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Chapter Text

Chapter 1: It was war time.

The Blitz bombings had been devastating London for a while, and while the entire city was panicked and anxious, it didn’t seem the case for Charlotte Campbell, the rich, upper-class daughter of a RAF Captain who, while her father was risking his life out there, was secretly fucking her low-class boyfriend in her bedroom, getting condoms from America that she stole from her parents. Her luxurious bed’s springs screeched a little as the seventeen-year-old Cormoran Strike pounded into her in a frenzy, their moans drowned in each other’s skin, as each tried to forget worries they pretended they didn’t have, both wanting to keep cool, collected facades, even if they looked more sleepless and, in Strike’s case, thinner every day. There was also the added adrenaline of knowing they had no time to waste, because another bombing and they would be dead.

As Strike came, he kissed his stunning secret girlfriend’s lips, drowning both their moans while her nails drew lines on his back, and gradually, he stopped moving.

“That was good,” Charlotte smiled flirtatiously, sitting up and readjusting her dress, cleaning herself with tissues she dropped into a nearby bin, while Strike cleaned himself, threw the condom into the bin, and readjusted his own clothes. Dark trousers up, shirt tucked back, and suspenders clipped back in place. “Hurry, my siblings could come any minute.”

Charlotte had four younger siblings, all of them now home-schooled students, all of them in the house, like her unemployed, snobbish mother.

“I love you,” said Strike like he always said, because she was his first love. He kissed her and she smiled and winked. She never said it back, but Strike’s heart was too damaged to care any more. His father had died in France, during Christmas the first year of the war, and he had two younger children and a mother to worry about.

“You better go, grab your books, we were studying, remember?”

Strike’s aunt, Catherine Waterstone , was one of the very few teachers remaining in Bromley, and so she homeschooled her own nephews and niece, and then other kids like Charlotte, which was how she and Strike had met. So Strike grabbed his briefcase, threw it over his shoulder, and Charlotte guided him to the back door. Her mother thought he was some classmate, but she was so absent in her book clubs and snob affairs that she’d never actually seen Strike, and Charlotte wanted to keep it that way. After all, Strike was too lower class.

S trike ran then through the garden, and was soon back in the streets of Bromley, arriving to the little house where he lived with his widowed mother, his sister Lucy, who was nearly fourteen, their brother Teddy, who had just turned five, and their aunt, Catherine Waterstone, of their mother’s same age and four years younger than her only sibling, Strike’s father, but married to Uncle Peter Waterstone, who was deployed for the war. Strike remembered vividly how the news of his father’s death, and the arrival of his few remains weeks later, had affected his widow and sister, but both women had now become warriors in a fight to survive themselves, and the three children.

“There you are!” Lucy appeared at the door, in her blouse and skirt. Clothes and food were being rationed, along with most things in life, and so their clothes kept being fixed by the adults, because they grew too fast. “Mum was getting worried, and they need your measures for a suit.”

“What suit? God knows we haven’t got the money for it.”

“They want to try to keep the wedding as decent as possible, considering the situation… and since you’re the best man, they’re fixing one of Dad’s old suits for you. You’re the best man, you should have these things in mind.”

“You’ve said that twice,” Strike rushed up the stairs to her mother’s bedroom.

“Cormoran, finally!” Leda rushed to him.

She was always anguished lately, and she hugged her eldest son a bit tighter than she would weren’t they in war. Leda was a stunningly beautiful woman, who had dreamed of being a singer or a model, but now settled with caring for the house, administering the little her husband had had to leave them, and being a nurse to support the troops and the country. She had long dark hair, thin lips, a heart-shaped face, and dark green eyes only Cormoran had inherited. He had the Nancarrow looks of her family, while Lucy and Teddy had the Strike looks, the blue eyes and light brown hair, and less rounder features, all of them though, tall for their age.

“Where were you?” asked Aunt Catherine eyeing him suspiciously. She looked a lot like Lucy and her late brother, Cormoran Senior, and was young and beautiful and spent a lot of time with the kids due to Leda’s demanding job, and they loved her very much. She was all culture and intelligence and taught them to write, read, and even some Latin. She was now forcing the young Teddy to stay put while she analysed where the tuck in the sleeves of one of Strike’s old trousers since, despite being tall for his age, Strike had been even taller than his brother at the same age. “Well it doesn’t matter,” she added before he could answer, “get to try your father’s with your mother. We’ll have to fix it, but it should look nice.”

“Luckily you’re nearly as tall already, and just as handsome,” Leda squeezed her son’s cheeks lovingly, as he was at eye level with her, and pushed him to stand in a more enlightened corner with his brother, taking a folded suit from the bed. “Come on, strip to your underwear, don’t be shy.”

Strike wasn’t shy, rather reticent because he knew Charlotte was a territory-marker, and his mother wasn’t stupid like Mrs Campbell was, rather quite observant. Lucy, bored beyond comprehension, came and sat on the bed watching her brothers, and as Strike removed his shirt, Leda’s eyes widened.

“Oh dear, who’ve you been fucking?”

“Mum!” he said embarrassed, blushing hard. “Nobody, I’m seventeen! It’s from being in the countryside and the factory, one gets scratched…”

“Yes sure,” Leda rolled eyes. “Honey, you think I’m bloody stupid? People all over the world are parents at your age quite often, and your best friends are getting married at seventeen, mind you. I’d rather you told me things, ‘cause I’m your mother, and if you leave some poor girl pregnant—,”

“Not gonna happen, we got condoms,” Strike admitted shyly. Catherine snorted, a needle between her lips, Teddy sniggered, Lucy’s eyes widened and Leda rolled eyes, buttoning one of Strike Senior’s old shirts on her son.

“How did you even got hold of those?” Leda inquired.

“She steals them from her parents, they’re rich. I wouldn’t go around risking getting somebody pregnant, Mum. And I love her, is not like I’m whoring around!”

“Love her?” Catherine frowned. “At this age nobody knows love. You fancy her, which is different. Who even is she, rich girls around here…? Wait a second…” she turned to him rapidly. “Charlotte Campbell?”

“The posh girl your aunt gives classes to?” Leda asked incredulous, and Strike blushed harder. “Oh you young boy, you better make sure her parents never know! Her Dad’s a RAF Captain, he’ll shoot you if he finds out you’re doing his girl!”

“He’ll never know, it’s not like he’s here anyway and her mother doesn’t care ‘bout anything she does, she’s absent as hell,” argued Strike defensively. He’d been boxing with the kids since he was a teen, and his nose was a little crooked, and he snored, after one break hadn’t healed perfectly, and he had short, dark, curly hair that was almost like a pubis, but to his mother, he was the handsomest of boys.

Now, Leda took his face firmly in her hands and locked serious eyes with him, full of worry.

“Darling, that needs to stop, okay? You can’t keep hooking up with her. You have to promise me.”

“But Mum!”

“Cormoran,” she gave him a stern look, and then sighed. “You know if things were different, I’d encourage you to go meet girls, you know I’m not like those mothers with a stick up their arses… but Cormoran I bust my arse off at work I’m hardly here, and your father’s never coming back. We need money, we need everybody to put their weight in here, and if that family finds out, you won’t only be in trouble, but you’ll get your aunt in trouble, and they’re the very few good-paying clients she’s got, you understand? And frankly, you’re studying and working, you should be saving your free time to either rest or come and help us take care of your little siblings. You’re the man in the house, you should be learning to manage money, to do house care, to know what to do if God help us, next raid falls on our house. You could be the only one of us left any day, any of us could, so we all need to be prepared to survive not… not distracted fucking some posh girl.”

“Would it be okay if she wasn’t posh?” he asked defiantly.

“No,” said Leda, and her eyes filled with tears. It happened a lot lately. “Don’t be mad at me, Cormoran, had I known this was the life my children were gonna have, I’d never have had any children, rather than put you through this hell… but look at Nick and Ilsa, having to leave their families and run to fucking Leeds so they stand a chance to survive. That girl’s only using you, she’s bored and lacks responsibilities and it’s just what rich people do and that’s not judging, that’s knowledge from my very own experience, rich people will only use us, the poor, for their pleasure… and you’ll get your heart broken, and what for? To have wasted valuable time you could’ve spent here, learning survival? Learning for example to do this fucking suit for yourself, so that when we don’t have for clothes and I’m dead you can make something for yourself?”

Strike sighed, but softened.

“Don’t talk like that Mum, you’re still young.”

“And so was your father,” she sniffled, and focused on fixing the suit. “God, you’re going to look even handsomer than the groom… he’d be smiling so big, if he could see you now,” she smiled sadly, using needles to mark the cloth that needed to be cut, because he’d gotten too thin to fill it properly. “Will you forgive me, darling, for having put you into this shit world?”

“I’ve got nothing to forgive you for,” Strike hugged her awkwardly, and she sniffled a few times against his shoulder, then patted his back and forced a smile.

“Then let’s get you extra handsome, mister best man.”

His best friends’ wedding should have been very different, in Strike’s mind. They shouldn’t all have been seventeen, they shouldn’t be in the middle of a war whose nightly raids were devastating the city, it shouldn’t end with families broken and separated for an indefinite amount of time.

Strike had been born in a little Cornish beach village called St Mawes, from where his entire maternal family, the Nancarrows, proceeded. His mother, Leda, and his father, Cormoran Senior, had met through his grandfather, Lieutenant Edward Nancarrow I, in one of the rare occasions in which both men had set foot in Cornwall during the First World War. The spark of love, as Leda called it, had appeared that day, and they had begun writing letters, best they could through his deployments and war. Lieutenant Nancarrow had died in 1917, just before the end of the war, and when Cormoran had returned and Uncle Ted, who was also gone, had returned, Cormoran had asked Ted for permission to marry his little sister, which had been granted. They had married in the little Cornish farm of the Nancarrows, and moved to Bromley, London, from where his family was, to the little house Strike still inhabited. But Strike had still spent a lot of his youth in St Mawes, frequent holidays, summers, even some Christmases, and was close to his Uncle Ted, his Aunt Joan, and Ilsa Waterstone, the third child of the local pub owners, whose father had fought in the first war while his mother cared for the oldest child, then a baby, but now both parents were forced to work in a naval factory and close, temporarily, the pub, to avoid conscription.

Ilsa, however, had an older brother who per parental request, joined the naval factory too in order to avoid conscription, while his wife was a typist for the army, but in British soil, enabling them to not have to separate. She also had an older sister, who’d come to London to study naval engineering and follow in the family’s steps shall the war run long, so Ilsa was mostly alone in St Mawes. Strike had met her in his childhood because the Waterstones and the Nancarrows were neighbours, and because his aunt, Catherine, was married to Ilsa’s uncle, Colonel Peter Waterstone, which made them some sort of distant cousins. And so in his teens, when Strike had come on holiday to St Mawes, before the war, bringing his best friend from London, Nicholas Herbert, he had introduced he and Ilsa, as his best friend and his cousin, and they’d gotten along.

So along, in fact, that letters remained. Love letters, of which Strike had only read bits and pieces. Both Nick and Ilsa had been elated, living their first love, sneaking trips in the train as often as they could afford with their little afternoon works, walking around the beach or kissing by the Thames, they were in love. But not even them wanted to marry just two years into their relationship, and not like this. But there was no choice. Nick’s posh mother had managed to get him into medical school all the way up in Leeds School of Medicine, part of the University of Leeds , and if he made it there and became a doctor, he would never have to enlist, and even though Leeds was suffering some raids, it wasn’t like London, and it was farther from ‘the enemy’ and not vulnerable by sea like Cornwall . Students and doctors were between the very few exceptions to conscription, and he was nearly eighteen, the age in which people were regularly called to serve. And Nick was no war man. He was a pacifist, a diplomat, a soft man and a romantic. And in his anxiety about leaving Ilsa alone and so far, with her entire family working full days, he had pressured Ilsa to find an out too, to get a scholarship or something, and she, who’d always wanted to be a lawyer and who like Nick, had great grades and was hard working, found somehow, through a friend of a friend, a way to get admitted into the University of Leeds and go with Nick. They’d live in a small flat in the outskirts of the city, study hard, and in the afternoons and weekends work in a printing house, and even though life would be hard, they’d be likely the safest of their families and be together.

The families had been elated to learn their children would be able to support and help each other and stay somewhere safe, and besides, become independent because now with rationing it was hard to feed everyone. Nick only had a brother and was middle-upper class, but Ilsa’s family was as poor as Strike’s, and she had two siblings and a sister in law as well. And then, talks of marriage began between the parents, and it was decided. Nick and Ilsa weren’t completely against, because they were in love and thankful their families had at least respected that, but nobody liked to organise a fast and hurried wedding at seventeen, worried a raid would fall in the middle of it, and unprepared yet for adult life. But if they married, they could, if ever they couldn’t keep studying (say the University of Leeds was bombed, or work and money became impossible to get), try for a baby, and pregnant women or women with a baby in their care were exempt from conscription, so at least Ilsa wouldn’t have to go to war. It wasn’t an ideal plan. It was stressful, chaotic, and nobody liked to feel such pressure into marriage, and Strike knew it took a toll on them and their relationship, but they also knew their entire families could die in an instant and that together in Leeds, they had better odds. So Strike accepted to be their best man and tried, like everyone else, to make the day as special for the couple as possible, even if it was the smallest and fastest wedding of the century, with no money for banquets or honeymoons, and ending in a brutal separation with both his best friends being ripped from their families and him, for an indefinite amount of time, if they ever saw each other again.

Chapter Text

C hapter 2: Silver lining.

In between wedding planning, Strike tried to live a normal life, careful of the bombs, that’s it. While Ilsa and her parents were now in London for the wedding, living with the Herberts, Nick, Strike, Ilsa and Charlotte were in the same age group to be tutored at the same time by Aunt Catherine every morning for three hours. When that was over, Nick and Strike grabbed their factory uniforms and go work at the vehicle factory Nick’s father worked at in Bromley, to make some money for their families and in Nick’s case, his married life. He had made two rings of steel using leftovers he’d stolen at the factory, just very simple but durable and resistant bands, and for an engagement ring, he’d bought her a cheap little necklace with a heart, which was cheaper than an actual engagement ring, and which she never took off. She insisted she didn’t need diamonds and luxuries, even less under the circumstances.

And so Strike had very little time left for himself, but these days, when he could, he liked to spend it with Nick and Ilsa. He didn’t live far from the Herberts, and they arranged to meet every night after dinner, and share a cigarette between the three. Neither of them had smoked before the war, but now the stress was unreal, so they managed to smuggle one here and there, from the parents. That night the three sat together in a small park near their houses, eyes on the clear sky for planes. The three had a bad feeling, but that seemed to be perpetual these days.

In Nick and Ilsa’s company, Strike felt both at home and broken-hearted, knowing just how alone he’d be when they left. Strike was the taller of the three, and Nick and Ilsa were about as tall between them, and slightly shorter than Strike. And they all looked vastly different. Strike had his Uncle Ted’s, dense and dark curly hair, short, his face full of stubble that reached his neck, dark green eyes like his mother, a thousand dark eyelashes, a slightly crooked nose, because he boxed and it didn’t always heal right, and a large body, which had once been well-fed and wide like his father’s, but had turned too slim, giving him an appearance of a man with a big skeleton oddly empty beneath his cheap clothes. Ilsa was beautiful, not like Charlotte, but both boys notices other boys would turn around when she walked past. She was also brilliantly intelligent, and before the war, her humour had been contagious and riddled with sarcasm. She had bright blue-green bespectacled eyes, her hair fair, long and wavy, harmonious features and a thin, slightly curvaceous complexion. Not that anybody could be fat these days, with the food so rationed. Nick had short fair hair, almond eyes soft brown, his skin as pale and pink as Ilsa’s, and a calm demeanour that was lately broken by the war.

“I almost forgot,” said Ilsa suddenly, and dug in her little purse to find a little envelop she handed Strike. “It’s our address in Leeds. You’ll write, yeah? Every day? Only half the letters tend to arrive, I heard… and you can come too, whenever you want. I know nobody can afford to leave London but… if it gets too bad, you should drag your family up. We’ll find a way to manage, we’re family.”

“Ilsa’s right,” Nick nodded. They all knew he wasn’t going to be the kind of husband to boss his wife around, partly because he wasn’t like that, and partly because Strike and Ilsa’s Dad and older brother would’ve killed him, friendship forgotten, if they heard Ilsa was suffering even slightly because of him. “We’ll manage.”

“I appreciate it,” Strike shoved the envelope inside his shirt, against his heart, where he could always remember maybe this wasn’t a goodbye, but a see you later. “Dad used to say the First War also looked like it was never gonna end, but when it did, came the hugs, the kisses, the child-making, the parties, the reunions, and all the light that had been lost. Mum says it’ll be like that again. Perhaps not now or tomorrow but… the Nazis will fall, and we’ll reunite again, right?”

“That’s surprisingly optimistic coming from you, and considering we’ve been bombarded nightly for days,” said Nick. As a matter of fact, they didn’t sit far from the neighbourhood’s anti-aircraft refuge.

“But yes,” added Ilsa. “We have to meet again, right? We just have to survive. Hold on long enough, avoid conscription no matter what.”

“I’m thinking about enlisting,” Strike confessed, and his friends turned to him, panicked.

“Why would you do that?” asked Nick. “Your father and all of our grandfathers died out there, Uncle Peter might never come back, Uncle Ted and Ilsa’s Dad barely made it out of the first war alive, and they’re kicking our arses, Oggy. The British Army’s a joke, they’re sending us out there to die, there’s nothing else.”

“And then what, Nick? When they come here, to our little island, they’re already decimating us with bombs, one’s nearly safer away,” argued Strike. “If we all avoid going, there’ll be no one left to fight.”

“Yes but until the big bosses don’t change strategy and we start winning something, the Nazis are going to do purée. Best option we have is hold on here as long as we can, and pray the Americans manage,” Ilsa intervened. She’d heard, like all of them, the terrible war stories from the very few of their relatives who came back, her father with a permanent fear and aversion to war, Uncle Ted, with chronic back injuries from shrapnel, which left him with minimum feeling from waist down, in a wheelchair and unable to conceive a child. “I heard the Germans have concentration camps, they just lock you in there to die, or kill you in gas chambers once you’re famine and begging for the suffering to end. And they don’t care if you’re a child, a baby, a disabled, an old woman… nobody gets away, Cormoran. They do that to war prisoners too, you know? And if you die, your mother won’t make it from sadness.” She took a long drag from her cigarette and passed it to Strike, who nodded and took a drag himself before passing it to Nick.

“I’m not saying I’d enlist happily, it’s just… money for the family, you know? We can’t go anywhere,” said Strike. “I’m not going to the City to study, that part gets bombarded the most, and I can’t leave my family, Lucy and Teddy are too young to make money. And car factory workers get exempt for now, but God knows tomorrow, I might just end up in conscription anyway… and by then maybe Teddy’s already died. Or Lucy. I can’t take care of them, not like my father could, not like this.”

“Well, you hold on for as long as you can and when you can’t, you write to us, before enlisting,” said Nick. “We’ll send money for the train ticket, and you come with the family, we’ll manage, Oggy. We’ll help you get jobs or studies in Leeds, students are exempt, right? We’ll hope it lasts.”

“How do you suggest we feed seven people, Nick?” Strike retorted.

