“It’s her,” said Barclay, addressing Robin. “She wanted tae mention him for the pleasure of sayin’ his name. She’s Postcard.”
“Bloody well done,” Strike told Barclay.
“It’s Robin’s win,” said Barclay. “She made the pass. I jus’ tapped it in.”
“Thanks, Sam,” said Robin, pointedly, not looking at Strike, who registered both the tone and her expression.
“Fair point,” said Strike, “well done, both of you.”
Aware that he’d been short with Robin during their meeting about the Bamborough case, Strike sought to make amends by asking her opinion on which of the waiting list clients they ought to contact, now that the Postcard case was as good as wrapped up, and she said she thought the commodities broker who thought her husband was sleeping with their nanny.
“Great,” said Strike. “Pat, can you get in touch and tell her we’re ready to roll if she still wants him under surveillance? If nobody’s got anything else—”
“I have,” said Hutchins, generally the quietest person in the agency. “It’s about that roll of film you wanted passed to the Met.”
“Oh yeah?” said Strike. “Is there news?”
“My mate rang last night. There’s nothing to be done with it. You won’t get any prosecutions now.”
“Why not?” said Robin.
She sounded angrier than she’d meant to. The men all looked at her.
“Perpetrators’ faces all hidden,” said Hutchins. “That arm that appears for a moment: you can’t build a prosecution case on an out-of-focus ring.”
“I thought your contact said the roll had come out of a raid on one of Mucky Ricci’s brothels?” said Robin.
“He thinks it did,” Hutchins corrected her. “You won’t get DNA evidence off a can that old, that’s been kept in a shed and an attic and handled by a hundred people. It’s a no-go. Shame,” he said indifferently, “but there you are.”
Strike now heard his mobile ringing back on the partners’ desk, where he’d left it. Worried it might be Ted, he excused himself from the meeting and retreated into the inner office, closing the door behind him.
There was no caller ID on the number ringing his mobile.
“Cormoran Strike.”
“Hello, Cormoran,” said an unfamiliar, husky voice. “It’s Jonny.”
There was a brief silence.
“Your father,” Rokeby added.
Strike, whose tired mind was full of Joan, of the agency’s three open cases, of guilt about being grumpy with his partner, and the logistical demands he was placing on his employees by disappearing to Cornwall again, said nothing at all. Through the dividing door, he could hear the team still discussing the roll of film.
“Wanted a chat,” said Rokeby. “Is that all right?”
Strike felt suddenly disembodied; completely detached from everything, from the office, from his fatigue, from the concerns that had seemed all-important just seconds ago. It was as though he and his father’s voice existed alone and nothing else was fully real, except Strike’s adrenaline, and a primal desire to leave a mark that Rokeby wouldn’t quickly forget.
“I’m listening,” he said.
Another silence.
“Look,” said Rokeby, sounding slightly uneasy, “I don’t wanna do this by phone. Let’s meet. It’s been too fucking long. Water under the bridge. Let’s meet, let’s… I wanna—this can’t go on. This fucking—feud, or whatever it is.”
Strike said nothing.
“Come to the house,” said Rokeby. “Come over. Let’s talk, and… you’re not a kid any more. There are two sides to every story. Nothing’s black and white.”
He paused. Strike still said nothing.
“I’m proud of you, d’you know that?” said Rokeby. “I’m really fucking proud of you. What you’ve done and…”
The sentence petered out. Strike stared, motionless, at the blank wall in front of him. Beyond the partition wall, Pat was laughing at something Morris had said.
“Look,” repeated Rokeby, with just a tiny hint of temper now, because he was a man used to getting his own way. “I get it, I do, but what the fuck can I do? I can’t time travel. Al’s told me what you’ve been saying, and there’s a bunch of stuff you don’t know, about your mother and all her fucking men. If you just come over, we can have a drink, we can have it all out. And,” said Rokeby, quietly insinuating, “maybe I can help you out a bit, maybe there’s something you want I can help out with, peace offering, I’m open to suggestions…”
In the outer office, Hutchins and Barclay were taking their leave, ready to get back to their separate jobs. Robin was thinking only about how much she wanted to go home. She was supposed to have the rest of the day off, but Morris was hanging around, and she was sure he was waiting because he wanted to walk with her to the Tube. Pretending to have paperwork to look at, she was rifling through a filing cabinet while Morris and Pat chatted, hoping he’d leave. She’d just opened an old file on a prolific adulterer, when Strike’s voice filled the room from the inner office. She, Pat and Morris turned their heads. Several pages of the file Robin was balancing on top of the drawer slid to the floor.
“… so GO FUCK YOURSELF!”
Before Robin could exchange looks with Morris or Pat, the dividing door between inner and outer offices opened. Strike looked alarming: white, livid, his breath coming fast. He stormed through the outer office, grabbed his coat and could be heard heading down the metal staircase outside.
Robin picked up the fallen pages.
“Shit,” said Morris, grinning. “Wouldn’t have wanted to be on the end of that call.”
“Nasty temper,” said Pat, who looked weirdly satisfied. “Knew it, the moment I laid eyes on him.”
40
Thus as they words amongst them multiply,
They fall to strokes, the frute of too much talke…
Edmund Spenser
The Faerie Queene
Robin found no polite way of avoiding walking to the Tube with Morris and in consequence was obliged to listen to two off-color jokes, and to lie about her Valentine’s plans, because she could just imagine Morris’s response if she told him Strike was coming
