I don’t think I’ve ever felt so envious in my life as I am of that girl Robin.
And this, Strike decided to ignore.
He’d set off for Clapham South station deliberately early, because he wanted time for a cigarette before Robin picked him up and drove them the short distance to Anna and Kim’s flat. Standing beneath the overhang outside the station, he lit up, looking out over a row of bicycles at a muddy corner of Clapham Common, where ochre-leaved trees shivered in the downpour. He’d only taken a couple of drags on his cigarette when his mobile rang in his pocket. Resolving not to answer if it was Charlotte, he pulled it out and saw Polworth’s name.
“All right, Chum?”
“Still got time for the little people, then, Sherlock?”
“I can spare you a minute or two,” said Strike, watching the rain. “Wouldn’t want people to think I’ve lost the common touch. How’s things?”
“We’re coming up to London for a weekend.”
Polworth sounded about as excited as a man facing a colonoscopy.
“I thought London was the heart of all evil?”
“Not my choice. It’s Roz’s birthday. She wants to see the fucking Lion King and Trafalgar Square and shit.”
“If you’re looking for somewhere to stay, I’ve only got one bedroom.”
“We’re booked into an Airbnb. Weekend after next. Just wondered if you were up for a pint. Could bring your Robin along, so Penny’s got someone to talk to. Unless, I dunno, the fucking Queen’s got a job for you.”
“Well, she has, but I told her the waiting list’s full. That’d be great,” said Strike. “What else is new?”
“Nothing,” said Polworth. “You saw the Scots bottled it?”
The old Land Rover had appeared in a line of traffic. Having no desire to get onto the subject of Celtic nationalism, Strike said,
“If ‘bottling’ ’s what you want to call it, yeah. Listen, I’m gonna have to go, mate, Robin’s about to pick me up in the car. I’ll ring you later.”
Chucking his cigarette end down a nearby storm drain, he was ready to climb into the Land Rover as soon as Robin pulled up.
“Morning,” she said, as Strike hoisted himself into the passenger seat. “Am I late?”
“No, I was early.”
“Nice beard,” said Robin, as she pulled away from the curb in the rain. “You look like a guerrilla leader who’s just pulled off a successful coup.”
“Feel like one,” said Strike, and in fact, right now, reunited with Robin, he felt the straightforward sense of triumph that had eluded him for days.
“Was that Pat you were just talking to?” asked Robin. “On the phone?”
“No, Polworth. He’s coming up to London weekend after next.”
“I thought he hated London?”
“He does. One of his kids wants to visit. He wants to meet you, but I wouldn’t advise it.”
“Why not?” asked Robin, who was mildly flattered.
“Women don’t usually like Polworth.”
“I thought he was married?”
“He is. His wife doesn’t like him.”
Robin laughed.
“Why did you think Pat would be calling me?” asked Strike.
“I’ve just had her on the phone. Miss Jones is upset at not getting updates from you personally.”
“I’ll FaceTime her later,” said Strike, as they drove across the common, windscreen wipers working. “Hopefully the beard’ll put her off.”
“Some women like them,” said Robin, and Strike couldn’t help wondering whether Robin was one of them.
“Sounds like Hutchins and Barclay are closing in on Dopey’s partner,” he said.
“Yes,” said Robin. “Barclay’s offering to go out to Majorca and have a look around.”
“I’ll bet he is. Are you still on for interviewing the new subcontractor together, Monday?”
“Michelle? Yes, definitely,” said Robin
“Hopefully we’ll be back in the office by then.”
Robin turned into Kyrle Road. There was no sign of press, so she parked outside a Victorian terraced house divided into two flats.
When Strike rang the bell labeled “Phipps/Sullivan,” they heard footsteps on stairs through the door, which opened to reveal Anna Phipps, who was wearing the same baggy blue cotton jumpsuit and white canvas shoes as the first time they’d met her, in Falmouth.
“Come in,” she said, smiling as she retreated so that they could enter a small square of space at the bottom of the staircase. The walls were painted white: a series of abstract, monochrome prints covered the walls, and the fanned window over the door cast pools of light onto the uncarpeted stairs, reminding Robin of the St. Peter’s nursing home, and the life-size Jesus watching over the entrance.
“I’m going to try not to cry,” said Anna quietly, as though scared of being overheard, but in spite of her resolution, her eyes were already full of tears. “I’m sorry, but I—I’d really like to hug you,” she said, and she promptly did so, embracing first Robin, then Strike. Stepping back, she shook her head, half-laughing, and wiped her eyes.
“I can’t ever express to you how grateful… how grateful I am. What you’ve given me…” She made an ineffable gesture and shook her head. “It’s just so… so strange. I’m incredibly happy and relieved, but at the same time, I’m grieving… Does that make sense?”
“Totally,” said Robin. Strike grunted.
“Everyone’s here,” said Anna, gesturing upstairs. “Kim, Dad, Cyn, and Oonagh, too. I invited her down for a few days. We’re planning the funeral, you see—Dad and Cyn are really leaving it up to me—anyway… come up, everyone wants to thank you…”
As they followed Anna up the steep stairs, Strike using the banister to heave himself along, he remembered the tangle of emotions that had hit him when he’d received the phone call telling him of his own mother’s death. Amid the engulfing wave of grief had been a slight pinprick of relief, which had shocked and shamed him, and which had taken a long time to process. Over time, he’d come to understand that in some dark corner of his mind, he’d been dreading and half-expecting the news. The ax had fallen at last, suspense was forever over: Leda’s appalling taste in men had culminated in a sordid death on a dirty mattress, and