“The only ones not making money are Teddy and Lucy, who coincidentally don’t eat that much. We’ll survive, just like lost castaways do.”

S uddenly the air became thick and quiet, and the three stood up, hairs raising. And soon enough, the sirens began across the neighbourhood. Nick took Ilsa’s hand, and they ran, and so ran Strike.

“RUN! RUN!” the three tried to warn everybody as they went, waking people up.

“Gotta get my siblings, you guys run!” Strike shouted over the sirens. He saw Ilsa nearly ran with him, but Nick pulled her to the refuge. He had sworn with his life to Ilsa’s family that he’d protect her.

Strike ran to his house, just as his family began to run out of it.

“Cormoran, your brother!” Leda shouted, carrying a bag. Teddy ran to him, and Strike scooped him up with one arm, grabbed Lucy’s hand, and began to run to the refuge with him, Catherine and Leda in tow.

Soon enough, they had, with thousands of people, made it to the refuge, just as the land began to shake with sounds of explosions. They found the Herberts and Ilsa’s parents in a corner and joined them, sitting around the floor, because there weren’t benches enough. Teddy was in his pyjamas, barefoot and cold, so Strike wrapped his jacket around him and held him close in his lap as the boy shuddered in fear.

“Why are they coming for us, Corm? We’re just families here, and children,” Teddy murmured, blue eyes full of fear. Strike gulped and tightened his arms around him.

“They’re just not British, Teddy. From the sky, our houses look like military things and they’re afraid we’ll kill their own families and children, they don’t know we’re only children too,” he lied.

“Then maybe the prime minister should talk to them, and we all agree to stop bombing and killing?” Teddy suggested, over the deafening sound of explosions. “If we’re all just afraid the other will kill us, we could just agree to stop all at once? It’s just a misunderstanding, right Corm?”

Strike smiled sadly and nodded.

“Yes, Teddy. Wars would be entirely avoided if people talked more, but now this isn’t just going to stop, you understand? ‘Cause everyone wants revenge. So we hold on, we survive… and it’ll all be okay. Remember the stories Dad told us? It’s better in the end. You’ll see.”

“I barely remember Dad any more…” said Teddy sadly. When their father had left, he was only three.

“You know what your Dad used to do when he was scared, Teddy darling?” said Leda, caressing his hair. “He’d sing songs. D’you want to sing a song?” the boy nodded and she smiled warmly before her beautiful voice filled the refuge, getting everybody to shut up, like it always happened, and focus on her instead of the bombs. “They were summoned from the hillside, they were called in from the glen, and the country found them ready at the stirring call for men. Let no tears add to their hardships, as the soldiers pass along, keep the Home Fires Burning,” Strike joined in the popular post World War I song by Ivor Novello and Lena Ford. “While your hearts are yearning, though your lads are far away they dream of home. There's a silver lining, through the dark clouds shining, turn the dark cloud inside out, 'til the boys come home. Overseas there came a pleading, ‘help a nation in distress’,” Strike looked up as he began to hear everybody join along, and saw smiles in spite of the fear. Nick, Ilsa, Lucy, whose smiles he didn’t really he’d longed for and missed so much, smiled and sang, and Teddy did too, fear forgotten. “And we gave our glorious laddies, honour bade us do no less. For no gallant son of freedom to a tyrant's yoke should bend, and a noble heart must answer to the sacred call of ‘Friend’. Keep the Home Fires Burning, while your hearts are yearning, though your lads are far away they dream of home. There's a silver lining, through the dark clouds shining, turn the dark cloud inside out 'til the boys come home.”

They kept singing the old song with enthusiasm, some people crying through, until the long silence indicated bombs and sirens had long stopped. At last, they all came out, and Strike and his family stood in the street, Teddy still in his arms, as they watched the smoke fly into the sky, firefighter’s sirens in the horizon, the sky smokey but now plane-free.

“Did you see that?” Strike turned to his mother. “When you sing, the whole world stops and stares for a while.” He smiled small and Leda smiled, kissing his cheek. She’d wanted to be a singer, and their father had played the piano and sang with her countless times in his childhood.

“Music and love, Cormoran, are our most powerful weapons.”

Strike, Lucy and Teddy shared a single small bedroom, and their mother sang them to sleep and tucked them in bed. Strike was vaguely aware of a kiss pressed against his forehead before he succumbed to exhaustion, the rain ricocheting against the small window. Early morning, Aunt Catherine woke them up, hurried them to get dressed and go get breakfast, as usual, which Leda was already rationing, and Leda made sure Strike could have a tiny bit more bacon from her plate, so he was strong for the factory. Then she went to work as a nurse, to the hospital, and Aunt Catherine began her teaching lessons. First, Cormoran, Charlotte, Nick, Ilsa, and a few other boys and girls their age or so, who’d come to the house, and they’d learn history, Math, science and literature, recite poetry and learn house management. Then came Lucy’s group, but by then Strike and Nick were off to the factory, from which they arrived late. Nick would hurry to Ilsa’s arms, and she had probably spent her day preparing for Law School and learning from her mother and future mother in law more house chores, but Strike would watch them from a far and see how in spite of the tiredness, Ilsa would greet Nick at the door, bury her fingers in his fair hair, and kiss him longingly. Sometimes she’d notice him in the distance and wave and call goodnight, and Strike would wave back, his stomach clenching at the reminder that soon, it’ll be just him.

Strike would then rush to Charlotte’s manor, throw pebbles at the window, and maybe get a blow-job and some sex in the dark, despite the promise Strike had made his mother, and which was temporarily forgotten.

And so the days continued and the wedding arrived. It was small, just close family, Ilsa’s siblings not coming because they couldn’t miss work for the long trip north, and it happened in St Mary’s Church in Bromley, near a number of houses that had succumbed in the latest raids. Strike put on his father’s suit, his mother knotted his tie, and albeit poor, they tried to look their best.

“Here,” said Leda, pulling a tiny box from a drawer in her room. She opened it and put out a leather watch, shiny and nice. “It was your father’s. His initials are engraved, and now, it should be yours. You share initials, after all.” Indeed the only difference between their names was the middle name, which was Richard for his father, after his own father, and Blue for him, after a song Leda used to love in her teens.

“Thanks, Mum. I’ll take care of it.”

Strike tried to shave as his father had taught him, trying to get the least amount of cuts. His eyes often wandered to the framed photograph of his parents’ wedding, one of the very few photographs in the house, which sat on Leda’s bedside cabinet. He missed the man very much, but he remembered how before going to the war, Cormoran Senior had hugged him and insisted it was his duty now, to take care of the family while he was away. He had thought he’d return, like he’d returned after World War I, but instead only a small amount of remains had made it back home.

Nick was soon at their house, handsome as ever, with a new suit and a expression of glee and tension mingled together, and he and Strike walked to the church together, chatter cut down to a minimum out of nerves. His family was already at Church, and soon Ilsa’s mother and Strike’s family arrived too. The Church seemed so big for such little guests, Nick’s parents and younger brother sitting in the first row with Mrs Waterstone in one side, Strike’s family in the first row in the other side, the Vicar, Nick and Strike standing at the altar, and a small string quartet in one side. Strike held in his pocket the rings Nick had made and engraved himself.

When the string quartet began to sound, they turned around to see the front doors open again and in walked Ilsa by the arm of her father. She was stunning, in a modest wedding dress she’d sown with her mother and mother in law, smiling timidly, and Strike’s eyes went from her to Nick, who suddenly smiled the most honest of smiles. He was then happy for the couple, for they got love, when most people got sadness, even if these days, both things seemed to come hand in hand.

With the wedding finished, Strike hugged both his best friends tightly, knowing hugs were numbered now, and everyone went outside to the carriage that awaited the newly-weds, which would take them to St Pancras’ train station in the city, and there they’d take the train to Leeds. Nick’s parents had already stuffed the carriage with the couple’s few belongings, and between tearful hugs and last-minute advice, handed Nick an envelope with some money, and Ilsa’s parents did the same with her, a large coat placed over her shoulders. It was May, but it was still chilly.

Farewells were the worst. They were tearful and anguishing, specially not knowing when or if they’d see each other again, and the most repeated words of advice were always the same. Stay safe. Take care of each other. Write as much as you can. Avoid conscription no matter what. Eat. Be healthy. Study a lot. Be careful. There was a rush to get them to leave before another raid killed them all, which battled with the desire to hold them close and never letting them go. When Nick and Ilsa reached Strike, whom they had left for last, their faces were full of tears, pain and heartbreak, and Strike gulped, his eyes tearful, and did his best to stay strong for them.

“It’s only a see you later,” Ilsa said hoarsely. “You write a lot. Don’t be a stranger, okay? And survive.”

“I’ll do my best,” Strike hugged her, and Nick hugged them both. “Love each other all you can. Be safe, and become good doctor and lawyer. The nation’s gonna need those a lot.”

“You stay out of trouble,” said Nick, squeezing them both. “And focus on the silver lining, through the dark clouds shining.”

Turns out Nick and Ilsa avoided death by the skin of their teeth. That night, just when Ilsa’s parents had gotten in the train back to Cornwall with packets for Ted and Joan from Leda and her family, a bomb fell and the sirens didn’t ring, catching them sleeping. In the morning, they discovered with horror that the Herberts’ house was no longer there, and of their bodies they could only find some parts. They buried them in Bromley Cemetery with Strike’s father and Nick’s grandparents, and Strike spent the day trying to find personal objects to send in a package to Leeds. Writing to Nick what had happened, that his fourteen-year-old brother was dead, and so were their young parents, caused him physical pain and tremors. A letter from Ilsa came three weeks later, confirming that Nick was too shattered to write, and even to speak, and thanking them for the few belongings he’d rescued and for the burial they’d given them.

Strike, on his part, was feeling lonelier than ever. He could hardly write, not having anything happy to tell, but knew writing was important because it confirmed he was alive. So he just told them he missed them, that his family was all right, and that he hoped they’d see each other again soon, and they would share any news they got from war.

On a summer night, Leda found her eldest son crying alone at the park, when she returned from work. She quietly sat with him and hugged him close, and her perfume enveloped him completely.

“Bad day?” Leda asked softly, when he calmed down.

“Bad life,” replied Strike. “But who am I to complain. You’ve gotten it worse.” Leda smiled sadly. Her father died at fifty-five, when she was only twenty-three, and her mother had died at seventy-five three years previously. Her only sibling was in St Mawes, and she had no cousins or anything left, not even her husband, or friends, now the Herberts were gone and the Waterstones were so far. They were the only true friends she’d ever known.

“It’s not a competition,” said Leda. “I’m also twenty-nine years your senior, my love.” She sighed, rubbing his back. “You miss them a lot, don’t you?”

“I even miss school,” he confessed, tears in his face. “The music on the radio instead of war news. Dad singing. Ted and Joan preparing Christmas turkey. Teddy’s laugh. I miss fucking everything.”

“We’ve failed you, my boy. The adults of today… we should’ve avoided a second world war at all costs. We failed,” Leda held him tight. “But I want you to keep something in mind, all right? As long as the letters keep coming, Ilsa and Nick are still alive, they’re only up in Leeds, one train away. And as long as their hearts are beating, there’s always hope for a reunion. Hope is the last thing we can ever lose, Corm.”

Strike nodded, and smiled sadly at her, staring into her eyes.

“What would I do without you?”

“Hopefully, a fucking good job,” Leda kissed his forehead longingly, and toyed with his curls, looking at the sky. “Promise me something, will you?”

“Anything.”

“That you’ll always take care of your brother and sister. That you’ll fight to stay together no matter what, even if those Germans get here, you won’t let them separate you and send you to some camps of those, uh? And that you…” Leda caressed his cheek. “You’ll cry tears of laughter one day once more. You have the loveliest of smiles, and I’d hate for war to kill it too. You’ll go have a beer with Nick and Ilsa, who no doubt will have made a dozen children, those two,” she joked, and he chuckled, “and you’ll find someone to love that much too, uh? Someone better than that Campbell. Someone who deserves your big heart. Someone who’s easy to laugh with, even when times are dark.”

“Yeah,” Strike nodded. “I’d like that.”

“That’s the good thing of silver linings, Cormoran. They look different for everyone, but they always mean the sun comes, and one smiles.”

Chapter Text

C hapter 3: London withstood it.

They remained in London for as long as it was possible, while work was still available, and they had the house. The weeks passed, the months passed, the war remained. By Christmas, Britain and the US had declared war on Japan, the Japanese had bombarded Pearl Harbour, Stalin in Russia and Britain had become allies, Germany, Italy and Japan were allies too, France, Holland, Belgium, Denmark, Norway, Poland, Sweden, Czechoslovakia, and Austria were devastated and controlled by the Nazi, and it didn’t look like life was gonna get better. On February 1942, Japan took Singapore, and in the summer it appeared like the British and the Americans were finally winning something.

“Look, Mum,” Strike read from the papers enthusiastically. “We’re winning North Africa!”

Leda had fallen greatly ill with tuberculosis, which she’d gotten in hospital. She was dying, and the family was going through a particularly rough time, seeing her become more and more decrepit and in her bones each passing day. Leda smiled weakly and her frail hand caressed Strike’s hand.

“Looks like we’ll win after all?” she asked softly. Strike smiled broadly. He was now eighteen, and avoiding conscription with his work at the factory and his aunt as a tutor, putting him as student.

“We will win, Mum. And you will see the silver lining. You’ll see,” He kissed her hand, even though Catherine was tired of telling them to keep some distance, because tuberculosis was contagious and had no cure yet. Strike was seeing Charlotte less, and more in secret, but their relationship wasn’t quite over. Leda knew, but said nothing, so he’d think he was keeping a good secret.

Her blood-stained lips curved in a soft smile and Strike cleaned them gently with a wet cloth.

“I don’t think I will, darling,” said Leda. “But heaven with your Dad… doesn’t look like a bad silver lining either.”

Strike’s eyes filled with tears and he nodded slowly.

“Looks different for everybody, isn’t it?”

“Yes…” Leda coughed, and some more blood came out. “Promise me darling… you’ll look after your siblings, won’t you? You’ll be a good boy for your mother, you’ll keep them safe, you’ll survive. For me.”

Strike took a deep breath, and nodded.

“I swear, Mum. I won’t let anything happen to Teddy and Lucy.”

“And if you have to…” Leda whispered. The raids in London had long ago stopped suddenly, but the fear remained. A few weeks before they’d received news that Catherine’s husband, Uncle Peter, was also dead, his ship sunk in the Atlantic. “Go to Cornwall. If you need help… Ted and Joan… they’ll help you…”

“I know,” Strike nodded.

“You’ve got their address?”

“And Nick and Ilsa’s. They keep saying we should go, they’re doing well.”

“Maybe you should,” Leda coughed weakly. “Fuck… shouldn’t have smoked so much.” Strike couldn’t help laughing at that, and Leda giggled, until her face suddenly lost all colour and stopped moving, her eyes transfixed in the ceiling.

“Mum?” Strike stopped laughing. “Mum. Mum!” he shook her, but she didn’t move. “Mum! Wake up Mummy!”

“Cormoran?” Catherine appeared at the door in a rush. “Cormoran, don’t get so close…”

“She’s not moving!” Strike shouted, looking at her with tears in her eyes. “Aunty, do something!”

Catherine’s face fell, and her eyes filled with tears, moving to Leda. Slowly, she walked to her nephew and pulled him to his feet, leaning over her sister-in-law. She gently pressed her fingers on the frail neck for a moment, and then closed Leda’s eyes.

“No…” Strike murmured. “No! Do something!”

“I can’t,” Catherine turned to him, and hugged him. “I’m sorry, darling. I can’t help her any more.”

The funeral was cheap, quick and rushed. After that, they had to burn bedsheets and Leda’s pyjamas, and wash themselves in hot water until their skin was raw, to try and make sure they wouldn’t get tuberculosis too, or something else. The children were devastated, but Strike couldn’t cry any more. That day, he had no paper to write to Nick and Ilsa. Instead, he took a piece of tissue he found in the trash, and an old, reused envelope, and simply wrote ‘ Mum died today. Love, Oggy. ’ and he sent it to Leeds.

A few months later, the Russians won the Battle of Stalingrad, and Britain celebrated. Strike worked at the factory, then enjoyed Charlotte’s body, an activity that lately came in complete silence. Charlotte’s father had just died in the front, and the family was considering moving to Scotland, father from the danger.

“Maybe we should head to Cornwall, there’s nothing here any more,” said Catherine on the night of Strike’s nineteenth birthday, packing their suitcases in case they had to run. “Truro was bombed, but St Mawes seems safe…”

“No,” said Strike. “If the German ships make it, they’ll be the first to fall.”

“That’s also true,” Catherine sighed, closing their suitcases. “I can hardly keep any students any more, the kids are either being sent to the front, dying or leaving. We’ll have to find somewhere to run to. No more money here.”

“Where will we go, Auntie?” asked Lucy. She had turned fifteen, and her blue eyes seemed sadder every day. She had just begun working at the factory with Strike, which had changed production to make planes for the RAF.

“I don’t know, sunshine,” Catherine hugged her, kissing the top of her head. “But don’t worry, all right? We’ve got some money, we could just head to Leeds, Nick and Ilsa seem all right there… we’ll figure it out.”

That December, Strike got such a bad flu they feared he wouldn’t make it, and when he could finally return to work, he had lost weight and was weak and frail. On January 1943, Strike and Lucy were returning home from the factory when, in the far horizon, they saw bombs fall in their neighbourhood. The sirens hadn’t sounded that day, they’d been caught by surprise. Strike and Lucy ran, hand in hand, and with eyes wide in horror, saw their house was shattered, along with two or three in the area. Neighbours looked for survivors.

“Cormoran, Lucy!” a neighbour spotted them, relieved. “Thank God!”

“Catherine and Teddy were there!” Strike shouted, and with some neighbours, they began a frantic search between the rubble. Teddy appeared first, crying and with some scratches and bumps, but that God, mostly okay. Lucy held him in her arms, hugging the nearly seven year old tight, and Strike saw Catherine’s hand between the rubble, he reached out, moving some wood and brick out of the way, and pulled from her armpits to get her out. Catherine was gasping, eyes wide, and her legs were gone, blood pouring out. Strike’s eyes widened in fear, and he took his aunt in his arms, knowing she was dying.

“Oh God,” Lucy gasped, coming closer.

“Stay back, don’t let Teddy see!” Strike roared, Teddy’s cries still loud.

“C-Corm’ran…” Catherine’s weak voice came, and her hand caressed Strike’s cheek weak and cold. “T-take c...re… ‘f… fam...ly…” she slumped dead in his arms and Strike clenched his jaw and hugged her closer.

Without a home, with only a few bags and suitcases of belongings, and with only a bit of money, this time leaving London was unavoidabl e. But before it came to that, Strike had one more card to try, and so he walked to the Campbell’s manor, and found them packing.

“You’re leaving then?” asked Strike.

“Yes, Croy,” Charlotte answered, packing her suitcase in her room. She hadn’t shown much affection or commiseration for Strike’s loses, and now didn’t even kiss him at the entry, but Strike just though she was hurting herself, becoming cold with the pain. “Mum has friends there, Viscounts of Croy. Anyway, they’ll lend us their guest house.”

