And this was, however you looked at it, an extraordinarily powerful image. Strike had once, when extremely drunk, told Robin that Charlotte was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and as she hovered between life and death, that beautiful woman had chosen to contact Strike, to tell him she loved him still. What did prosaic Robin Ellacott have to offer that was in any way equal to such high-stakes drama, such extremity of emotion? An up-to-date rota, nearly docketed invoices and cups of strong tea? Doubtless because of the pain in her face, Robin’s mood vacillated between diminishing cheerfulness and a tendency to brood. Finally, she gave herself a stern talking to: Strike had given her an unprecedented assurance of affection, and she’d never have to see Saul Morris again, and she should be delighted about both.
Predictably, it was Pat who took the sudden firing of Saul Morris hardest. Strike delivered the news on Monday morning, as he and the secretary narrowly missed colliding in the doorway onto Denmark Street, Strike on his way out, Pat on her way in. Both of them were preparing for the ingestion of nicotine, Pat having just taken out the electronic cigarette she used during work hours, Strike already holding the Benson & Hedges he rarely smoked in the office.
“Morning,” said Strike. “I’ve left a note on your desk, couple of things I’d like you to do while I’m out. Robin’ll be in at ten. Oh—”
He’d taken a couple of steps before turning back.
“—and can you calculate Morris’s pay up to Friday and transfer it into his account right away? He’s not coming back.”
He didn’t wait for a reaction, so it was Robin who took the brunt of their secretary’s disappointment when she arrived at ten to ten. Pat had Radio Two playing, but turned it off the moment the door handle turned.
“Morning. Why—what ’appened to you?” said Pat.
Robin’s face looked worse, two days on, than it had on Saturday. While the swelling had subsided, both eyes were ringed in dark gray tinged with red.
“It was an accident. I bumped into something,” said Robin, stripping off her coat and hanging it on a peg. “So I won’t be on surveillance this week.”
She took a book out of her handbag and crossed to the kettle, holding it. She hadn’t particularly enjoyed the covert staring on the Tube that morning, but wasn’t going to mention Strike’s elbow to Pat, because she tried, wherever possible, not to fuel Pat’s antipathy for her partner.
“Why won’t Saul be coming back?” Pat demanded.
“He didn’t work out,” said Robin, her back to Pat as she took down two mugs.
“What d’you mean?” said Pat indignantly. “He caught that man who was having it away with the nanny. He always kept his paperwork up to date, which is more’n you can say for that Scottish nutter.”
“I know,” said Robin. “But he wasn’t a great team player, Pat.”
Pat took a deep drag of nicotine vapor, frowning.
“He,” she nodded toward the empty chair where Strike usually sat, “could take a few lessons from Morris!”
Robin knew perfectly well that it wasn’t Pat’s decision who the partners hired and fired, but unlike Strike, she also thought that in such a small team, Pat deserved the truth.
“It wasn’t Cormoran who wanted him gone,” she said, turning to face the secretary, “it was me.”
“You!” said Pat, astounded. “I thought the pair of you were keen on each other!”
“No. I didn’t like him. Apart from anything else, he sent me a picture of his erect penis at Christmas.”
Pat’s deeply lined face registered an almost comical dismay.
“In… in the post?”
Robin laughed.
“What, tucked inside a Christmas card? No. By text.”
“You didn’t—?”
“Ask for it? No,” said Robin, no longer smiling. “He’s a creep, Pat.”
She turned back to the kettle. The untouched bottle of vodka was still standing beside the sink. As Robin’s eyes fell on it, she remembered the idea that had occurred to her on Saturday night, shortly before Morris’s hands closed around her waist. After giving the secretary her coffee, she carried her own into the inner office, along with the book she’d taken from her bag. Pat called after her,
“Shall I update the rota, or will you?”
“I’ll do it,” said Robin, closing the door, but instead, she called Strike.
“Morning,” he said, answering on the second ring.
“Hi. I forgot to tell you an idea I had on Saturday night.”
“Go on.”
“It’s about Gloria Conti. Why did she vomit in the bathroom at Margot’s barbecue, if Oakden didn’t spike the punch?”
“Because he’s a liar, and he did spike the punch?” suggested Strike. He was currently in the same Islington square that Robin had patrolled on Friday, but he paused now and reached for his cigarettes, eyes on the central garden, which today was deserted. Beds densely planted with purple pansies looked like velvet cloaks spread upon the glistening grass.
“Or did she throw up because she was pregnant?” said Robin.
“I thought,” said Strike, after a pause while lighting a cigarette, “that only happens in the mornings? Isn’t that why it’s called—”
On the point of saying “morning sickness,” Strike remembered the expectant wife of an old army friend, who’d been hospitalized for persistent, round-the-clock vomiting.
“My cousin threw up any time of the day when she was pregnant,” said Robin. “She couldn’t stand certain food smells. And Gloria was at a barbecue.”
“Right,” said Strike, who was suddenly remembering the odd notion that had occurred to him after talking to the Bayliss sisters. Robin’s theory struck him as stronger than his.
