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‘Bugger!’ Robin exhaled, feeling her right foot slide uncontrollably away from her as she gripped the door of the Land Rover with her gloved hand. The road was slick with shards of ice that sparkled in the dim January sun. Robin carefully heaved herself up into the driver’s seat of the ancient vehicle and shivered as she slammed the door, her breath hung briefly in the cold air like a puff of smoke and Robin sighed inwardly as she contemplated the drive to work. On any other day Robin would have felt a slight frisson of anticipation, excitement even, at the prospect of the short drive through the streets of London to the shabby office in Denmark Street. Robin loved her job; the work, the people, even the dingy rooms with the tiny kitchen and permanently grubby carpet held a special place in her heart. However the thought of navigating through narrow streets layered with snow and ice, even in the dependable Land Rover, filled Robin with a slight sense of dread. It had nothing to do with the fact that her partner wouldn’t be there waiting for her with a cup of tea and a tired, crooked smile, as she had become used to. Strike was out on a particularly demanding stint of surveillance that week, starting at 06.00am and returning late in the afternoon, when Robin had already left to complete her own surveillance shift elsewhere in the Capital. Robin knew she had been less cheerful than usual this past week, her normally sunny disposition felt dimmed somewhat by the long days and bad weather. Or so she told herself.
The gritting lorries did not appear to have reached her corner of the Capital yet, and it was with extreme caution that Robin gradually eased the car out of its space and began to slowly trundle down the quiet residential street.
Denmark Street was, as usual, filled with ear-piercingly loud drills that made Robin’s teeth vibrate as they shredded the solid tarmac into pieces alongside cheerful workmen in brightly-coloured hard hats. Robin had parked the Land Rover two roads away in a free parking space before walking along the frosted pavements towards the office. Robin wound her sea-green scarf tighter around her cheeks, her golden hair whipping around her face in the biting wind. Heaving a grateful sigh as she neared the shabby wooden door of the office, Robin slid her key into the lock and hurried inside, stamping her boots on the faded brown mat inside the door. Opening the main office door, Robin was surprised to see a light glowing under the door of the partner’s office.
‘Cormoran?’ She called into the silence, her heart rate starting to build as various possibilities flew through her mind. Moments later Strike appeared in the doorway, his dark hair a rumpled mess but a triumphant smile on his face.
‘What are you…?’ Robin began.
‘Closed the case. Done and dusted by seven o’clock this morning.’ Grinned Strike as he walked into the outer office. The early morning starts meant Strike hadn’t bothered to shave for almost a week, and as a result his stubble had grown into the beginnings of a dark beard. Robin forced herself to stop looking at how handsome the dark shadow looked on his face, and looked straight into his eyes in surprise.
’You mean you actually caught him?’ Robin was astounded. Even for Strike, that was quick work.
’Yep. Got the photographs to prove it. Tea? It’s just boiled.’ Strike crossed the room and picked up the kettle.
Robin unwound her scarf, slid her coat off and hung them on the ancient coat rack in the corner before taking her warm mug off Strike and perching on the edge of the sofa.
‘Here, have a look.’ Strike passed her the camera and Robin slowly clicked through the incriminating photos of Professor Plum, the object of Strike’s surveillance for the past four days.
‘I can’t believe he was so brazen about it, after getting away with it for months.’ Robin handed the camera back and took a grateful sip of scalding hot tea.
‘Got complacent.’ Strike shrugged indifferently, leaning back against Pat’s desk, his own mug clasped in his long fingers.
‘Hmm.’ Robin murmured, savouring the warmth of the steam on her face as she held her mug close.
‘So how’s your week been? Seems a while since we last caught up.’ Strike asked, genuinely interested to hear how his partner’s week had been without him. He knew he let her do too much, didn’t make her take enough breaks. But she was almost as stubborn as he was. The thought made him smile.
‘It’s been ok.’ Robin heard the slight sigh in her own voice, cursing the tell-tale despondency that made Strike look at her more closely. She covered her embarrassment with a long drink of tea, inevitably burning her tongue.
‘What’s wrong?’ He asked with a frown.
‘No nothing’s wrong, sorry I think I’m just tired. It’s been a long week, I’m glad it’s Friday.’ Robin couldn’t tell Strike that the week had seemed even longer without him there, waiting for her in the morning. She could hardly admit it to herself, let alone him.
‘I know, at least we’ve a weekend off for once. Can’t remember the last time that happened. Are you up to much?’ Strike asked, pushing himself off the edge of the desk and taking his empty mug over to the sink.
Robin gave a small laugh. ‘Hopefully not. I plan on doing the washing and catching up on some sleep. Vanessa suggested going out but honestly i’d rather stay in the warm and sit on the sofa with a glass of wine. God, I’m getting cold aren’t I?’
’Not as old as me.’ Strike grinned and propped his dripping mug upside next to the sink.
‘Have you got any exciting plans?’ Robin asked, crossing the room with the intention of rinsing out her mug. Strike slipped it out of her hand before she realised and dunked it into the lukewarm water, the touch of his fingers against her skin so brief it barely registered.