“Is there any chance me and my siblings can tag along?” asked Strike. “I’ll pay you.”

“What are you talking about?” Charlotte snorted, turning to look at him with her grey eyes. Strike sighed, caressing her cheek.

“I love you Charlotte,” he murmured. “I’d do anything for you. And I hoped… Teddy and Lucy have nowhere else to go, if I send them to St Mawes, they’ll be vulnerable to attacks by sea. Please, Charlotte, we’ve lost everything… couldn’t your Mum convince those viscounts to let us stay in a small room? Or… perhaps we could stay here, if you’re all leaving? I need to put a roof over their heads, you’ve got plenty of resources…”

“D’you think I’m a fucking charity?” Charlotte snapped, and Strike frowned. “Are you taking advantage now?”

“No, no, of course not, I just thought—,”

“You fuck well, but not that well, don’t get excited,” Strike’s face filled with hurt and Charlotte laughed. “Oh please, what made you think you were anything important? I’ll likely marry Jago, the young son of the Viscount, he’s got a lot more to offer than you. Look, it’s nothing personal Bluey, is just survival,” she kissed him gently, and smiled sadly. “We’ve sold the house, and we need the money. And what would the Ross family think of us if they saw us arrive with peasants in tow? A six year old, no less.”

“We could work for you,” said Strike. “Charlotte, please, I’m begging you. At least take my siblings…”

“I’m telling you kindly, Bluey, I’m sorry but it cannot happen. My Mum won’t be as nice, she’ll just kick you out and slap you for even asking, so just go, will you? St Mawes’s not that bad.”

“That’s it then?” Strike frowned, beyond hurt. “You’re not gonna do anything for us? After years dating me?”

“Dating you? Bluey, you were a nice distraction in painful times, please! I didn’t think you were so naive!” Charlotte exclaimed. “What made you think…? I never promised anything. Never said I love you—,”

“No you just jumped my bones—!”

“And so did you! I thought we had a mutual arrangement!”

“It was more to me!”

“That’s hardly my fault!” Charlotte pushed him gently. “Go! We can never be, and honestly… why would I want us to be?”

With his heart shattered beyond repair, Strike had no other option, and so he took his siblings to the train in St Pancras, and they made the long trip to Falmouth , where they’d find a way to get to St Mawes. Perhaps the ferry still worked, or they’d find horses. Strike had thought about their options in depth, and had concluded that St Mawes, in spite of its vulnerability, was the best choice. Without Catherine, and it was only a matter of time before he received calls for conscription, no longer being a student, but in St Mawes, they could work the farm and be free of conscription, and Staff Sergeant Ted Nancarrow, a farmer but a man of culture, could continue their education with his wife. Aunt Joan was a doctor, so they didn’t expect to see much of her these days, but she was loving, nurturing and brightly intelligent, and maybe between the two, the children would be all right. And if the Germans invaded, they’d be the first to die, and not suffer any more, or Strike hoped so. He carried his father’s old gun under his jacket, and was willing to kill his own siblings before a German could land hands on them.

“Cormoran, Lucy, Teddy!” Ted was the most surprised to open his front door that night and see them. Teddy cried and climbed on the wheelchair to hug his namesake, and Lucy cried and ran to hug him too. Strike held their bags and suitcases and locked eyes with Ted.

“A bomb destroyed the house and killed Catherine, the sirens didn’t ring,” said Strike. “We’ve nowhere else to go, Uncle Ted.”

Ted sighed, his eyes filling with pain, and motioned for him to join the hug.

“That’s all right, my children. You’ll stay here with us, this is your home.”

They entertained themselves at the farm, and Strike could acquire paper and envelopes to write to Nick and Ilsa again and tell them what had happened, that they were in St Mawes now, and that if all else failed, he would enlist and send his siblings to Nick and Ilsa, and asked for them that, if it came down to it, they would take care of his siblings as if they were their own. Nick and Ilsa answered promptly, with news for their own. One, they lamented what had happened but promised to look after Lucy and Teddy like family if it came down to it, and two, sadly announced Ilsa had been in hospital, after having a miscarriage. They hadn’t known she was pregnant, but it was sad and painful, particularly for her, nevertheless.

The days in St Mawes seemed to pass more easily. It was sunny the majority of the time, the farm was small but beautiful, full of plants and trees, and the beach was were Teddy laughed again, as they played and jumped and splashed. Joan filled their hearts with hugs and affection, Teddy played the piano, they sang again, and prayed nightly.

One night, however, the sirens echoed across the small town, and Strike jumped off the bed, grabbed his suitcase, which he kept ready, and Lucy and Teddy.

“Take your suitcases!” he shouted, as he forced them to stay ready to fly every hour. The three ran, and met Joan and Ted in the sitting room.

“You lot go ahead, to the refuge!” shouted Joan, who was helping Ted with his wheelchair, not listening to his shouts of leaving him behind. “Cormoran, your siblings are your responsibility!”

“Let me help—!”

“RUN!” Joan shouted at him, and so he took his siblings and they ran out of the house, just as a bomb dropped behind the house, but so strongly, the entire house crumbled.

By the time they found Ted and Joan, they were long dead.

“Now what?”

It was mid June. The Axis had surrendered North Africa, and the Allies were preparing to invade Sicily. The three orphaned siblings stood in the Roseland Peninsula, having put Ted and Joan’s ashes in the ocean, their bags and suitcases, very few belongings they kept, with themselves. Lucy’s question popped full of sadness, and Strike’s chest clenched painfully at the thought.

“Now, Leeds,” he murmured. “You and Teddy.”

“What about you, Corm?” asked Teddy, his eyes filled of sadness. He looked older than his age now, from the pain.

“I’m subjected to conscription now, Teddy,” said Strike. “All men eighteen to forty one have to go, if they’re not students, or vital industries and occupations. It’s either the army or the coal mines now, and to be about as dangerous, I’ll take the fresh air and take some Germans down with me.”

He sighed deeply, resigned, and Lucy and Teddy looked horrified. The Waterstones had helped them, tried to persuade them to stay, but they were too many and Strike knew staying with them would only sink them too. They couldn’t provide for everyone, and St Mawes had proved to not be so safe anyway.

“You can’t go,” said Lucy, the breeze making her light brown hair dance. “They’ll kill you, Corm… join the lighthouse or something! They’ll let you stay then!”

“What for?” Strike looked at her full of sadness. “Lucy, the army pays better than all of them, and I need to feed you both, even if you work, and I’ve no doubt Ilsa and Nick will get you a job in Leeds… we’re far too poor, and these funerals too fucking expensive. I need more work, or you’ll die of hunger anyway. I’m the eldest, I’m nearly twenty now… it’s only right I go. We’ve got no choice.”

Teddy began to cry, and Strike dropped to his knees, hugging his brother and then his sister, who began crying too.

“We separate now, but reunite soon when the war’s over,” said Strike, staring at the ocean over their heads, his eyes damp. “We’ll take Sicily, conquer Italy and Hitler will have to surrender. It can only be months now, you see? And then, I come back, and we’ll be a family again.”

“You promise?” Lucy asked, sniffling and rubbing her eyes.

“Yeah,” Strike kissed her cheek, hugging her tight. “You have to be a strong woman now, Luce. Y’know what your name means?” Lucy shook her head and he smiled sadly. “Comes from the Latin Luscius, which means, of light. You’re light, sister. You will take Teddy to Leeds, you will find Nick and Ilsa, and the four of you will take care of each other. Avoid conscription, wait for me, I’ll pick you up when this is over, and I’ll build us a house, where the farm once stood. We’ll rebuild the farm, and have dogs and rabbits… it’ll be great, okay? It’ll be our own silver lining. I promise.”

“You won’t disappear forever like Daddy?” Teddy asked, crying into his chest.

“I won’t,” Strike nuzzled into his hair, full of sadness. “You just wait. You sing, and each time you sing, I’ll be a minute closer to return, Teddy. But for now, you have to be a big boy. Do everything Lucy says, stick to her like a mole, and wait for me. Do your homework, study a lot… when I come back, I’ll teach you more Latin, and I’ll get you your very own doggy.”

“Yeah?” Teddy smiled through the tears and Strike smiled back at him.

“Yeah. You just wait.”

O ver the next few days, staying with the Waterstones, Strike bought the siblings’ train tickets, wrote to Nick and Ilsa, sold the stuff he wouldn’t need to give his siblings money, and made IDs that held around Teddy and Lucy’s necks with lanyards, so that if they got lost, they knew what to do. He made them memorise the trains, the route, the address of the Herberts, quizzed them to make sure they were ready, and when in August Sicily surrendered to the Allies, Strike took them to the train station and bid them tearful goodbyes full of hugs. He walked along the platform, holding back his tears, waving at them, who waved back from a small window.

“LOOK AFTER EACH OTHER!” Strike shouted. “DON’T SEPARATE, NO MATTER WHAT! DON’T SEPARATE!”

Strike had given most of his belongings to Teddy and Lucy to bring to Leeds. Now he only carried what himself and his pockets. With his wallet and his watch, and when he enlisted, he was given a uniform, and he chose the British Army, like his family before him. He was immediately dispatched to Italy, to fight against the Germans and the Italians and kill Mussolini. He was terrified, saddened, but he let anger and resentfulness fill his heart and keep him from crying filling him with the strength of revenge.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Against Fascism and all odds.

Strike had always wanted to travel, and see Italy, amongst others. He’d imagined sunlight, warmth, beaches, but nothing could have prepared him from the present. The September rain, standing in his camouflage gear holding a riffle, killing indiscriminately, surrounded by chaos, devastated cities and buildings with streets no longer recognizable, cries and screams left and right, the sound of bullets, explosions and agony ringing in his ears.

On the 3 ^rd of September 1943, Italy surrendered, but Hitler protected Mussolini and blocked a further ascension to the north of Italy. Strike, who had received a bullet wound to his chest, superficial one, cured it in his tent, clenching his jaw in pain as he cleaned it with gauze. Over the next few months, he was stuck to the Mediterranean. For his twentieth birthday, they lost the Dodecanese islands to the Germans, and spent Christmas fighting in Italy for the Bernhardt Line, with finally gave an Allied Victory. He took another bullet there, to the arm, but was again superficial, and had to kill a German with his own hands, which wasn’t the utmost pleasant, but he did so with his own family’s tragedies in mind, which certainly made it easier.

F or months, he didn’t leave the Mediterranean, trying to keep the Nazis from advancing, and the next summer, he was sent to Normandy, for a big offensive planned by the Allies. By then he’d been named Sergeant, and was allowed into bigger meetings to hear more about the plans. The Allies had high hopes that, if they won, France would soon be recovered. Strike was ready, killing had become a second nature, one that made minutes fly faster and made him forget, at times, the pain of the tombs at home. He hadn’t received a letter since leaving his family, nearly a year ago now. Above his heart, inside his jacket, he put his wallet, he shoved his father’s gun, which he’d been allowed to keep, in a holster, and prepared his rifle, adjusted his helmet, and headed to his men.

“Let’s go!” he shouted. “This one’s for our families at home, all right?! This one we win it, an eye for an eye!”

His closest military mates, Barclay and Anstis, nodded at him with satisfied smiles, charging their weapons, and they marched together.

This battle was terrible and it lasted over two months, in which Strike never stopped fighting. They all were, but seeing corpses fall around the beach, a place Strike had always felt like home and peace, hurt in a new level. As he fought, his rifle became blocked, and so instead of shooting he slammed it against a Nazi that came to stab his guts, rendering him unconscious, before grabbing his gun, and shooting him in the head, coldly. He then marched forward, the movement a little more tiring because of the sand, but before he could take one step forwards, a bomb exploded in a wave of sand and bodies, and everything turned dark. What Strike felt last was the feel of cold water caressing his cheek, the salt in his lips.

“Cormoran,” a soft female voice called for him, but he felt too heavy, too weak. “Cormoran,” the voice insisted, and he groaned, an intense wave of pain washing over him. “Hold on, Cormoran. I’ll take you home, just hold on.”

His eyes managed to open a little, and he saw a blur of strawberry-blonde, felt his jacket be ripped open, and fell back into unconsciousness.

As it turns out, he was in and out of consciousness for a month, while he battled a bad infection that over and over was close to killing him.

When he woke up, he felt as though he was one with the bed he lied in, and he couldn’t recognize his surroundings, and could barely remember Normandy. He looked around. He was lying on a comfortable double bed, in a nice-looking small room, feeling heavy and weak, with a thick duvet and blankets over him. He saw an IV drip from a metalling rack near his bed, connected to a needle in his left forearm, and he felt a catheter, which wasn’t super pleasant, but this didn’t look like a hospital. It was raining against the two windows of the room, the birds were tweeting away, an d a frail wooden wheelchair was in a corner. He lifted a weak right arm to his face, and felt he’d been shaven, his hair was neatly trimmed, a gauze was over his left temple, and, lifting his duvet a little, he saw himself naked, his skin covered in scars and fading bruises. Groaning, he felt his throat dry and looked around to see he had a bedside cabinet with a glass jar of water. In what kind of hospital had he landed?

Before he could ask himself more, the door opened, and the turned to see a beautiful woman he didn’t know coming in with a tray. She was tall and curvaceous, with strawberry blonde hair long and loose, her make-up soft, and she wore trousers and a blouse. She manoeuvred the tray with one hand while she closed the door, and when she turned to look at him, she smiled softly.

“Finally,” she said, her voice soft and full of a North accent. “You were starting to really worry me. How are you feeling?”

Strike cleared his throat, and saw her come over, dragging a bed table and putting the tray on it, wheeling the table to the side of the bed, where she sat on a bed. Up close, she had beautiful curvaceous features, a freckled nose, and blue-grey round eyes.

“I’m uh… thirsty.”

“Good, here,” the woman filled him a glass of water, and gently helped him drink it. “D’you remember anything?”

“Normandy,” he replied, falling back against a bunch of pillows, and wincing. His leg really hurt and felt heavy. “What happened?”

“Normandy’s been won,” the woman announced, and he smiled weakly. “Parts of France, Italy, and Brussels, Antwerp, Ghent, Liège and Luxembourg have been liberated, the Belgian government has returned from the exile in London, there’s a new government in France, seems like the war’s coming to its final few months and we’re finally wining it.”

“That’s incredible.”

“Yeah,” the woman nodded. “You landed on a military hospital in Ripon somehow, a explosion in Normandy had really gotten you bad, and you’ve got some broken ribs and inner bruising, some inner bleeding… and uhm… well, there’s your leg,” she said cautiously. “I’m very sorry to tell you, you’ve lost your lower right leg.”

“What?” he frowned in disbelief. Gently, the woman moved the sheets, and revealed his right leg, which ended now below his knee, on his very bandaged half calf. “Oh my… what the…?”

“Breathe…” she covered his leg again and caressed his hair. “Good thing is you’re not returning to war. You’ll stay here, you’ll recover, we got you a wheelchair and crutches and after the war, we might be able to get you a prosthetic, so you can walk on your own again. We’re a bit short of painkillers at the moment, but I’m working on it, and hopefully we’ll be able to make you a little more comfortable in the meantime.”

“Who even are you?” he asked, wincing in pain. “Where am I?”

“Oh, sorry… I’m Nurse Robin Ellacott, and you’re in my house, in Masham, Yorkshire.”

“What?” he looked at her confused. “Where are my siblings? Why am I not in hospital?”

“Your siblings are perfectly fine and enjoying lunch at the moment, and you’re not in hospital because when I saw you there, the hospital was nearly overflowing. They needed to free beds and I had the capacity to bring you home. I saw your photograph in your wallet, with your family, and knew people were looking for you, so I had them come here, and I’m taking care of everything so you have nothing to worry about.”

“Why? What’s the catch? We’ve no money to give you…”

“I am paid by the nation to be a nurse for soldiers,” said Robin. “I belong to the Army Corps, Cormoran. I was one of your nurses at the hospital, and of my patients, you had the better odds. You were there fighting, not letting anything kill you, not even a bad infection that nearly did it, and you were the youngest of them all. To tell you the truth you reminded me a little of my brother,” she half smiled softly, and pushed a painkiller into his mouth, giving him more water to gulp it as he stared at her. “My father’s a surgeon, Dr Michael Ellacott, and my mother is Linda Ellacott, a farmer. My Dad’s family is rich, but has destined their resources, which include ours, to helping people during World War II, after we were helped in World War I, disinterestedly, just because it’s the right thing to do and this country won’t make it if it’s not with kindness of strangers. And so my maternal grandparents, who built this farm and own it, employed in it a bunch of our family so they would avoid conscription, and strangers too, and others chose to work for the army or the RAF, anywhere they could. Two of my three brothers are in the front, they didn’t want to go but… they’re some of the eldest cousins, and there’s not that much job here for everyone, and they wanted their youngest cousins to be safe with a job here. Hopefully,” she sighed, examining the wound in Strike’s head, changing the gauze, “we’ll see them again soon. But in the meantime, this farm’s helping as much people as we can. My paternal family has quite the money, my grandfather’s a RAF veteran, a Marshall, and he’s making sure money comes here to keep the farm going, so we can feed a good part of Yorkshire and help people like you who were less fortunate. Helps that everybody in my family’s quite close to each other, otherwise I don’t know how we’ll pull this off.”

“That’s very generous,” said Strike, and clenched his jaw when Robin made his wound itch a little before putting a clean bandage. “Thank you, Robin. So we can stay here… all we want?” Robin smiled.

“All you want. Your sister, Lucy, is helping out at the farm and making some money, and she helps with a charitable canteen we put out for the neighbours twice a day. She and Teddy are also receiving lessons from my Aunt Sophie, who’s a teacher and has formed teaching groups with kids in the area, like my youngest brother, or my ten cousins in both sides. All of them work too, at least the oldest ones.”

“Big family.”

“Sometimes I wonder if too big,” she winked, joking, and he smiled a little. “Hungry?”

“Not really, but thanks.”

“Mind if I force feed you…” she checked the tray she’d brought. “Some soup? We’re not rationing here, everything comes from the farm. And it’s got eggs and veggies, quite good.”

“Okay,” he accepted, and because he did feel weak, he let her feed him until the bow was empty. It did make him feel better. “Can I see my siblings?” he asked then.

“Of course, this isn’t prison. Everybody comes and goes as they like,” Robin half smiled. “I’ll tell them to come over. They’ve been quite anxious, you’ve been in and out over a month. But the fever seems gone now.”

“Shouldn’t you be in the hospital?”

“No, I’ve got the night shift today. I’ll get your siblings, you just rest. You’ve got a catheter so don’t worry about the bathroom,” she tucked him better. “Anything else you need?”

“Uhm… I’ve got some friends that… well Lucy and Teddy were supposed to be with them. Have they…?” he didn’t want to say it, but Robin understood.

“Oh, they’re all right. Nick and Ilsa Herbert, right?” he nodded. “Yeah, they were here for a few weeks in August, had to return to school now but they’ve got an open invitation, so… you’ll see them in the weekend, I suppose. Lucy writes them a lot, I’m aware, perhaps you can write them too.”

“Thank God…” he sighed in relief. “Oh thank God…”

“Rest easy, Cormoran. I’ve got this,” Robin smiled warmly at him and took the tray, leaving the room.

Strike closed his eyes for a moment, the pain of his leg fading a little, and then the door stormed open and he opened his eyes in time to see Teddy and Lucy run to him. He grinned and opened both arms to catch them.

