. It had taken several heated discussions before Robin had conceded to his entreaties she needed to take a few days off.
Strike had been relieved at first when she had begrudgingly agreed to take a break. Not liking the permeant dark circles under Robin’s eyes. The pallor of her skin or the weary way she carried herself lately. The long hours of surveillance, her divorce and the time she had carried the agency in his absence when Joan had been dying finally taking their toll on her. Though Robin of course was loath to admit there was a problem at all.
Seeing her like that had made Strike’s heart ache and a powerful surge of protectiveness to erupt inside him. Unable to bear the thought of her being unwell or simply to stand back while clearly she was running herself into the ground. Strike’s intentions had been honourable. Looking out for Robin’s best interests as her best mate…
But God he’d fucking missed her.
Even before all this Rokeby shit, every day without Robin had been interminable. She’d only been gone a few days but it had felt like a lifetime. Strike had missed everything about her;
The sight of her beautiful face first thing on the morning, her cheeks rosy and glowing from the cold.
The cheery ‘hello’ and cheeky grin she threw him when entering the office first thing in the morning. Proffering takeout coffee for them both as they discussed their current cases. Shoulders brushing as they hunched close together over their shared desk.
That gorgeous soft smile she seemed to reserve just for him as her eyes twinkled teasingly. Never failing to lift his spirits however dark.
The way she nibbled and worried her bottom lip between her teeth when she was concentrating or deep in thought. Fuck that little mannerism drove him crazy!
The cadence of Robin’s voice when she spoke and those wonderful Yorkshire inflections. Loving it when she said the word ‘bugger’.
Her effortless grace, thoughtfulness and kindness when dealing with clients, subcontractors and their belligerent office manager Pat.
The strange juxtaposed gentleness of her personality mixed with her stubborn forthrightness.
Not to mention her mind. Fucking hell that glorious sharp intelligent mind that constantly left Strike in awe of her. Possibly the sexiest thing about her even though she was absolutely bloody gorgeous.
Strike had even missed the smell of her. Finding himself picking up an old scarf Robin had left behind on the coat stand and smelling it the other day. Inhaling the scent of it as he caressed the fabric reverently between his fingers. Pathetic old fucker that he was.
Strike longed now to hear Robin’s voice and her teasing laugh. To feel the soft skin of her hand against his own. To experience one of those fleeting hugs they had begun to share more often lately. The feel of Robin’s soft curvaceous body pressed against his own present in his mind long after they had physically parted.
Cormoran was no fool. He knew why he had missed Robin so much. Why she was the only person he could tolerate or indeed wanted anywhere near him at the moment. What all these thoughts of deep longing equated to.
He was in love with his partner and best friend.
This was no sudden great revelation or epiphany that had hit him one night. There was no one event that has triggered these emotions. Nor was it Robin’s current absence that had made him realise it. Being in love with Robin was quite simply a fact he had come to accept and live with. Strike having known it’s inevitability really from the day they had first met.
How could any man in his right mind not fall in love with Robin Ellacott. The only shocking thing being that lately Strike had felt certain that Robin had begun to feel the same way about him. Though heartbreakingly they both knew to act on their feelings would be tantamount to madness. There was to much at stake. To much to loose.
Stubbing out his cigarette and leaning his head against the back of the chairs head rest Strike sighed heavily. His eyes felt like they were burning, his whole body aching from the state of tension he had been in all day.
He was so tired.
So utterly and completely exhausted.
He needed to rest.
With an iron will Strike focused his mind only on thoughts of Robin now. The thought of her alone easing some of his earlier anger. A calmness he had not felt all day washing over him like a soothing balm as his eyes fluttered shut.
Strike was unaware how long he sat like that. Breathing softly in the darkness, listening to the sounds in the street outside. It had begun to rain heavily now, lashing against the windows. The sound almost rhythmic as Strike began to enter that strange state that drifted between consciousness and sleep. Hopeing eventually his fatigue would allow him to rest.
Several minutes ticked by until Cormoran’s semiconscious state made him dimly aware of a noise downstairs. The soft tread of feet up the treacherous metal staircase. The sound of a key in the lock which roused him instantly making his eyes fly open and his body tense.
Then door squeaked on its hinges and like an apparition before his eyes stood Robin in the entrance to their office. The light from the hallway bathing her in a soft ethereal glow that was almost heavenly. Her copper-gold hair falling about her face in sleek waves. A small smile on her lips as she appraised him carefully.
Strike blinked several times. Not trusting his eyes and believing his thoughts of her had led him to finally fall asleep. Surely he was dreaming! Robin was in Yorkshire not fucking Denmark Street. Yet he watched transfixed as the scent of Narciso drifted over him. Her sweet voice breaking the silence and any doubt in Strike’s mind as she crossed the room to stand before him.
“I’m here now.” Robin whispered gently, as those delicate soft hands reached out for him.
Robin wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled his pliant willing body towards her. Her other hand sliding into his thick hair as she pressed his head into stomach.
“R’bin?” Strike murmured against the fabric of her coat.
“Shhhhh. I’m here now.” She repeated soothingly.
Cormoran found himself surrounded by her scent and cocooned in her warmth as Robin’s fingers softly stroked his hair. All the tension drained from his body in an instance. Peace finally washing over his ravaged tired mind.
Robin was here now and that was all that mattered to him.