‘My plans involve Arsenal and a pint, and not much else.’ Strike dried his hands on the moth eaten tea-towel before dropping it next to the sink and twisting round to lean against the cheap worktop. Robin suddenly realised how closely she was standing beside him, now they were facing each other rather than side to side. She could see each individual eyelash framing his emerald green eyes, which were shining brightly in the perennially dim office. His chest was rising slightly with each breath, his sky blue shirt pulled tightly across his broad shoulders, and his collar was slightly wonky. Robin had to stop herself from reaching her hand up and straightening it, running her fingers over the smooth cotton and feeling the strong muscles beneath.
Robin licked her lips nervously, realising that she hadn’t yet replied.
’Sounds like a perfect weekend’. Her throat was so dry the words were barely a whisper, and she found she couldn’t tear her eyes away from his face.
Strike’s eyes studied her as she stood so close to him, closer than they ever dared allow themselves to be; her English Rose complexion was tired, no doubt from her undeniable dedication to the job, yet she was exceptionally beautiful and, at that very moment, her expression was even more captivating than usual. Her eyes were filled with something that looked a lot like…longing. Her full, red lips were slightly parted and he could see the pulse in her pale neck racing faster than he had ever seen seen it. Strike wasn’t a particularly vain man, but he was sure he wasn’t imagining the look in her eyes. However, an uncharacteristic wave of nerves had taken hold of him and he felt frozen, unable to proceed or perhaps just uncertain how.
Robin watched, almost hypnotised by the very nearness of him and the surreal feeling that they were the only two people in existence at that very moment. A strange, almost tangible atmosphere had descended on the office, a delicate, glittering thread was hanging between them. The rattling shrieks of the drills, the wheezing of Diesel engines and the raised voices of the workmen outside had dwindled into silence.
Robin watched Strike’s Adam’s apple bob gently as he swallowed, followed by a deep breath.
His clear, deep voice was quiet but Robin could hear nothing else.
‘Would you like to, maybe…’
The loud clang of the office door swinging open and banging unceremoniously against the battered wall shattered the delicate quiet of the room and both detectives looked up in surprise. Robin instinctively took a step backwards away from the noise and, reluctantly, away from Strike. The office manager, Pat, was standing in the doorway, a shopping bag swinging off one arm and an e-cigarette hanging precariously between two aged fingers.
‘Bloody nightmare out there, almost fell right over! Where are all the bloody gritters?’ Her rasping voice filled the office and the magic web that had spun itself around the two partners so intricately immediately fractured and crumbled around them. The familiar sounds from outside filled Robin’s ears as she busied herself opening a filing cabinet, absently yet apparently determinedly searching through it for a piece of imaginary paperwork. Strike had moved into the inner office and Pat was now busy switching on her computer and muttering to nobody in particular about the state of the roads.
Robin gave herself a gentle shake, still slightly stunned at what had almost happened, and frustrated that it hadn’t. Robin slowly walked into the partner’s office and began to turn on her own computer, ready to start another day. Seated at his own desk, Strike appeared absorbed in a file that was spread haphazardly in front of him.
The morning passed quietly, with the wind occasionally battering the windows so that the rotten wooden frames shook and shivered, and soon the muffled sounds of the workmen fell silent as they paused for lunch.
Feeling a pang of hunger in her stomach, Robin stopped typing up the notes propped neatly against her monitor and looked up, almost surprised at her surroundings after being so engrossed in the details of the case. Her eyes immediately settled on Strike who, to her surprise, was already focused on her. Robin gave a small, almost rueful smile and felt a hot blush creep up her neck as she recalled their moment in the kitchen only a few hours before. Strike grinned back, his eyes brighter than she’d ever seen them and sparkling with an intent that sent a pleasurable shiver down her spine.
‘You hungry?’ He asked, raising his eyebrows questioningly.
‘I am.’ She replied. ‘You?’
‘Always.’
Robin grinned at this and leant back in her chair, stretching her aching back.
Strike’s eyes wandered down to the small expanse of pale skin that peeked out from the bottom of Robin’s soft pink jumper and he quickly cast his gaze elsewhere.
‘Do you want me to nip out?’ Asked Robin as she tidied the notebooks on her desk.
‘Sod it, it’s Friday. Let’s go to the pub.’ Strike replied and Robin smiled. Strike rarely needed an excuse to head to The Tottenham.
The two partners walked into the main office where Pat was eating a sandwich whilst simultaneously filing expenses and speaking to her son on the phone.
Robin lifted her coat off the hook and shivered as the cold material slid over her arms.
‘Don’t forget this, it’s bloody freezing out there.’ Strike held out her scarf to her, before seeming to decide something and gently draping it around her neck instead of placing it in her outstretched hands, tugging one side down a little to even it out. Robin smiled up at him and kept her gaze firmly away from where Pat was seated at her desk. This gesture was sure to be noticed by the eagle-eyed manager.
Strike held open the door and Robin walked through it, shaking her hair loose over her scarf as she went.
The two partners emerged onto Denmark Street side by side, Robin matching Strike’s slow pace on the slick pavement, and before she could second guess her decision she gently slid her arm through his. Temporarily taken aback, Strike quickly recovered and couldn’t stop a smile stealing over his face. Strike pressed her arm closer against his side and the two friends walked the familiar route to one of their favourite places, the winter sun shining down on them as they went.