“Hey there!” he chuckled, kissing them both. “Lucky the eyes that see you! Let me see, let me…” he cupped their faces and beamed, as they gave him tearful smiles. “There you are. I’m so glad to see you, are you okay? Are they treating you good?”

“They’re angels!” said Teddy. By Strike’s mental Math, his youngest sibling was now nearing his eight birthday, when April came, and Lucy must have just turned seventeen or been about to. “They’re super nice to us and they let us eat all we want!” he said with enthusiasm, and Strike grinned. They both looked healthier and less skinny, and it was a sight for his sore eyes. He’d hadn’t felt so happy in years.

“You don’t know how happy that makes me,” Strike hugged him tight with one arm, ruffling his hair. “Looking big and handsome, brother. And you,” he chuckled, cupping Lucy’s cheek, “my beautiful not so little sister any more. Happy birthday?”

“Just today,” Lucy nodded, and grinned, rubbing tears off her eyes and kissing his cheek soundly. They had new clothes too, Strike realized. “The Ellacotts and the Evans, Robin’s paternal family, have been amazing. They’re the kindest, most generous people, we couldn’t believe it when they said we could stay all we wanted, and they’d look after us.”

“Angels indeed then,” said Strike. “So you’re both okay? Tell me, what did I miss? How are Nick and Ilsa? How are the Waterstones in St Mawes?”

“Surprisingly, everyone’s okay,” said Lucy, sitting on the edge of the bed. “We went to Leeds like you told us, and Nick and Ilsa took us in. They’re really busy, hardly ever around the house, and I had to work too, so we taught Teddy to take care of himself a little, be alone at the house a bit more. Ilsa had another miscarriage in Spring, this time she knew she was pregnant, but it was accidental. She’s been upset, but when Robin came to our door and told us you were here, we couldn’t believe our ears, we were so happy. Ilsa’s family’s been well in St Mawes, and Nick takes good care of her, they’re building a strong marriage, and they brought us here in a heartbeat to be with you. They were here for a few weeks during their holidays, but had to return now. And I might be getting into Uni next year, Robin’s family’s helping me out and they think they could get me in Leeds too. I want to become a teacher, so many kids now are going to need guidance with all the poverty and misery, and I want to help out.”

“That’s so great, Lucy,” Strike grinned. “You’ll be the best teacher, I’m sure. God, you’re both looking so pretty… you’ve done so well, so well!”

“And Robin said you’ll never have to go again,” said Teddy excitedly. “We can be a family now, right? Get a house!”

“Not yet, we still don’t have much money for a house,” said Lucy, caressing his cheek. “But we’re in a good place.”

“But in the meantime, three people make for a good home,” said Strike optimistically. “Robin’s gonna get me a stick leg like a pirate, and then I’ll get us back on our feet, we’ll be self sufficient again, you will see. Lucy will study to be a teacher, we’ll get a dog, and a little house… we’ll see the beach again… it’s getting very close now, you just wait.”

T eddy beamed, and nodded.

“Did you kill many Nazi, Corm?” he asked. Strike snorted a laugh.

“Plenty of them,” said Strike. “I told them this one’s for stealing my cheddar!” he joked, making him laugh. “And this one’s for taking my tea! And this one’s ‘cause I hate sleeping on the floor!” he tickled Teddy, pretending to pinch him with a sword, until he was all cackling. “Now,” he smiled, his arms still around them, as Teddy’s laughter subsided, “I’ve got to rest so I can get strong back again and annoy the hell out of you two. What’s your day looking like, will there be cake?” Lucy nodded.

“Linda made it, it’s for dinner, with all the family. You should sleep now so you can come later.”

“Then I’ll do just that, I’d kill a Nazi for some cake,” he joked darkly, and kissed them again. “Come on, go have some fun for me. And don’t you worry kiddos, things will only get better from here on.”

S leep, this time, came easy for Strike. His leg hurt agonizingly sometimes, making him feel week, but Robin came and went, checking he was all right, and in the evening, he was awoken and Robin helped him off his catheter, to the bathroom, and to get dressed. They’d gotten him new clothes, trousers, suspenders and a shirt and jumper, and shoes, of which he only needed one, and Robin helped him get dressed, which only made him blush about half a dozen times, before showing surprising strength helping him to his wheelchair.

As he was wheeled down the house, Strike saw it was a large farm house, and they were already in the ground floor, for his comfort. She guided him into a large dining area full of people, and his entrance was celebrated with applause and whistling. He grinned, seeing the enormous cake, and for the first time in years, celebrated a birthday again, his sister’s one no less, surrounded of people who clearly valued her deeply.

The next day after her lessons, Lucy took him in the wheelchair with Teddy, to go outside under the sunlight, because he was ‘too pale’. When Strike saw the horses, the sheep, the cows, the family dog Rowntree, and the miles of green land, tall trees, and agricultural crops with all fruits and vegetables, he bent over and cried with his face in his hands, because he had never thought he’d see something so beautiful again.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: A family of generous people.

During the following weeks, as Strike felt stronger and more recovered, he got to meet everyone around the farm, and relatives from surrounding places that came in the weekends, and learn about everyone, eat all he wanted, and feel slowly more recovered, often wheeling himself around to see the animals and the plants, and read in the garden, when the pain of his leg lowered enough to allow it.

He met Robin’s grandparents, two charming old couples. Her paternal grandparents, Emmett and Daisy Ellacott, were nearing their eighties, and were brunettes Yorkshire born and breed. Emmett was a RAF Marshall now retired, although he volunteered in Ripon, where he and his wife lived, in the RAF offices. Daisy, like Michael Ellacott, was a doctor based in Ripon, but had since retired and now helped at the farm all she could, often coming to check on Strike and make him company, reading to him to distract him from the pain. Their eldest child was Michael, a man in his early fifties with dense dark hair and brown eyes, a little plump, and very large, like the whole family was, with a great sense of humour and a love for science and literature. He was a doctor, and thus spent most of the time working in the hospital in York, so they hardly saw him, but when he was around, he was often seen playing with the younger kids of the farm, like Teddy, or helping in the kitchen. Michael was married to Robin’s mother, Linda Ellacott, who looked just like her, and was about as kind and generous with Northern hospitality. Linda spent most of her days working around the farm, and because Daisy talked a lot, Strike learned that Linda was often worried about her eldest child, Stephen, who’d been sent to the Army four years before when he turned eighteen, and of whom they heard little, and her third child, Martin, who’d been gone in the army from the age of eighteen too, which was a year before. Stephen was married, and his waiting wife, Jenny Ellacott, worked at the farm and visited Strike sometimes.

B ut Michael wasn’t the only son Daisy and Emmett Ellacott had. The upper-class family had also a younger son, Joseph, who was only a little younger than Michael, and was in the RAF, but working as an engineer in Leeds instead of deployed somewhere, for the family’s relief. Joseph had a wife, Ciara, and two children, Katie, who was a bit of Robin’s twin and best friend and like her, worked as a nurse in military hospitals and studied in her free time, and Rolf, who studied. Most of the Ellacotts lived in Ripon, Manchester and Leeds, so Strike didn’t see them much, but Katie came to visit Robin often, and they worked together, so Strike got to know her too. And there was Robin’s teacher aunt, Sophie, the only Ellacott aside from Robin’s direct family, who lived in Masham, married to a local rail worker named Corey, and parents of Emma, who was fourteen and studied at the farm.

T he ones Strike did see all the time were Robin’s maternal family, the farmers, the Evans. Her grandparents in that side were Charles and Wendy Evans, and they had worked the farm all their lives. They lived in a small house attached to the farm, and were too old to work much any more, but could still be seen helping around and reading to the children, which was how they called everyone younger than sixteen.

Charles and Wendy had formed the classical family of redheads full of people with Robin’s looks around the hair and eyes, while the Evans were easy to distinguish because almost all of them were brunette, with exceptions in Katie, whose mother was also redhead, and little more. Linda was the eldest of her siblings, followed by Jonas, Parker, and Clara, all of whom had been born late in the past century, and all of whom lived and worked in the farm with their families and a few people that were hired, poor like Strike was. They descended from Scottish people, but their accents were fully Yorkshire by now, and so was their camaraderie.

Jonas introduced Strike, as he showed him their lands, to his wife Isabella and his children Sean and Lily, who were about Lucy’s age and her friends now. Parker and his wife Bonnie dealt with the animals, along with her children Amelia, Cassidy and Talek, who were thirteen to seven years old, and Clara lived in a house nearby, with her husband Frank, a coal miner, and her son Avery, who was twelve and daughter Lisa, who was eight.

And thus both Lucy and Teddy, but also Strike, found people of about their same ages to hang out with on the weekends, whenever people had free time, whenever the Ellacotts came to the farm, and always for a large family dinner once a month that nobody missed.

Teddy’s closest friends, Strike learned, quickly became Lisa and Talek, the youngest of Robin’s cousins, with Talek being his same age. The three could often be seen running with the animals and the plants, laughing and playing tag, which always made Strike happy. Lucy also bonded with people of about her same age, enjoying good friendships with Lily, who was her age, Rolf, Jonathan and Emma, and the five would walk around the town when they could, and they’d show her around and introduce her to the locals, and Lucy, who had never had a group of close friends of her own before, seemed happier than ever.

For Strike, making friendships was a bit trickier, because he was often exhausted or in pain, but still over the next few weeks he became close friends of the older cousins. Robin, Katie, and Sean, but because Sean wasn’t around a lot, he was mostly with Robin and Katie, and sending letters back and forth with Nick and Ilsa. He learned Robin’s family had arranged her to become engaged to Matthew Cunliffe a bit like Nick and Ilsa. They’d been dating since they were teens, he was gone with the RAF, he was upper class, he’d take care of Robin. Only that Robin was falling out of love with him, that Robin had never planned for their relationship to get so serious, and that most her family thought Matthew wasn’t the best of men, but at least he could take care of her. The wedding was expected to happen after the war, and then they were expected to move to London, to a nice house paid by the Cunliffes, and Robin would bear children and stay at home, and she never seemed even remotely excited to talk about what was in store for her.

R obin turned twenty the ninth of October and, since it fell on a Monday, they celebrated the weekend before, and on Sunday evening she, Strike, Katie, Sean, and Nick and Ilsa, who’d come for the weekend and were by now befriending the Ellacotts too, sat together outside. They’d made a little bonfire and were enjoying late night alcohol and smoking, unwinding from the week, before Nick and Ilsa returned to Leeds on Monday. It was the first night Strike was really well enough to hang out until late, and so they found a nice spot in the garden, with some cushions to sit down, shielded with some big trees so they wouldn’t be caught drinking and being young and free, and Strike was nearly forgetting his troubles, for it was easy for Robin’s family to make people laugh.

“You could always break your engagement Robin,” was saying Sean, looking up at the stars. “The family’s always been permissive, and when the war ends everybody will be so happy they’ll say yes to anything.”

“God I hope so,” Robin took a good chug of beer and turned to Strike. “What about you? Some girl waiting in London?”

Strike briefly thought of Charlotte and shook his head.

“No,” he replied. “Just me, Lucy and Teddy now, and these two rascals. So why were you even dating the guy if you don’t like him that much?”

“I loved him,” said Robin. “Problem is when people leave… and you’re forced to grow the fuck up,” she’d been in the Royal Army Nursing Corps since she was eighteen. “Maturity sometimes comes with changes of heart. I became a strong independent woman and… Matthew stopped feeling like such a big deal. Maybe I just don’t remember him so well any more, haven’t seen him in three years, but… I also never planned on marrying the first guy I ever dated. I mean no offence,” she added towards Nick and Ilsa, “I just don’t think Matthew’s husband material. He enjoys women’s attention a tad too much, and he’s too self-focused.”

Strike looked at Nick and Ilsa. They had bags under their eyes and looked a decade older, paler and thinner. Two baby losses and Nick’s family gone, and being isolated in Leeds, always working and studying with no time for friendship for over a year, had taken its toll in them.

“Tomorrow Churchill and Stalin will meet to discuss how to split the territory once the war’s over,” said Katie after a moment of silence. “Sucks, isn’t it? All those people had to flee their homes, only to return now and find three old guys decided what belonged to what, took advantage of the war.”

“Welcome to the war, history is written by the winners,” said Strike dryly.

“And that’s the world we’re gonna inherit,” sentenced Nick. “Fucking wonderful.”

“Yeah, it’s like the war ends, but how long will the bitterness and anger last?” commented Sean.

“I got enough to last me a lifetime,” said Nick. “The fuckers killed my whole family. My parents and little brother, our house, the London raids ended it all. I’m never going to fucking Germany, or whatever it becomes, if it’s not to kill Nazis myself.”

“You’re better off here mate,” said Strike, squeezing his shoulder. “Making a home with your wife, starting over. Trust me, there’s nothing to see here. It’s just ashes, all there is out there, will take decades to rebuild those cities and towns and in the end what? The civilians are just like ours. Their presidents decided to throw them into war and get their people killed. We kill civilians too when we go out there. I’ve killed civilians too. So in the end we better calm down and move on, because otherwise… we’ll all have to kill each other, moved by revenge.”

“Wouldn’t you kill the people who exterminated your family?” Nick inquired.

Strike looked thoughtful and then shrugged.

“I’ve survived a year out there killing people under the belief that I’d feel better, that they deserved it, that an eye for an eye. I’ve shot them, stabbed them, slit throats… I can’t even count them,” Strike admitted. “Maybe I did kill those who exterminated my family, or their children, their wives… God knows. I’ll tell you what I know now, having gone through all I’ve gone through, sitting here, Normandy won. I was fucking wrong. No life I took filled my heart in the slightest. No blood in my hands made me feel comforted or sleep better at night. Some people are cruel psychopaths and they enjoy it, but if you got a heart you can possibly enjoy, you just think you do, until everything calms down and you got time to think clearly. Y’know what did fill my heart? What does comfort me? Coming here and seeing my brother, who lost everything, who doesn’t even remember his fucking father, laughing and playing tag. I don’t remember when I heard him laugh last. Seeing Lucy make friends, study something she likes, become a proper lady, a happy one. Now you are too full of anger and grief to realize, but one day you’ll look at your children laughing, your wife next to you in bed, the home and the life you built together from nothing… and that’ll fill your heart. Not killing more people. Perhaps we can never forgive and forget, but we can build bridges, we can admit both sides fucked up big time, and we can create good things that make us happy, instead of burn more towns to the ground and cause more misery.”

“I couldn’t have said it any better,” Ilsa nodded, and Nick took a deep breath, nodding a little.

“You’re right,” agreed Robin. “It’s up to us to decide what we build now. What we do with the time we’ve got the luxury to have while others don’t.”

“I’d happily date,” said Katie. “Have a kiddo, enjoy the farm. Discover how old one can be with good nutrition and no more war.”

“I’ll drink to that,” added Sean. “Maybe meet America once. I heard the Statue of Liberty is quite impressive.”

“And you, don’t marry some guy if you’re not fully in it,” Strike told Robin, who smiled and nodded, and then he turned to Nick. “What will you do, Nick? Think again.”

After a moment, Nick replied.

“Finish medical school, save lives,” said Nick. “Return to London, have a house with Ilsa, right? Closer to Cornwall,” Ilsa smiled and nodded, and he kissed her temple. “And uh… yeah, why not, maybe have some kids successfully, and if it’s a boy, name him Daniel Lewis Herbert, after my Dad and brother, and if it’s a girl, Amanda Joyce, after her grandmothers, uh? What d’you think, darling?” Ilsa nodded.

“I’d like that very much.”

“And you’ll be a proper lawyer, keep bad people in prison and good people free. We’ll build a better future.”

“And I will drink to that,” Strike chuckled and clunk his bottle with Nick’s, taking a sip. He thought he saw Ilsa give him a grateful glance, as if she’d been waiting for someone to bring her husband back when she couldn’t any more.

“What will you do, Cormoran?” asked Katie. “When this all ends, you’ll be free to do anything. You can even study.”

“Well I have to be a father to my siblings now,” replied Strike. “So not so free. I need to get a prosthesis, I’m not gonna fancy desk jobs and then… maybe work the coal mines, or the railway. My father was a cop and a soldier but with the leg, don’t think so, neither my uncle’s farm, if there’s anything of it to save. Or maybe I’ll become a mechanic or something, I’m good with my hands. Studying won’t pay my siblings’ education, I’m afraid. And uh… I’ll let them decide where they want to live. St Mawes by the beach or anywhere else, maybe around here now they’ve made friends, and send Lucy to Uni, she wants to be a teacher now, and Teddy to a proper school, once they start working properly again. Build us a house… see them grow up and leave the nest. Spend the rest of my days somewhere calm and far from wars.”

“No sex?” Sean asked, and they laughed. “God, that’s fucking depressing.” He smirked, his brown eyes eyeing Strike for a second.

“I’m not into incest, so…” said Strike, and Ilsa slapped his arm, disgusted, while he laughed. “Nah… I don’t think girls will be queuing up to be with an amputated guy with two siblings in his hands. Maybe in ten years, when Teddy’s an adult.”

“I can’t see while a woman wouldn’t want a responsible and good man, legless and all,” Robin commented mindlessly.

“Anything you want to tell us Robin?” teased Katie, elbowing her playfully.

“Wha-no!”

They laughed, teasing her and mocking, and Robin shook her head, laughing, while the flames of the bonfire danced.

Then the leaves cracked and they looked to see Teddy standing there in his pyjamas, with his new dressing gown on.

“Teddy,” Strike grabbed his crutches and stood up with a grunt. “What are you doing here? Are you all right?”

Teddy seemed on the verge of tears, and he shrugged.

“Can’t stop dreaming of the bombs,” he murmured. Strike frowned and motioned for him to come over. He sat on the cushion again, putting his crutches aside, and brought Teddy to his lap, hugging him close.

“The bombs are over, Teddy,” Strike assured softly, removing his jacket and using it as a blanket for Teddy, hugging him close. “The war will be over soon.”

“Look up Teddy,” Robin leaned over, and pointed up at the stars. “See how many stars? No planes. No bombs. Just the entire universe up there.”

Teddy stared into the sky for a long moment, and then looked at Strike.

“Are Mummy and Daddy up there? And Auntie Catherine, Auntie Joan and Uncle Ted and Uncle Peter? Are they up there?”

Strike looked up and back at him. The night was quiet, with only the tweeting of some birds and the crackling of the fire.

“Yeah,” replied Strike at last. “Somewhere up in the stars… but to see them again, we need to get old, okay? Otherwise we can’t.”

“But they never got old.”

“Yeah, but we will,” Strike nodded. “You know, Teddy, when I was in the war, I saw our soldiers, the British soldiers, they were winning. They knew where putting things back in place, getting people’s homes back, and the Nazi, they were less and less each day. They’re not gonna get here ever again, and we’ll get to live our lives in peace, and you don’t have to be afraid any more. The house’s not gonna fall on you again, Luce and I are not going to leave you again, and you can sleep in peace now, okay?”

Teddy snuggled against his chest and looked up at him contemplatively.

“D’you know Mummy’s song? Luce knows it, but she doesn’t sing the same.” Strike snorted a laugh, but nodded.

“Not sure I’m as good singer, but… I can try. D’you want me to sing it to you?” Teddy nodded.

“Please.”

“Okay, but you help me, okay? I don’t like singing alone,” Teddy half smiled and nodded. “They were summoned from the hillside, they were called in from the glen, and the country found them ready at the stirring call for men. Let no tears add to their hardships, as the soldiers pass along, keep the Home Fires Burning,” Strike began to sing and Teddy joined in a murmur, half-knowing the lyrics. “While your hearts are yearning, though your lads are far away they dream of home. There's a silver lining, through the dark clouds shining, turn the dark cloud inside out, 'til the boys come home. Overseas there came a pleading, ‘help a nation in distress’. And we gave our glorious laddies, honour bade us do no less.” The others watched in silence, marvelled, and not wanting to disturb what seemed like a peaceful family moment for the brothers, one Teddy seemed to need. Perhaps they’d stolen his brother a little, and the smaller needed it. There was also something to Strike’s voice, grave and deep like a baritone, that made it reach the heart and make the lyrics more meaningful. Robin thought of her brothers, gone somewhere, Nick and Ilsa of their families, and everybody found someone to think of. “For no gallant son of freedom to a tyrant's yoke should bend, and a noble heart must answer to the sacred call of ‘Friend’. Keep the Home Fires Burning, while your hearts are yearning, though your lads are far away they dream of home. There's a silver lining, through the dark clouds shining, turn the dark cloud inside out 'til the boys come home.”

W hen he finished, Teddy murmured a thank you and seemed more peaceful in his arms, as if he now felt safe, comforted.

“I don’t remember Daddy,” he said then, looking at Strike. “D’you remember Daddy, Corm?”

“Yeah,” Strike nodded. “I remember the song from him, not from Mum. When uh… when Luce and I were little, like you, and Daddy went to work, he was a cop, and Lucy used to cry because she didn’t want him to go. So he’d sing, and tell us to sing until he came back.”

“And you did?”

“Not whole day,” Strike snorted, “we would’ve lost our voices. But Mum would sing it with us, that was before Auntie Catherine came to live with us, when she was with Uncle Peter, before he went away. Before everyone went away. And when Dad came back, he’d always bring us a little something. A piece of cheddar, a teddy bear… whatever he could get hands on. You know what that song’s about?”

“No, but it’s pretty.”

“Well it’s about how men are called to war, they leave home, but the people who stay home waiting for them, yearning for them, ought not to cry, but to keep the fire burning, the house warm, and keep positive minds, ‘cause the men that go are only out helping a friend who needs them, but will return home.”

“But they never returned home,” said Teddy, confused.

“If they have someone who loves them and misses them, they’re always home at heart, Teddy,” said Strike, and took a deep breath and a chug of his beer. “Now sleep, okay? You sleep, and I’ll keep watch.”

“Okay,” Teddy, snuggled against him. “Will you tell me more about Daddy tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Strike nodded. “And about everyone else. Every day, okay? And you’ll remember him. We’ll remember them like that.”

Teddy nodded, falling asleep. Strike caressed his features with his finger, seeing both parents in him, and watched him sleep softly.

“So that’s why he cried so much?” Robin whispered after a while. “When he and Lucy first arrived, she was consoling him every single night. Your house fell on them?”

Strike nodded.

“Lucy and I were working. The raids were supposed to have stopped, and the alarms didn’t sound,” he explained hoarsely. “We saw something explode in the horizon when we were returning home. We worked at a factory… and we ran. Everything was destroyed, our parents’ house, everything we had. It was a plane, dropping some leftovers bombs, I suppose. We had to… search between the rubble. And we found him, and somehow aside from some bumps and scratches, he was all right. Our aunt lost everything from waist down, bleed out in my arms. Our mother had died from tuberculosis nearly a whole year before. Our father at the war, on the first Christmas. Our uncle, at war, our grandfathers… and our grandmothers died before all this, of age, and then we only had Uncle Ted and Aunt Joan left, in Cornwall. He’s why Teddy’s name is Teddy, bloody extraordinary man, World War I veteran. And a Cornish raid ended them both. He was wheelchair bound, couldn’t leave the house fast enough, and she couldn’t leave him behind, they’d been together since they were fifteen. She told me to get the kids and run and so I did. And then… there was nothing more to do than send them to Nick and Ilsa and enlist. And you know the rest.”

R obin watched him and Teddy sadly, and then she nodded.

“They’d be bloody proud of what you’ve done then. Keeping them safe.”

“They said we had to survive no matter what,” Strike shrugged. “I should go to bed, anyway, damn leg’s killing me…”

“I’ll give him a piggy ride,” said Nick, getting up. “I’ve missed my littlest best friend!”

Nick got Teddy and Ilsa helped Strike to his feet and the crutches. Strike turned to Robin and managed a small smile.

“Happy birthday, Robin. Bloody miracle to turn years these days.”

“Goodnight, Cormoran,” she smiled small at him and raised her small bottle towards him.

Teddy and Lucy shared a room just in front of Strike’s, and he had his own, as he snored a lot and his injury still meant he could be in a lot of pain and wake people up by accident. Besides, a twenty-one year old needed some privacy sometimes, and the room provided it. Strike slid into his bed with a heavy heart and dug into his pocket, pulling out the photo that had been in his wallet, and which Robin had found when she had found him. It showed his parents, holding newborn Teddy, Strike and Lucy young and innocent, standing by their side, all smiles. If only that photograph didn’t feel so far ago.

Chapter Text

C hapter 6: And then it was her.

Roosevelt had become president of the United States for the fourth time, early in November. Strike read it in the newspaper while everyone worked and he nursed a cup of tea in the kitchen, and he also read the Allies were cornering Germany, liberating Belgium completely, parts of Greece, and there were French troops again fighting for their country, liberating it from the Nazis slowly but surely. The news came slowly these days, but sometimes a newspaper could still be printed.

Putting the paper away, Strike grabbed his crutches and slowly crutched away from the kitchen. He was feeling tired, and was considering a nap. He wore a waistcoat today, couldn’t remember the last time he’d owned one, but was still quite unhealthy looking. As he hopped around with his crutches towards his bedroom, he heard crying in a room he’d passed. He stopped, wondering if it sounded like Lucy, if he should lurk, and then thought it sounded like Robin, so he turned around and knocked on the door. The crying was so intense he didn’t think he was heard, and opened the room slowly to reveal Robin in her military uniform, sitting on the sofa of what looked like a small studio, doubled over in tears. She’d left the day before after dinner, and Strike hadn’t seen her return.

“Robin, what’s wrong?” he asked softly. Robin looked up, caught by surprise.

“I-I’m s-sorry, did I…?”

“You did nothing wrong,” Strike walked inside, pushing the door close with his crutches, and flopped next to Robin, putting the crutches down and wrapping an arm around her. “But something’s wrong. What is it?” he asked with worry, hoping she hadn’t received bad news from her brothers. Robin leaned against his chest and released a deep breath, calming down, although her tears soaked his waistcoat.

R obin took a few minutes to calm herself down before replying.

“I had a shit night. Lost twelve patients,” she said slowly, and took a deep breath. “Then I heard my fiancé was in the hospital.”

“Matthew’s back?”

“Yeah,” she replied. “Only that his plane crashed. He had broken his neck, no feeling from the neck down, and was dying,” Strike scowled, his stomach knotting empathetically. “He looked at me, and he… he begged me to end his suffering. And so I… I… I overdosed him with sedatives, and… his heart stopped. He was begging me and I…”

“It was the merciful thing to do,” said Strike softly, wrapping both arms around her.

“I’m a h-horrible person…” she sniffled, crying into his chest.

“You’re not, you’re an angel, why would you say that?”

“’Cause I… I… I should’ve kissed him. I should’ve… should’ve felt elated he was back, at least before I knew it was bad… but when they told me I just… I felt anguished. I dreaded seeing him, my own fiancé… even before I knew what had happened… I was thinking shit, now I’m gonna have to marry him and… I didn’t even kiss him. I didn’t even say anything warm or sweet or… I just said I was sorry. That’s all I said to him, after all these years… a-and now h-he’s with… his… f-ly and I… f-four years… ‘m… here… not...”

“Sh…” Strike caressed her hair, trying to calm her down. “Deep breaths Robin…”

He waited for several minutes, until she slumped, all cried out.

“You’re drained, Robin,” said Strike, holding her in his arms. “You need to sleep. You have done everything you could to save everyone you could, you have given Matthew a painless sleep, you were there, when he died. That says how much you cared about him, and I am sure he knew that. I am sure he saw how much you were hurting beyond the point of words, and that he was grateful you didn’t left him to die alone in agonising pain. And now the best you can do is rest while his parents and sister mourn him, rest, so you can recover your strength and go to his funeral whenever it is. You’re a good person, Robin,” he reassured her, and resisted a sudden urge to kiss the top of her head. “You’ve only ever done your best. Walk tall, Ellacott.”

After helping her to her bedroom and asking a maid to bring her some tea and food, Strike went outside to find Linda, who was picking up some tomatoes outside in the farm.

“Linda!” he shouted from the edge of the plantation, and she looked up, catching the tone in his voice. When she saw the tension in his face, she removed her gloves, left the basket of tomatoes and rushed to him. “It’s Robin. Matthew died in her arms last night.”

“Oh dear…” Linda frowned.

“She’s in her bedroom. I thought you’d want to know.”

“Thanks, Corm,” Linda ran into the house and Strike sighed, watching her gone.

Robin didn’t leave her bedroom for the rest of the day. She left the next day, all in black and quiet, with her parents and Jon, to pay their respects at the funeral in the local St Mary the Virgin’s Church, and when she returned, it was to lock herself back in her bedroom and her parents announced they should all let her be in peace.

From Jonathan, Strike learned the Cunliffes were a big deal in Masham. Born a year ahead of Robin, Matthew Cunliffe had been the youngest of two, with a big sister who was enrolled as a typist in Ripon for the British Army, and was married and with a daughter. They were the only children to RAF Captain Geoffrey Cunliffe, who’d fought in the first war and now worked in office jobs, and Mrs Cunliffe, who had died the year before from a sudden illness while her son was away. They were rich because they’d done well in the RAF for decades going back three generations, and Matthew had always wanted to be a pilot. Matthew and Robin had met in their childhood in Masham’s Primary School, the only one there was, when she was five and he was six, and they had been friends since. They had begun dating in 1939, early in the year, before the war began, when she was still fourteen and he was still fifteen, the handsomest boy in his class, and the most stylish one.

But the Ellacotts had never adored him. They admitted he was a gentleman, he respected Robin, and he was sweet to her, but they disliked his egocentrism, his self-focus, his airs of greatness. The two had dated for a few years, before he was old enough to serve, and in September 1941 he’d turned eighteen, and gone off, after only two and a half years of relationship, but right before he could leave, the engagement had been arranged, a diamond ring given to Robin, and then he had left the country. For three years they had known nothing for him, communications extremely complicated where he was flying, and so it was normal that Robin’s feelings for him, that had never been more than a teenage infatuation falsely called love, had cooled down, but somehow everyone still thought Robin was grieving her love, when Strike knew she was grieving her guilt.

And yet he left her be, like everyone else did, and the days passed, and while his siblings were in their lessons, he went fishing to the River Ure. It was something he’d learned from Ted mostly, something they’d done together, something that relaxed him, and helped him forget the pain from his leg for a while. But nothing was biting, and he didn’t see many fish in the water, so he sat in a rock and simply watched the river move. After a moment, he heard footsteps and saw Robin appear. She was pale and looked frail, wrapped in her long coat, and when she saw him look at her, forced a small smile.

“Busted.”

“Wanna sit here?” Strike patted the rock next to him, and Robin sat by his side.

“I’m sorry if I’m interrupting.”

“You’re not. The fish aren’t joining us anyway,” Strike put down the fishing rod, putting the fishing equipment aside and simply sitting with her. “Should I ask?”

Robin puffed, deep bags under her reddened eyes.

“It’s the guilt,” she murmured. “Everyone thinks I’m some heartbroken widow, but I’m just guilty. The guilt for not loving him enough, the guilt for not refusing this engagement, the guilt for helping him die even if it was the right thing to do, the guilt for hiding how I truly felt, the guilt for… for being relieved I don’t have to marry him any more. I can’t even sit there any more, because everyone’s talking to me like… ‘he’s in a better place now’ or ‘he wouldn’t want you suffering’ and… I feel guiltier I can’t tell them I’m not even in love with him.”

“For the record, I don’t think it’s so strange that your feelings for him never became that big. Jon talks of him like he’s some annoying mosquito he had to put up with,” Robin snorted a laugh. “And… you were a kid. Hardly knew him. Did you ever…?”

“God no,” Robin snorted. “I’m saving myself for marriage. I know, old school but… I guess it’s a way to make sure someone won’t fuck me and go out there and get thirty lovers.”

“That’s a very specific number,” he teased, making her giggle. “Y’know… when my father died, my Mum felt so guilty too. Everyone thought it was just the heartbreak, but I felt something more, something she didn’t want anyone to know. And so… I asked her. She used to tell me everything, no matter how embarrassing or immature, it was our deal. And she told me that while Dad was gone for the war, sometimes she slept with someone else. It wasn’t meaningful and she and my father weren’t committed yet, not engaged nor nothing, but she still felt guilty. The other man has become a known musician, rich, famous one, Jonny Rokeby, I don’t know—,”

“Jonny Rokeby?” Robin’s jaw dropped. “That’s a big name!”

“Then I hope you keep it between us,” said Strike, and Robin nodded.

“Of course. You know you can trust me, that’s our own deal.”

He smiled softly and nodded.

“Anyway, they were lovers, on and off, while he was in the army. Rokeby was deployed too, but whenever he was in London and Dad wasn’t… Mum said she didn’t love him, but that he made the loneliness go away for a while. My father never knew anything, the relationship was over as soon as the war ended, Rokeby even married someone else, my Dad got engaged to her, and she swore he was the one she loved, and Rokeby wasn’t worth ruining everything for,” Strike shrugged. “So when Dad died, she was left with the guilt and the self blame… as if telling him the truth would’ve made him feel better. My point is Robin… we can feel guilty for the rest of our lives. We can let the guilt eat us up, but it won’t help. We think we need someone to forgive us but in reality… we need to forgive ourselves. We need to say okay, I’m not proud of this thing I did, it wasn’t right, I’m sorry, and I’ll try not to fuck up again. And move on. I know she loved my Dad, I know he loved her wholeheartedly. I know they might’ve made mistakes… but I know it was war time, and their hearts were hurting, and they sought relief the best way they could, and made a mistake. Exceptional times require exceptional forgiveness, so… forgive yourself, ‘cause there are exceptional times. And don’t fuck it like that again. Don’t live a life full of regrets.”

R obin stared at him for a long moment and then she nodded slowly, thoughtful.

“What do you feel guilty about?” she asked.

Strike needed a moment to think about it, and then he released a long sigh, staring at the water.

“That I wasn’t good enough of a son when my parents lived, got distracted thinking of girls and being stupid, that I didn’t tell them I loved them enough times, that I didn’t send enough letters to Cornwall, that I took lives with a hint of joy but also that I didn’t take enough lives to end this once and for all. And that… there was a girl in London. Her name was Charlotte, my aunt, a teacher, tutored us both, but she was upper class, rich and powerful… I’m, if you haven’t noticed, poor and lower class, so we could receive lessons together but if her family saw us hanging out afterwards… they’d have my neck. They’re not posh like your Dad, who’s warm and kind and generous, they’re cold, selfish, self-focused.”

“Like the Cunliffes.”

“I suppose,” said Strike. “I began seeing her in secret, she threw herself at my arms and I had sex with her, repeatedly. It was the only woman I’d… and my Mum found out during the war and made me promise I’d stop it, because if we got caught or I accidentally impregnated her, I’d be in big trouble but so would my aunt, who needed the job. I never stopped it. I told the girl I loved her and no matter how much my Mum told me she was using me, I didn’t see it, not until we lost it all and I naively went to ask Charlotte to help us with her resources, like you guys do. She laughed in my face.”

“Fuck…”

“Yeah. So I regret everything about her. Giving her my body, my heart, my soul… not doing what I promised my Mum, not listening to her, not believing her… not seeing things for what they were.”

“How long did you guys…?”

“When it started when I was fifteen, in the 38, but I’d known her for longer. I lost my virginity on my fifteenth birthday… hers was the next day, so double celebration, you know,” Strike puffed. “I thought she gave a shit about me. And uh… that we were good friends. We used to do it all the time, she stole condoms her parents got sent from America, and when the war started and my father died, her coldness should’ve been a clue but it wasn’t. She became colder and colder, maybe it wasn’t her fault, her family sucked… but it didn’t stop her from using me. Never helped us. Never gave a damn, even when my Mum died early on 1942, nor when my Aunt died as well early in 1943… that’s when I went to Charlotte for help, before she left with her family after her father died at war, they went to live with the Viscounts of bloody Croy. But they left. January 7^th 1943, that was the last I ever heard of her, before we left for St Mawes. Our uncle and aunt died during the raids of the 13^th of June, we stayed with Ilsa’s family for a few days then, but they’re too many, couldn’t feed us all and it was complicated, so...” he remembered each date painfully. “On the 20^th of June I left Lucy and Teddy. Then I was sent to war in Italy. So I haven’t known from her in nearly two years.”

Robin nodded slowly, and put her head on his shoulder, putting a hand around his arm.

“What does love feel like, Cormoran?”

“I’m not sure I ever truly felt it but… Ted said, and bear in mind he was an ocean man, that it was like coming out of the water for fresh air. Like the first hot chocolate of the winter, like coming home after the war, like the first laughter after a bad season.”

“That’s a beautiful way to put it.”

“Yeah… he was a bit poetic.”

“I wish I had known him,” she said sincerely. “I wish I’d known them all.”

Strike stared at her, moved, and smiled small.

“I wish that too.”

They sat together comfortably in silence watching the water move, cascading between the rocks, the birds tweeting, and some foxes in the opposite shore running around, fooling with each other. They were just comfortable there, with each other, even though they hadn’t known each other for that long. It was as if some experiences draw you inevitably closer, inevitably faster.

Talking with Robin made his leg pain easier to ignore, so Strike nudged her softly with his elbow after a while and spoke.

“So what are your post war plans now that you don’t have to marry anybody?”

Robin’s mouth twitched into a little smile, looking up at the sky.

“That’s a good question,” she commented. “Medicine’s all I know. I had dreams when I was a child but… when the war started, I had to put my weight in, like my parents like to say.”

“In post-war Britain you can do nearly anything, let’s revisit those dreams.”

She smiled softly, turning to him, and nodded.

“I wanted to study some type of psychology and then work in the police catching criminals. I know is not the type of jobs I should—,” she added quickly seeing Strike’s surprised expression.

“No, why, cause you’re a woman? The fuck with that, you can be anything,” he said energetically, and she chuckled, making him smile. “D’you still wanna be a cop? My Dad was a cop, I could see if I got some contacts to chat with you.”

“You’d do that?”

“Of course. After all you’ve done for me and my family, I’d do anything for you Robin. Anything, except running a thousand miles, if you’d forgive me,” he joked, pointing at his stump, and she giggled. He liked making her laugh, it put him in a good mood.

“I’ll forgive you,” she compromised. “I actually think I don’t want to be a cop any more,” added Robin, “I’ve seen enough violence and drama for a lifetime. You wouldn’t believe half the stuff I see in hospital, like the other day, a soldier had burned so badly because of an IED that I could touch his lung through his chest. The poor darling died.”

“Ugh…”

“I think I’d like a peaceful life now. I think I’m tired from all of this… that we all need healing, isn’t it? Forgetting. I’d definitely drop out of the RANC, study psychology… maybe social psychology… but then maybe become a teacher in University or something. Teach the kids of tomorrow what this was like for society, make sure it never happens again. Make sure they don’t forget the pain war caused.”

“Sounds like a noble cause,” said Strike, nodding. “You could write books. Bet you’re a good writer.”

“Maybe, I’ve never tried,” Robin said. “And you should sing.”

“Sing? Me?”

“Yeah ‘cause…” she avoided his eyes and blushed. “When you sing, the whole world stops and stares for a while. We were saying it the other night on my birthday, my cousins and I, when you guys left. Saying it was fucking beautiful. Lucy sings well too, I’ve heard her around when she works and thinks nobody hears her, but I like to ride my horse Angus in the mornings for a bit and I catch her sometimes. You could play the piano like your Dad did, and you could sing together sometimes. It’d cheer her up.”

“I didn’t know you had a piano.”

“Sure! Grandma used to play it, it’s old as hell and probably a bit off tune but we can fix it,” said Robin. “It’s one of the large ones, I’ll show it to you. You do play the piano right? I assumed your Dad…”

“I do,” Strike nodded. “Haven’t played in forever though, maybe I am off tune,” she chuckled.

“You aren’t. You’ve got a lovely voice.”

“Thank you,” Strike blushed. “Yeah, I’ll play for you. You know it’s funny, you used the exact same words I used with my Mum, to describe how she sang.”

“She sang too?”

“She wanted to be a singer, but you know, the war… but my father sang and danced and played the piano, and so he did it all with her. When she was sad, he’d begin playing, and nudge her to sing until she was smiling again,” said Strike with a smile. “He used to tell me, when I was a boy, ‘lucky bastards, aren’t we Corm?’” he imitated the deeper voice, and she chuckled, “‘We got the most beautiful and most talented dame, all for ourselves!’ and then, he taught me to play too. Lucy learned bits, but her hands tended to hurt for some reason, maybe bad positioning…” he shrugged. “So she didn’t do it as much. And when the London raids started, and we went to the refuge during the bombings, Mum used to sing to us that song Teddy asked for on our birthday. That’s how he knows it, ‘cause Mum sang it to calm us down and distract us. She’d always get the whole bunker singing, like magic.”

“Woah,” Robin grinned, listening quietly. When he told stories, even if they were real life, or was reading to the kids, she often found herself transfixed for some reason. Perhaps it was just his voice. She really liked his deep voice. “Sounds like she was true marvel.”

“She was,” Strike nodded.

T hey stared at each other for a moment, and then Robin spoke.

“When is your birthday?”

“My birthday?”

“Yeah, you know mine. When is yours?”

“Soon, actually. Twenty-one on the twenty-third.”

“So soon?” Robin smiled small. “Twenty-one. Now you’re an adult for absolutely everything.”

“And I’ve already smoked, drunk, gone to war, had sex… not much excitement left for the day,” he joked, making her smile in amusement. He had a newer scar on his lip that made it look like cleft lip but was actually from war, and it made his smile look slightly crooked, which she fancied.

“How long has it been since you last celebrated your birthday?”

“Uh… since the war. Last five, this one included, were affected by the war. Mum tried to celebrate with some biscuits and all but… got harder every year. It’s fine though, never liked my birthday much.”

“Why? Don’t you like celebrating you made it out alive another year?”

“It’s just weird,” said Strike. “One step closer to my death, you know?”

“Grim. You’re fucking grim,” Robin said, making him laugh. She nudged him teasingly and stood up. “Come on, it’s getting cold out here.”

She helped him to his feet and crutches and took the fishing equipment for him, slowly making their way back to the farm, strolling quietly.

“Beautiful town of yours,” Strike commented, sweating from the effort. He was developing quite the arm strength.

“Thank you. Come here, I brought my horse. Angus!”

Between the bushes appeared a large Clydesdale horse, bigger and taller than Strike by a lot, with dark grey and white hair, munching some herbs he’d ripped out of a bush. Robin snorted a laugh.

“You can’t stop eating, right my boy?” she fondly pet him and Strike stood, unsure.

“I should say I’ve never ridden a horse.”

“Really?”

“I mistrust them a little,” he admitted.

“Well you shouldn’t mistrust Angus, I tamed him myself from the moment he was born. Little rascal he is, but he’d sell his soul for me, wouldn’t you love?” she affectionately talked to him, and he nudged her with his mouth, snuggling into her embrace. “Sweet darling he is, when he wants. Likes to appear all moody and surly with the others, but that’s just ‘cause he likes his women. Come on, I’ll help you, unless you want to walk all the way home. You’re looking a little pale.”

Strike was tired, a little jealous of the horse, and in pain enough to just say yes.

“What do I do?

“Gimme the crutches, and you put your foot in the stirrups supporting your weight on me, don’t worry I’m stronger than I look, all those patients without limbs I lift around,” said Robin, wrapping her arms around his waist to pull him up. “Then transfer your weight to the horse, pulling yourself up with your arms like you’re climbing a ladder.”

They both groaned from the effort and then Robin pushed his arse with her hands and his leg over the saddle and before Strike realized, he was sitting on the back of the saddle, Robin holding his waist in place.

“Good?” she asked, red from the effort she’d done.

“You touched my arse!”

“Good one, by the way,” she teased, rolling her eyes. Strike noticed this saddle was already for two people, with two sets of stirrups, and some side bags onto which Robin tied his crutches and the fishing equipment, before pulling herself onto the horse in front of Strike. “Hold onto me or onto the saddle.”

As they moved, Strike started shyly holding onto the saddle but, really not feeling stable and safe, he tentatively put his hands on Robin’s waist.

“Hold properly Cormoran, you’re gonna fall off,” she said calmly. “I’m not gonna break.” Strike moved closer, and held onto her more firmly, blushing hard.

“So uh,” he cleared his throat, Angus strolling away eating some grass he’d caught. It was as if they were weightless for him. “How long have you been a jockey?”

“Since birth, like my cousins. My maternal family adores horses, we’ve all grown up with them. My uncle gives riding lessons,” she explained. “We rent out horses for touristic strolls and pack horses and stuff. But Angus is mine, we’ve been together for years and he won’t let anybody else mount him if I’m not there.”

“You speak of him like he’s your lover,” Strike teased. Robin chuckled.

“Angus is better than most men, I’ll have you know.”

“Most men, uh? Better than me?” he teased, putting his chin on her shoulder and batting his eyelashes. Robin chuckled.

“That’s not a question to ask in a situation where either of you could throw me off, literally,” she avoided answering.

S trike sniggered and nodded, feeling like maybe if he was to ride a horse with Robin each time, he wouldn’t hate riding so much. As a matter of fact, with the flowery scent of Robin’s strawberry blonde hair against his nose, and the green landscapes of Masham, he could happily get used to this.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: Sing us a song you’re the piano man.

When Strike and Robin got back to the house and after Robin had put Angus in the horse fields to rest, Robin walked him to the music room, a small dusty room around a large brown piano over a luxurious rug that had seen better days. There were bookshelves full of music scores, and to Strike, it was like walking into heaven. The house was busy preparing dinner, but Robin dusted off the piano, removing the protective cloth that covered it, and he sat on the bench, both ignoring the hustle of dinner preparations around them. As Strike’s large fingers caressed the piano keys, he smiled softly. This was one of the expensive ones, the big ones, nothing compared to their little humble piano destroyed by the bombs.

S trike patted the bench beside him and Robin sat, watching him.

“Any requests?” he murmured.

“I don’t know much music,” Robin shrugged, apologetic. Strike smiled and nodded. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and his fingers sank on the keys with the first notes of the tragic yet beautiful Nocturne no. 20, in C sharp minor by Chopin.

In spite of not getting much use these days any more, the piano sounded powerfully and magnificently under Strike’s skilled and calloused fingers, which moved quickly and expertly and delicately, as if afraid to hurt the ancient keys. Robin stared at his profile, transfixed, watching his dark and long eyelashes, the flare in his nostrils when he inhaled deeply, his crooked lips parting as if he was getting to breathe for the first time. He transitioned without stopping to Nocturne op.9 no.2, and Robin closed her eyes, her heart soothing and calming with the sound, her hair in her arms raising with the stimulation.

When she opened her eyes again she saw people had stopped preparing dinner and they had quiet company. Lucy and Teddy had sneaked in, watching with tears in their eyes, and Robin’s grandparents and parents were watching too, along with Jon and some of her cousins, nobody daring to make a noise.

To Strike, his fingers seemed to have a life of their own, enjoying this much more than they enjoyed pushing triggers and punching people. He was whole here, as if he hadn’t lost a foot, forgetting his troubles and his pain and transitioning without much conscience from one piece to another, playing Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata without opening his eyes even once, his hands moving over the keys like they’d known each other forever. The entire farm seemed to fell quiet, everybody wanting to listen to music and forget the war. Even Rowntree, the dark chocolate Labrador who belonged to the family, trotted inside and lied on the rug, closing his eyes. Music had been that much missed during the war. Schumann, Debussy, Mozart, Liszt… Strike seemed to know them all by heart.

A fter a while, Strike opened his eyes and raised his eyebrows seeing how many people had come. Maybe Robin was right. Maybe when he made music, the whole world did stop and stare for a while.

“Would my sister help me with this last one?” asked Strike. Blushing, Lucy got up, and Robin moved, grinning, to offer her the seat. Robin sat on the floor with her cousins and watched them.

“What do I do?” Lucy murmured.

“Would you sing for me?” he whispered to her, and blushing, she nodded.

Strike then began to play Henry Bishop’s ‘home sweet home’, which had filled a good part of their teenage years in the radio. Lucy began to sing, and even though shyly at the beginning, once Strike spurred her on a little, her voice became stronger and more in tune, and filled the room beautifully, making them stare in awe. So she really could sing, they realized, if only she ended the shyness enough to reach the volume her voice was meant for. And now with her brother accompanying her in the piano, she seemed in her element, and Teddy’s jaw dropped, staring utterly amazed. Robin wrapped an arm around the young boy and stared at the siblings, feeling as if all the wounds the months and years had inflicted in her heart healed with Strike’s sound and Lucy’s voice.

Over the next few days, after dinner mini-concertos by the Strikes became a very demanded a popular thing, which the Strikes were happy to do, feeling that it was one way to give back with all they’d done for them. Often, Grandma Wendy united with Strike, either playing piano enthusiasm or singing while Strike played, or vice-versa. She seemed to take great fondness of Strike, rubbing his hair and squeezing his cheeks and constantly remarking to Robin how he was ‘so handsome’ and ‘so strong and gentlemanly and gifted’. Other relatives requested things sometimes, and Strike would learn them to gift it to them, and even Teddy sang at times, his little innocent voice of a child making them smile and contemplate him. But the Strikes’ musical talent seemed to be innate and never ending, and when they were around music, they seemed lighter, more smiley, happier.

Music made Strike’s twenty-first birthday sweeter, but so it did having Nick and Ilsa comer over, and the large cakes the family baked for everybody, and the presents he got. He truly hadn’t felt happier in years, than he did there, surrounded by Evans and Ellacotts and Herberts, playing piano and singing aloud.

To Strike, the music, the piano, and the glorious Christmases they spent in Masham were welcome destriactions when with the winter, his leg began to hurt more and he began to sleep worse. He’d never been too fond of winter, a Southerner as he was, and in Masham, they had plenty of snow storms he didn’t adore, precisely. But at home, they’d lit fireplaces and he had the piano to himself, and sometimes Grandma Wendy, when she felt up for it, because she was old and frequently ill, like her husband, would teach him piano pieces he didn’t know, and Robin would watch them teach each other, both laughing and appearing younger as they did so.

“We could enrol Cormoran in a music school, when the war ends,” suggested Michael to Robin as they both strolled home from work through the snow in January the year 1945 started, wearing heavy coats and scarves. Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun were said to have locked themselves in Berlin these days, and Stephen had finally been able to write home, stating he had been sent to battle in India, while Martin was presumably in France, but he hadn’t heard from him in a while.

“We?” Robin looked at her father over her scarf. “He’s the head of his family, we don’t really have a say.”

“We could offer,” said Michael. “I’d happily pay for it. He’s talented, and he seems the happiest around music. Man has got quite the surly grumpy face the rest of the time.”

“I believe he was just born with it,” Robin snorted a laugh. Michael smiled, shaking his head.

“Maybe. But we offered Lucy a chance to go to Uni and do what she likes, and I’d like to do the same with Cormoran. I know they don’t like accepting too much of our help, but… perhaps you could convince him? Christmas gift or something. He could go to the Royal Manchester College of Music, the Northern School of Music… Manchester’s not far, he’d be close to his family and he can still live here or we’d find him a flat there.”

“He won’t leave his siblings behind, not a chance in hell, specially not with Lucy gone for University in Leeds and with his leg. He’ll want to stay with Teddy.”

“Then we could hire him a tutor at the house. I’ve got some friends, could ask around. Someone from Manchester might be interested in teaching him more music, get him a degree from home,” said Michael. “We’d invite them for one of our night concertos, so Strike doesn’t know, doesn’t feel pressured, and when he impressed them, they’d make an offer to teach him, right? It could be his way to find good employment once this is over, the nation’s gonna need music and we both agree it’d be miles better than the coal mines he’s thinking about, right?”

“I much rather he be a pianist than a cold miner,” Robin admitted. “Fine, just… if you find someone, someone who knows the special circumstances around his leg and his family and understands nothing matters to Cormoran like his siblings do… I suppose you could invite them as a friend coming for dinner, staying to hear him. And only if they have something to offer should Strike know, I don’t want him to stress him, make him anxious or pressure him with auditions and stuff. But if he says no…”

“It’s not our place to pressure him, I know,” Michael nodded, his dark eyes contrasting with the white snow around him. “I just worry where he’ll end up, Robin. Those Strikes are like my own children to me.”

“You should tell them,” said Robin. “They’d like knowing they’re seen as family.”

“I want the best for them,” said Michael, nodding. They were each guiding their own horse, after tiring them out coming to Masham from York, and would walk the rest of the way through the snowed, freezing village. “The world’s gonna be tough for the rest of your lives, you know? Doesn’t matter the war is over. We’ll never know easy times again… so they need some help.”

“I’ll never stop considering them family, Dad,” said Robin. “They’ll always have me, whatever they need.”

“You’re a good woman darling,” he caressed her cheek with his gloved hand. “A really nice person.”

“That’s what Cormoran says.”

“He does, doesn’t he?” he side smiled, and Robin caught his tone.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, just… you two seem to be getting along really well.”

“He’s the only male friend I have these days, outside family, of course we get along well. He’s a good man, and one of the very few left in British soil.”

“Y’know your Mum and I wouldn’t oppose… if you wanted…” Michael fumbled, blushing. “If you wanted to marry someone other than an upper class pilot, Cormoran would be a good candidate. I spoke to some of his comrades and chiefs in the Army, man was good, became sergeant quickly, they said he’s a man of honour, of courage, a tough one. That he never left a man behind, even the dead ones. And for what I know of him, from knowing him… he’d make a good husband. We wouldn’t mind it, if you chose… I mean I know he’s poor as hell, but he’s rich at heart. And your Mum didn’t have much when we met, the farm didn’t go that well those days as it does now… it’s better to marry someone rich at heart than in the pocket, Robin. Nothing wrong with living humble.”

R obin stared at his father for a long moment in deep thought, and then looked on to the path ahead.

“I don’t really feel like that about Cormoran, Dad. I mean… he’s my best friend,” she realized suddenly. “I don’t care about his lack of money, I agree, rich at heart, that’s what matters. I don’t care so much about money, so long as we have enough to eat. And he’s a wonderful man, nothing wrong with him. I just…” she shrugged. “I enjoy being single, Dad. I don’t want to be thinking of marriage. I know to Grandma and Grandpa I’m old to not be married yet, but I just don’t wanna be yet.”

“Everything in due time, right? You choose your path, love. Just want you to know, you get to choose with your heart. We won’t pressure you.”

“Thank you, Dad. I do appreciate it.”

T hey found the house rather quiet, and a maid informed them Grandpa Charles, Linda’s mother, seemed to have gotten really ill with his ongoing flu, and wasn’t doing well at all. Robin and Michael urged to his room and found Linda and Wendy there, with Jonas, Parker, Clara and their wives and husband, everybody with an air of extreme sadness looking at the agonizing man in bed.

“Why did nobody tell us he’d gotten so sick?” Robin asked as his father urged to see if he could do anything.

“You’ve been doing everything you could, darling,” said Linda sadly, wrapping an arm around her. “Your job is not to save lives, darling, is to buy them time, and he got all the extra time he could. The vicar just left, gave him the extreme unction. He hasn’t been responding all day Robin… he’s gone.”

Robin’s stomach dropped and she put her bags down, rushing to her grandparents. Her grandmother cried silently by the bedside, and Michael walked away, shaking his head to Robin, who knelt by the bedside, and caressed her father’s wrinkly face.

“Papa?” she murmured, but he didn’t hear her. He was hardly breathing any more. “Papa…”

“His lungs are too frail,” said Michael. “He’s got hours, at the very most. I’m so sorry… do the kids now?” ‘The kids’ in the words of anybody born in the house before 1920, included all the cousins and the Strikes.

“Yes,” Jonas answered solemnly, passing a hand through his short strawberry-blonde hair. “Everybody’s praying for him in the sitting room, except for the youngest ones, who were already sleeping.”

“Mama,” Robin hugged her grandmother. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay darling,” Wendy rubbed the tears off her eyes. “At least he knew we’re winning the war. He lived a long life, it was time.”

Robin stayed for an hour, as her grandfather’s breaths came slower and slower until they came no more. Then, as the adults handled the preparations for his funeral, Robin dragged her feet to the kitchen. Even when death came out of age and illness, it was no easy, even less when it came on top all the other deaths she experienced in hospitals. Her father and her travelled all across Yorkshire constantly from one hospital to another, mostly military ones, sometimes surgeries and smaller hospitals, and lost many patients daily. Coming home hungry, tired and emotionally drained to another loss wasn’t precisely pleasant.

“Robin?”

She turned around, putting down the glass of water she’d been drinking. Strike stood there, his expression serious and solemn, supporting himself on his crutches. His dense curls had grown a little over winter, his beard keeping his face warm and already as thick as if he was in his forties, and the bags below his eyes were grey and deep. He hadn’t earned as much weight as his siblings and still looked a bit too frail.

“Cormoran,” she whispered, surprised. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“Lucy and I wanted to pray with the others,” he replied, and crutched to her, wincing a little as he did so. His shoulders and back probably hurt after crutching all day.

“That’s very sweet of you. He’s dead now, though.”

His dark green eyes found her light blue-grey ones and he sighed.

“I liked Charles. Good man,” he nodded. “I’m so sorry he’s dead, Robin.”

“Thank you,” Robin hugged him, and Strike supported on his foot and one crutch to wrap an arm around her and squeeze her tight. Even on crutches, his hugs were warm and comforting and home. He smelled of smoke from smoking, and sweat, and something manly, and he felt husky despite his thinness. Strike closed his eyes at the hug, his nostrils full of her flowery perfume which made his knee feel weak. Her curves pressing nicely against him.

The two sat, and Robin ate some cheese and drank some juice, not able to go to bed on an empty stomach and having come too late for dinner, even if she did enjoy heating leftovers.

“At least it’s just him,” said Robin after a while. “One can’t help but feel lucky, knowing so many people who’ve lost everything. Did you get any news from the front today?”

Strike was still a Sergeant, even if invalidated out of the army due to his medical condition, and kept some friends there who sometimes wrote to him with news from offices across Britain. Strike nodded and pulled out a letter from his pocket. His former comrade Sam Barclay, a rifleman, had been sent back home to recover from a gunshot wound to the stomach. He was recovering nicely though, but pretended to be worse so they wouldn’t send him back, and wrote to Strike once or twice a month, and he wrote back to him in Edinburgh. Sam got more news because instead of being deployed, he had gotten his superiors to allow him to work in the offices in Britain, plotting strategies, although he couldn’t reveal much, in case the letters got intercepted.

“Dear Serge,” read Strike. “The Battle of the Bulge has come to an end in the Ardennes, and we have kicked those Nazis back to hell. The Americans have bombarded Iwo Jima, which as you know, is not entirely good news given the civilian casualties, but at least it does appear the Axis are beginning to chicken out and retreat. They’re planning on rescuing people from the concentration camp of Auschwitz now, and I know Churchill is making plans with Roosevelt and Stalin to decide how is the map going to look once the war is finished, and how exactly are they going to end it. We have recovered most of Europe, now is not just Normandy or Italy, my friend, but whole of France, Italy, the Soviets in the other side… Australia, the Soviets and the Americans are doing a good job in the Pacific too, and soon will get the Axis to beg for mercy. I am happy to hear you’re recovering well in Masham, and that you were reunited with your siblings. I reunited with my wife and child myself, and even though this isn’t over, it already feels as happy as if it was. Can’t wait to reunite with you when pubs open again and celebrate when all of this is over. All the best, Sam.”

Robin listened to him attentively, and when he finished, she nodded slowly.

“Thanks for sharing that with me.”

He shoved the letter into his jacket and took one of Robin’s hands over the table between his larger hands, kissing her fingers sweetly over he knuckles.

“Better times are coming Robin, I promise.” She smiled small and nodded, lifting a finger from his hand to caress his bearded chin. His hair was surprisingly soft and curly.

“You’re a good man, Cormoran.”

“And you’re a very nice person.” She snorted a laugh.

“I’m never gonna get tired of hearing that, am I?”

Strike smiled mischievously.

“I hope not.”

They stared into each other’s eyes in comfortable silence, and Robin moved her free hand to his hands, so they were all intertwined over the table. It could’ve gone farther, but they stayed there, pleased with themselves, and content enough to not want to change the moment in the slightest.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: And the war began to end.

A s February progressed, more and more countries like Brazil, Ecuador, Paraguay, Venezuela, Syria or Egypt joined the war against the Nazis, but also more and more bombings occurred in civilian and poor territories of the Pacific and India, taking more and more innocent lives and making the progresses of war bittersweet. The Americans bombarded Prague instead of Dresden on a tragic accident, and Berlin, Dresden and other parts of Germany were bombarded savagely, with innocent lives not evacuated in advance. Tokyo and Nagoya were also heavily bombarded during March, and V-2, one of the worst bombs, continued to hit Britain day in and day out, but Masham remained safe, mostly.

A t the end of March, everyone sat around the radio to listen to news of Eisenhower demanding Germany to surrender, after Frankfurt, Danzig, Austria or Berlin were being occupied by the Allies. Then April began with news of the Battle of Okinawa, the Soviets began to surround the Germans around the West, and some more concentration camps were liberated. President Franklin D. Roosevelt of the United States passed away in mid April, quickly substituted by Harry Truman, and the war continued like nothing had happened, as it tended to do, no matter who died. When the British liberated Bergen-Belsen, the Ellacotts cooked lamb and celebrated with beer, happy some more people were out of the hell of concentration camps, of which Strike knew from having liberated one himself with his army.

On Teddy’s ninth birthday, they celebrated as well, and April seemed full of celebration, because at the end of it, Mussolini was captured and killed and hanged like his mistress and others of his government, Dachau was liberated, Italy completely surrendered, and Hitler and his wife killed themselves, news that made them cry of relief and anticipated vict ory.

The air of victory however ended abruptly for Strike one evening of May, as formal negotiations for Germany’s surrender had begun. While the house busied with dinner preparations as usual, Strike sat by the entry, organizing the few mail that came into the house in little mountains depending who the receiver was supposed to be, to then bring it to each person. The entry door opened suddenly and Strike looked to see Robin stumbling inside, seemingly having had a hard day.

“Hi Robin,” said Strike, getting up on his crutches and abandoning his chore. “You all right?” the woman was supporting with her forehead and hands on the now closed again door, her breathing laboured. “Robin? Suddenly her legs folded and she fell on her knees, her head rolling back against the wall, unconscious. Strike panicked and dropped to her side, holding her face in his hands. She was really warm. “Robin, Robin! Help!” he turned to shout for help. “Help! Somebody help me!”

Uncle Jonas appeared in a rush and his eyes widened at his niece.

“Robin! What happened?” he ran to them, taking his niece in his arms and lifting her up. She was motionless.

“She came in and fainted,” said Strike. “Perhaps she caught something at the hospital? She doesn’t seem wounded, but she’s feverish.” He scrambled to his crutches. Jonas frowned, looking down at his niece’s pale face.

“Linda, Michael!” Jonas shouted as the two rushed into the house. Robin’s bedroom was upstairs, but Strike had been practising and could now, with a crutch, and holding firmly onto the bannister, hop upstairs, although he had to descend the stairs on his arse like a little boy, so he followed Jonas, who rushed as fast as he could. “Linda!” Jon appeared, hearing the screaming. “Jon, find your parents! Your sister’s ill!”

Jon ran back downstairs to the garden to fetch them, and Jonas kicked Robin’s bedroom door open, placing her in bed and checking for a pulse.

“She’s alive thank God,” said Jonas, patting her face. “Robin, niece, wake up honey.” Robin’s eyes half opened and she groaned. “She’s really hot. Bloody hospitals, not hygienic enough, making everybody sick. Cormoran would you see what help can you fetch?”

Soon enough, a couple housemaids, Michael, Wendy and some uncles and aunts had arrived, running, and Strike stood anxiously in a corner of the room, trying not to bother, but too anguished to leave. Fortunately, Robin already knew what she had. She had been accidentally pinched at work with a needle that had been first used on a patient with viral meningitis, so it was no wonder she had gotten it too, and she had only been feeling more and more ill each passing hour since it had happened. It was a relief, because it usually resolved on its own, with rest and proper care, like a bad cold, but the family still worried. They put her in her sleeping gown and Linda used damp cloths to try and lower her fever, while Wendy brought over some vegetable soup from dinner, full of vitamins and nutrients, for her granddaughter to have.

Robin had quickly developed a high fever and a strong headache, could hardly keep her eyes open and was lethargic, sensitive to light, and vomited a bit into a bucket, but Michael confirmed that she should be completely fine in a couple weeks at most. It was a fairly common illness in North England, particularly in poor and rural areas with poor hygien e , and Robin had been away visiting patients at their homes during the whole day, so she could easily have landed in the wrong places. Linda sent a messenger to notify Robin’s bosses so they knew she’d be gone for a while and, with the situation under control, Strike could find no more excuses to hang with Robin without it seeming weird and too intimate, so he joined the cousins and his siblings for dinner downstairs.

“What happened?” Katie asked as he sat with them. “Did I hear Robin’s ill?”

“Some jerk at work accidentally stabbed her with a needle that’d been on a patient with viral meningitis,” said Strike, flopping on his chair. “She feels awfully ill, but Michael said it’ll resolve on its own on a few weeks, and that we shall wash ourselves more often if we’re around Robin, to make sure we don’t catch it too. Apparently it’s not too contagious, but all caution is little, nobody wants to spend two weeks vomiting and feeling like death.”

“Poor Robin,” Lucy sighed. “Hopefully she’ll heal fast.”

“Yeah, what a mess,” Katie shook her head, sighing. She had moved to the farm full time to study and continue her education as a nurse, working with Robin and Michael.

T he next day, Strike went to visit Robin first thing in the morning. Robin’s room was one of the smallest and most organized, with a double bed, a large closet, a desk and a chair, and one bedside cabinet. Its walls were soft purple, there was one window, a little plant in a pot, and photographs of Robin’s childhood and horses, in black and white. Linda looked up to see him and smiled warmly. She sat on the edge of the bed, dutifully lowering her fever with a damp sponge from a small container on the bedside cabinet.

“Good morning, Linda,” said Strike, as the whole family insisted on being called by name, no matter their age.

“Good morning Corm. You came to check on our patient?” Strike nodded and she smiled broadly. “You’re a good lad, that you are.”

“How’s she doing?” he sat on the chair, which had been moved to the feet of the bed, possibly by Michael as he sat vigil during the night.

“Bad night, but the fever’s pretty low this morning,” replied Linda. Robin looked less pale, sleeping under the covers. “She ate a bit this morning too. To be honest with you, I think it’s mostly exhaustion. She works so hard, all the time, she needed a few days of proper rest.”

“I can watch over her for a while if you want,” said Strike. “You all work so hard, and I mostly do nothing all day. I’d be happy to sit and watch over her for you.” His leg condition meant he couldn’t do labour work outside, so he’d mostly been inside, helping stitch clothes when they began to break, fix shoes, and other manual work he could do sitting and that the family taught him.

“I should really go tend to the vegetables…” Linda seemed at odds. “Will you really not mind? I don’t want for her to be alone, in case she needs the toilet or something.”

“I’ll stay. She can use me as a living crutch all she wants.”

“Thank you darling,” Linda got up, putting the sponge back in its water container. “There’s a bucket here if she throws up, and the closest bathroom’s right in front. I’ll bring some more food in a couple hours, but there’s water here, as much as she wants.”

“Got it, don’t you worry.”

“You’re a good lad, son,” Linda squeezed his cheek affectionately. “What a good boy you were raised, thank you Corm.”

“Anything,” Strike smiled small and when Linda left, he moved to the edge of the bed, tucking Robin in bed and caressing her hair. “You’ll feel better soon, Robin. You’ll see.” On impulse, he kissed her forehead, and then watched her intently while she slept.

Now, stripped of her make-up and jewellery, and vulnerable in her sleep, Robin seemed to look even more beautiful to Strike’s eyes. Because only now could he truly see the countless freckles that sprinkled her face, some even adorning the edges of her lips, that were a bit thicker than those in his family, and pink. He realized her eyelashes were blonde, like the hair of her arms, and that her eyebrows were just a few tones darker than the hair of her head. She had the puffiest of cheeks, which fit perfectly in his hands, and round breasts hidden beneath her camisole and the sheets. There, Strike came to the realization that Robin had nothing to envy Charlotte, even if she was a different kind of beautiful, and that in any case, Robin’s inside beauty was miles larger than that of any other person he’d ever known, including his own parents.

“Cormoran?” her voice was so weak and low for a moment he thought he’d dreamed it, but then her eyelids parted so slightly and she smiled a bit. “Yes… I thought I felt your touch.”

“Sorry.”

“It was nice,” she admitted, eyeing him with a gentle smile. “Don’t stress, Cormoran. I’m not dying anytime soon.”

“I hope so, because you’re the only one in this house who makes my tea exactly the way I like it,” he joked, and she snorted a laugh.

“Dark creosote, like your soul,” she joked along, and he giggled. “Will you sing me a song? It’ll make me feel better.”

Strike sang then, and she took his hand in hers and fell asleep, but he kept singing, even when Linda came with tea for them both, and with Jon came to check on his sister. He finally stopped hours later when his throat felt dry, and then Lucy and Teddy arrived with flowers he’d picked in the garden and which they’d put on a jar. Strike thanked them for the gesture, and turned his attention to Robin until Michael came to substitute him for a few hours.

The days became very similar in routine, and when Robin felt better, her cousins and friends crowded in her room to make her laugh and bring the news of the day. Sometimes Ilsa and Nick, who visited once a month, sent letters for her too, hearing she was ill, and Strike would read them for her, or read books Robin liked, because she just fancied his voice that much. A few days later, all conflicts in Yugoslavia and Europe were declared resolved, and they breathed in peace for the first time in years, sleeping better now they knew things were nearly over.

In June, Robin felt better enough to come downstairs for lunch, with Strike’s assistance, as Nick and Ilsa, who’d been given holidays, arrived to spend them there, as they were always invited. She was feeling a bit stronger then, though not fit enough to return to work.

“So how’s school going?” she asked Nick and Ilsa as, with the good weather, they had sat outside for lunch on a large table. Nick had grown a blonde beard, and they both seemed to have aged a decade, with bags under their eyes and lines around their faces that seemed to fade away when they looked at their friends.

“Pretty well, only a year more and we’ll finally graduate,” said Nick, smiling.

“We changed afternoon jobs, we’re working at a pub that reopened in Leeds, helps that my family are pub owners,” added Ilsa. “It’s more physically gruelling, but we get to stretch our legs after so many hours of class, and get more free time to study, clean around the flat and rest. We’re hoping next year, when we begin apprenticeships, we’ll be able to move back to London, if the war’s over, and do our apprenticeships there. Nick’s maternal family’s upper class and they had the money to rebuild the house for us, it was such a generous gesture for them to care for it for us while we’re gone, hoping we’ll return.”

“It was,” Nick agreed, nodding. “We’ll have better professional opportunities there, and the house’s bigger than our flat, better for us. Leeds is great, but it doesn’t quite feel like home, and we miss being closer to Cornwall. Poor Ilsa hasn’t seen her family in four years since we married and left, so we’re thinking of going over to St Mawes in July, stay there for the summer, seems unlikely Cornwall will get attacked at his point, her family’s already returned to their pub and their pre-war lives, so… seems safe. Cormoran, Lucy, you and Ted should come with us, uh? We got some money for the train tickets, we’ve been saving quite a ton.”

Strike and his siblings had been saving a bit too, because Strike had begun giving music lessons at the house to the neighbours, very cheaply because the families couldn’t afford much, but it was something, and when the local pub had reopened a few months before Lucy, too, had been employed there, but the family had also paid her some for her work in the farm.

“It’s a very generous offer Nick,” said Strike. “Maybe next year.”

“Why can’t we visit now, Corm?” asked Teddy, giving him his best puppy eyes.

“Because your sister’s starting Uni in September, so we better work this summer, got to buy her books and materials, and besides, I’m gonna be trying some prosthesis out this summer, so I need to be here. And there’s no way I’m leaving you off my sight until the war’s over, Teddy. But don’t worry, next year, we’ll spend the whole summer there. Your parents wrote,” he added, turning to Ilsa, as he suddenly remembered. “Before we left I’d asked them if they could sell the land of the farm for us, and they finally did, and sent a good load of money for us, it was so kind of them. Will you thank them for me when you go?”

“Sure,” Ilsa smiled, nodding. “You know we’re family, they’ve been anguished not to be able to help more. So will you be returning to the hospital soon, Robin?”

Robin gulped the sandwich she was munching and looked thoughtful for a second.

“Actually, I might not. I’m still feeling quite under the weather most of the time and if the war’s coming to an end, then I could return to my studies in September. Start Uni, like Lucy. I want to study psychology, I had good grades.”

“That’s a very interesting field,” commented Ilsa, looking at her through kind bespectacled eyes. “Will you work there, then?”

“No, officially I’ll have to be counted as farmer worker until conscription is lifted, or they’ll call me up,” said Robin, “but when that’s lifted, if I’ve graduated, I’ll figure out something. Not psychologist but… I don’t know, maybe something with the horses, maybe teaching… Cormoran says I should be a writer.”

“I’ve heard the stories you make up for the children, you’d be good at it,” said Strike.

“Cormoran!” he turned to see Jonathan hurrying over, and he handed Strike an envelope. “You got mail from Manchester’s Royal College of Music.”

“Manchester? Music?” Strike frowned, picking the letter. It was indeed addressed to Sergeant C. B. Strike, and Strike doubted there were that many. “Thanks Jon. Why would they…?”

“Open it,” said Robin excitedly. A friend of her father had come a month before and heard Strike play and sing, and she’d hoped the letter would come. The friend was a teacher there, after all.

S trike read quickly and his face became more and more shocked with surprise.

“What do they want, Corm?” asked Lucy hoping it was good news.

“They’re offering me a scholarship,” said Strike. “How is it even possible? I never did auditions. Must be some mistake.”

“Er… it’s not,” Robin pushed away her plate and looked at her confused friend. “Lady Dominique Walton, my father’s friend who came a while ago for dinner? She’s a professor in that college. She heard you play and… must have been quite impressed. What’s she offering exactly?”

“A six year degree in piano,” said Strike, “with at home classes here and only going there for exams,” he looked surprised. “Did your father plot this behind my back?” he asked, not knowing if it was some subliminal message like ‘do something you lazy twat’.

“My father and I just thought you might be interested, because you’re so talented, if you could do it at home. But we figured if we told you who she was and why she’d come, you’d just get super nervous and all so… we shut up. You did this on your own merits, and you can say yes or not but we just wanted you to have the chance if you wanted it.”

“You should say yes,” said Lucy. “You’re a gifted musician!”

“It does sound like an amazing opportunity, and you wouldn’t have to worry about conscription for a long time,” said Nick, looking excited. “And it’s a great college, and with a scholarship it won’t cost you money.”

Strike cleared his throat and nodded, serious, and put the letter back in the envelope.

“Well it’s a very generous offer, and I hope you’ll tell Michael from me that I truly appreciate it, but respectfully, no,” said Strike simply.

“No?” Robin was surprised. “But you can do it here. You don’t have to leave your siblings…”

“Come on, Stick,” said Lucy, using the childhood nickname she’d somehow invented for him when she was a toddler. “You’ve got a right to do what makes you happy too.”

“Lucy, we have got just a few hundred crowns, and that’s it,” said Strike calmly, “we own no properties, our clothes are gifts by the Ellacotts, our shoes are gifts, our food is gifted. You only make enough money at the pub to maybe buy your school supplies, and we cannot be taking advantage of the Ellacott’s kindness forever. At some point, I have to work enough to maintain you and Teddy and pay your studies and doctors shall you need them, life’s not cheap. And how d’you expect I do that if I’m spending my hours learning music for six years? Say the farm has a bad year, say inflation after the war jumps massive levels, the Ellacotts could face ruin and then we’d have nothing. You need to study but I am the head of this family and it falls on my shoulders to worry about that.”

L ucy nodded, looking saddened.

“Cormoran, you don’t have to worry about my family’s situation, trust me I go to the monthly family meetings, we’re in a very good situation,” said Robin. “We’re very happy to have you guys here for years to come, you’re like three more children to my parents, you know that.”

“And I appreciate that immensely, I do,” said Strike, keeping his tone cordial. “And yet I can’t link my economy to yours, forever, Robin. I know what a farm’s like, I busted my arse off at my uncle’s farm, and your money comes mostly from your inheritance as an Ellacott because your grandparents and your Dad made a lot of money, but this farm? It’s not profitable. There are more Evans employed than anything else, which means if it fails, your entire family goes bankrupt, and your Dad would want to help them with his money, which means you would be no richer than us, having to take care of so many relatives. And the farm’s not going to be profitable as long as you keep gifting food and resources away to feed the village because they’re all poor, and you’re never going to stop because you’re good people. And when the war ends, inflation will make the nation’s economy change drastically, and we’re already a poor country. It’s gonna get hard for everybody, even for you, Robin, so… it means I can’t depend on the farm, and neither can my siblings. I can’t assume I’ll be able to work six years because someone else will make money to feed my siblings, I have to go out into the world and find a money-maker, specially, with all the money I’ll have to invest in my own health with my leg if I want to stay alive to take care of Lucy and Teddy. So as soon as I can be fitted for a prosthesis, I’ll be searching for jobs in the railways, or coal mining, or teaching, or all of them because honestly, one job might not do enough, and get my siblings and myself out of here into Leeds or wherever there’s a lot of work and chances of getting a small apartment or something.”

“We have to go?” Teddy asked, pouting, and Strike sighed.

“Not today, not tomorrow… but at some point, yes, Teddy. There isn’t enough work and money at the farm for us all, specially not with everybody wanting to avoid conscription,” Strike said. “Lucy will study, that’ll keep her safe, we don’t know how long conscription’s gonna last but they’ll keep needing soldiers out there for a long time, to keep the peace so… Teddy needs to study too, before they start drafting children, and it has to be a school, likely. I need to pay for that too, and I’m not taking a penny more from your family Robin, or from anybody else.”

“But Michael and Linda are happy to help, they always say we’re like their own children—,” Lucy tried to argue.

“I’m telling you Lucy, in a few months or a year or two years, Michael and Linda will be needing help themselves at the rhythm things are going!” said Strike, raising his voice as he became impatient. Lucy glared at him.

“There’s no need to shout.”

“I don’t want to shout, but Lucy, you think life’s going to get good when the war ends and I’ll do my best, but it’s not going to be wonderful no matter what, and you need to begin understanding what’s coming and quit dreaming,” said Strike, making an effort to keep his tone down. “In the England we’re going to inherit, everybody needs to put their own weight in, and fend for themselves, help people as much as possible yes but be mindful that if you’re not earning anything and only give and give… you’ll sink too, and then nobody wins. It doesn’t matter if we love the Ellacotts and they love us like family, at the end of the day, they have their own actual children too, and I’ve got you, so I don’t want to even hear another suggestion of me studying more. I ought to work. That’s the end.”

R obin had to admit, even if only for herself, that he was right. She had been wondering how long could the family sustain on the farm, and fearing her uncles and aunts would have to begin working somewhere else so more money could go into the farm, and they would have to start to sell their products, at least outside Masham, or they weren’t going to last more than five or six years, for what she knew of the family economy. But Lucy seemed unhappy, and stopped eating.

“I could move into a dorm,” said Lucy, her voice low. “One less mouth to feed. Maybe if I ask… maybe the University will provide a dorm free, if I got good grades?”

“No, Luce,” said Strike kindly. “But it’s okay, I’m not going to let you or Teddy lose a roof over your heads and decent food on the table. I’ll figure it out, okay? I’m just… a little anxious, with the leg. That’s all.”

“I thought you were teaching music these days?” Ilsa asked him.

“Doesn’t pay much,” said Strike. “Nobody’s got the money, and those who do hire teaches with musical studies in big famous schools. I’ll have to find something else.”

“When is the prosthesis coming then?” asked Nick.

“A friend of my Dad’s coming next month, he’s an expert,” said Robin optimistically. “He’ll figure something out for Cormoran, surely. Well if you’d excuse me, I better head back to bed.”

“Let me accompany you Robin,” said Ilsa, getting up.

So Ilsa helped Robin into the house and Teddy went to play. Lucy decided to leave the men alone and went looking for her friends, and so Strike and Nick found themselves alone in the table. Strike smiled small at his long time friend.

“So how’s your marriage going, mate?”

“Well…” Nick puffed, suddenly looking crestfallen. “Two miscarriages, we live day by day… we’ve made good savings, between whatever I could inherit since my mum was more upper class and all the jobs we’ve worked, and how hard we’ve worked without a break but… I can’t wait to finish our studies and get to work, Oggy. Law and medicine, you wouldn’t believe the expenses we have to face. I’m only hoping I don’t leave Ilsa pregnant again for at least ten years, so I can stop worrying about the money for a bit.” He added with half a smile, and Strike snorted a laugh.

“At least love remains in the air I see!”

“That it does,” Nick nodded. “Best thing I fucking have, Ilsa. She’s all I could possibly ever want, Oggy, I know the circumstances of our marriage were less than ideal but… I’m glad we’re wed. I never stop feeling lucky to call her my wife, my whole heart… now condoms are more affordable, but we have still reduced intimacy a little, just to not risk it. Both times she miscarried, the blood loss was… I didn’t think she’d make it. You don’t forget a fear like that, ever. And I don’t want a child more than I want the love of my life.”

“Wise choice,” Strike agreed, and looked back towards the large farm house. “D’you think she’s happy?”

“Nobody’s hundred percent happy but… I think she’s pretty well. She still seems to love me, at least.”

“Of course she does,” said Strike. “Just see the way she looks at you.”

“Speaking of women…” Nick raised eyebrows. “You and Robin seem pretty close.”

“We are.”

“So…”

“No,” Strike cut him. “I like her, I do, I’d have to have lost my eyes too to not see she’s absolutely stunning, and smart, and funny, and generous… what else can I want, right? And I think she sees me in a more special way too. But I’ve got nothing to offer her. Poverty and two siblings under my care and… couldn’t even make her a ring if I tried. And I’m legless, and… she deserves so much more than poverty and a maimed guy to take care of. Her ex was a RAF pilot, Nick, upper class, full of money, was gonna give her a house in London, children, luxuries… all she deserves. What do I have?”

“You?” Nick smiled tenderly. “A huge heart, my friend. For some women that’s more than enough, isn’t it? Look at Ilsa. Married to a student, living in a small little flat in the outskirts of Leeds… I can’t buy her pretty things, she doesn’t get new clothes yearly, I barely even see her with work and school unless we’re on holiday like now. But when I hold her in bed at night, and I tell her how much I love her, and she smiles… I know it’s enough for her. Besides we’re only twenty-one, I can still hope to offer her so much more like she deserves.”

“Robin has a horse,” Strike deadpanned. “How the fuck do I maintain a horse too?”

Nick laughed openly.

“Tell you what, mate. You got something special here. If you can manage to turn the farm around, make it profitable while still charitable… can’t it be your little project? Think about it. You wouldn’t have to leave, you’d keep a good bloody home for your siblings, you’d be right here with Robin. And whatever you lack, you’ll always be to her the man who saved her family from eventual collapse.”

“How do I even do that Nick? Masham has nearly two thousand citizens, the majority of them are poor and depend on this farm’s kindness to eat,” said Strike, thoughtful. “If they gotta pay, they’ll die.”

“You’re a smart guy, Oggy, think, with that farmer mind Ted had. Think. Make this a business more families can feed of.”

Strike stared at him intently. Perhaps Nick had just given him a big, good idea.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: Finding a light.

While Robin recovered completely, Strike spent increasing amount of hours buried beneath business books, accountant books, talking with the family about the farm, the business, the animals, the expenses and the earnings, learning everything he could at fast speed. And then one day of July, when the Herberts were gone to Cornwall, Strike and Robin sat in the front porch under the sun, peeling and chopping potatoes for dinner that night, when Robin looked up, and her eyes filled with tears. She was automatically petrified, the potato she held falling back into a bucket, and her knife, in a clatter. Strike turned around and his eyes widened.

Two soldiers walked towards them with a bag over their shoulder. The taller of them looked like a Scottish warrior, with grown strawberry blonde hair, a grown thick beard and, even though his body was wide and tall and large, he was very slim, unhealthy so. The other was a little shorter, just as slim, with grown dark brown hair and a thick dark beard, equally large and broad. The taller of them had a bandaged hand and a cut in the lip, the other, a bruised cheek and a slight limp, but there they were.

“Cormoran,” Robin gasped. “Have I gone mad, or are those my dear brothers?”

“I think they are.”

Robin jumped to her feet and ran to them.

“STEPHEN, MARTIN!” she shouted, and the men stopped walking and dropped the bag each carried, on time to hold their sister, who jumped to their arms. Stephen caught her mid-air and spun her around, and Martin hugged them both, the three a puddle of tears.

Strike grinned and got up on his crutches, slamming the front door wide open.

“STEPHEN AND MARTIN ARE BACK!” he roared inside. “I REPEAT, THE BOYS CAME BACK FROM THE FRONT! COME OUT! EVERYBODY! COME OUT!”

Soon enough everybody began to come out and Jenny ran to her husband. Jon, Michael and Linda stood in disbelief for a second before running too, and soon the whole family hugged and cried and hugged some more.

The men were welcomed back home like heroes. Stephen had become a Colonel and Martin, a Captain, and they happily sat at the table, after all the introductions were made, and food and drinks were brought, kisses were given, and the two men enjoyed the pampering.

“They released us last week, demobilization has begun,” explained Stephen after downing a beer and half a chicken. He was the eldest, with Robin’s looks and an uncanny resemblance to everything that came to Strike’s mind when he thought of Scottish Vikings. “We’ve been travelling since. I buggered my hand, but it’s just a twisted wrist, luckily. Martin’s thigh got shot, but it’s healing nicely, ain’t it, bro?”

“Yeah, it’s all right,” Martin nodded. “I’m just happy to be home.”

“And we’re so happy to have you home, my boys,” Linda couldn’t stop crying, sitting next to her third child, caressing his hair and kissing his bearded cheek.

“You’re both so grown,” Michael rubbed tears off his own eyes, and opened the bottle of Scotch he’d been saving for this moment. “A toast now, for my eldest sons, the bravest men I ever knew, who fought like mad for their country and their family, and who came back safe and sound. You’re our heroes now.”

“To Stephen and Martin,” Robin grinned, lifting her glass.

The day was just celebration and, between Jenny and Stephen, heavy snogging nobody could find the will to tease them about. They’d missed each other profoundly, and they couldn’t stop holding each other, laughing, kissing, crying. Martin was more quiet, but he happily joined a game of poker and after a few drinks, spoke of his adventures long into the night, and when the time for bed finally came, the cousins secretly made it so that some could share room for the night and not have to go to their bedrooms if they were close to Stephen’s, because there was no doubt what he and Jenny would be up to all night long, for as long as there was energy. After all, Stephen, in theory, hadn’t touched a woman in years.

Over the next week, and after good shaves and haircuts and baths, Martin and Stephen updated them all on the news from the front. The United Nations Charter had been signed to try and keep worldwide peace, the Japanese were more and more closer to surrender each day, as they were more cornered, the entirety of Europe had been freed from the Nazi, Australia had captured Brunei, Germany was to be divided in four between the American, British, French and Soviet, but only as means to control them, the Philippines was liberated, Norway declared war on Japan, Italy declared war on Japan, and the US had begun testing nuclear weapons, which was frankly, terrifying.

Soon, in the Potsdam Conference, Churchill, Stalin and Truman agreed on forcing Japan to surrender at all costs, and it was hinted that the attack could come with nuclear weapons United Nations had. At the house, they became outraged they hadn’t apparently learned enough about civilian loses to even consider that option, but it was not their call to make.

In the meantime, Strike completed his plan for the farm and one day, knocked on the door for the monthly meeting, to which went those who had bigger weight and involvement in management: Wend y Evans, , as matriarch and first owner of the farm, her children Linda, Jonas and Parker Evans, (Clara being an exception because she was the only one to not live or profit from the farm), plus Michael because it was part of his fortune that kept the farm going during their charity role acquired during the war, Stephen and Robin as the eldest children of Linda, who was the eldest of her siblings as well, so they’d probably inherit the farm, and then came their eldest cousins too, Sean and Lily, while the others were considered far too young.

“Excuse me,” said Strike peeking into the room in his crutches. He was holding his book of notes under his armpit.

“Everything okay Cormoran?” asked Wendy, looking up from what seemed like a heated meeting, the large table covered in papers and accountancy books.

“The farm has five years, at most, if nothing changes,” said Strike, and crutched inside, closing the door with a crutch and dropping the book on the table, to their surprised glances. “I’ve taken the liberty to study the expenses, the money it needs, the charity it does, where is less profitable and where is more profitable, and I think… I’m pretty sure I have developed a plan to make the farm’s earnings grow by sixty percent, making it more profitable than it’s ever been, so it won’t depend on the Ellacotts’ money any more, and so it can continue to succeed and stand on its feet for many, many decades to come. I’ve made a twenty-year plan, and I think it should work.”

F or a moment, the family stared at her simply surprised. Then Wendy spoke.

“You’ve been… you knew we weren’t doing well?”

“My Uncle in St. Mawes inherited my grandparents’ farm, so I’ve always known about farms, I’ve worked there every summer since I was little, and for five months before I enlisted,” said Strike. “Theirs was smaller, so I took the liberty to grab books from the office and study this farm, that’s why I’ve been making so many questions lately… anyway, yes I knew it was going downhill. But now it won’t. I have a plan.”

“Very well then,” said Parker Evans, leaning back in his chair and eyeing Strike. “Let’s hear it, it’s not like any of us has ideas.”

“That’s only because you have all been so busy and stressed you didn’t really have the chance and energy to sit and go through this calmly, but I’ve got nothing better to do these days,” Strike grabbed an empty chair and sat, sighing in relief as his arms rested, and opening his book, which he handed to Wendy. “Those are my notes and my numbers, but I’ll summarize for everybody. Basically, right now the farm it’s losing money because in order for people to avoid conscription it employs more people than it needs, thirteen family members including my own sister and you all save for Michael and Robin, plus five labourers, and six housemaids and assistants. It doesn’t help that the animals are not providing any money aside from the wool from the sheep, the eggs from the chicken and the milk from the cows and sheep, nor that every vegetable and wool and eggs and milk the farm produces it’s usually given for free either to the house or to the families who can’t afford it.”

“My dear Cormoran, we can’t have more animals, they’re too expensive to maintain and we treat them like family, not butcher them,” said Wendy softly. “And we can’t ask for money out of those poor people, nor can’t we stop hiring our family and anybody who requests it to avoid constriction, we’re protecting families. These are the very few things we can all agree on wholeheartedly.”

“And I agree too,” said Strike, nodding. “You’ve got strong values in this family, and that’s a treasure to be protected these days. So I’m not going to suggest animal exploitation, besides, you’d only be taking jobs and money from the butchers in Yorkshire. But I think… we’re seeing this all wrong, as if too many hands on deck is a bad thing, and morals are a bad thing, instead of profiting from them. Using disadvantages to our favour, turning them into advantages.”

“How do you suggest we do that?” Linda asked, interested.

“Well first off, things at the house have to change. We can’t keep spending resources so cheerfully, we need to start rationing, not strictly, just strictly eat only three times a day, breakfast, lunch, dinner, nothing between hours, and regulate portions adapting them to age, need of calories depending on type of labour, body size, overall health… I’ve made charts in there for everybody who lives here, myself included, with the amount of vitamins, calories, nutrients and fat we all need depending on our own individual needs, to stay healthy and in good shape. Obviously we can’t calculate each day in the kitchen what each person needs to eat because we’d never end but… I have developed a standardised diet that we can all follow, one that works well for everybody, and limited the amount of times one can get second or third plates, in the same way my parents did in my house, because we lived off coupons, but without the strictness of coupons. Basically we’ll keep having cheddar, butter, wine… but it’ll be limited. I’ve also categorised products by luxury, and listed the maximum amounts we can afford to consume of each every week, for the next five years. After that I have calculated you can forget my diet plan altogether.”

“So limiting our consumption will save our economy?” asked Jonas in disbelief.

“It’ll contribute, but not be enough,” said Strike. “Specially because I’m keeping commodities, only limiting amounts. In my house, we didn’t even have bacon most weeks, but I haven’t been so rude,” they smiled a little at his graciousness. “Anyway, second part of the plan, limiting baths. Right now we’ve got leisure baths and necessary baths and the leisure ones are over. Two a week per person, at most. Any extras, you can wash off with the hose in the garden, filling a bath with hot water is too expensive to do it so freely. And paper. We need to learn to recycle everything, I’ve written a bunch of ideas there. The children will use recycled paper to draw, instead of new paper, we can make toilet paper out of recycling too, and napkins even, my Mum did it all the time. We’ll also limit the amount of new clothes and shoes we can have, and everybody will learn to sew and mend their stuff, it’s not so hard. That’s all for the restrictions.”

“And yet I feel the worst is yet to come,” Michael joked, with a warm smile. Strike chuckled.

“Well, we’re cutting expenses, and then making the farm grow.”

“But that’ll be more expensive,” said Wendy, confused.

“No, because what we will do is need the amount of hands we already have and pay for, make enough work for everybody to actually earn their salary, while creating more product to make business with,” said Strike.

“How?” asked Robin, impressed.

“Currently, the animals and the plantations work separately, right? But what if we mixed it? The animals could make the land more fertile with their manure. Currently we’re spending time and effort grabbing the manure and moving it to the vegetables, but I’m taking of just letting the animals pace around, every time the plants die and need to be replanted. It’ll work better to increase the properties of the soil, and it’ll save time and energy from the employees. We will give the animals every land of fallow for as long as it’s in such state, and because we’ll cut on our consumption of our own product, I have written down how we can divide it in three. A portion for the house, a big portion free for charity and another good portion of wool, milk and eggs to be sold at Masham’s market and Ripon and York. We could even employ more people to take care of the transportation and selling, and instead of paying with money, we pay with packages of products made here. We also need to make horses profitable again,” Strike continued to explain passionately. “How do we do that? First of, we have good studs, and horses are a big business in Yorkshire, cars have become too expensive so everybody relies on horses not just for races, but basic transportation, specially through winter, and pack horses, so we could start renting studs for breeding, for good money, and our studs would get some action and fun,” that got them to laugh a bit. “We can also rent out the larger horses as pack horses for the Church, the neighbours, etc. Rich people, no offence Michael, tend to need pack horses to carry their shit around. If we advertised in the papers, they’d come to us. And we need to start advertising ourselves, big time.”

“Sounds like a solid plan,” said Michael proudly.

“And it doesn’t end there,” said Strike.

“Wicked,” Stephen murmured, listening.

“Robin’s an incredible jockey, but she’s not the only one in the family or in Masham, and people love betting. People love making money, playing poker, risking their salary on a good bet,” said Strike. “So let’s organize weekend races or gymkhanas, twice a month maybe, with our best jockeys, make a tournament everybody can participate in, distract people from the sadness of war. We have the lands, miles and miles, all the land we want, and we love our horses so they won’t be mistreated. We make people bet, and of all the money put onto the table, we always keep twenty percent and the rest goes out to the winner, transparent plan, no cheating, and we ride our own horses, to make sure nobody abuses them. And some of our horses can also be great for plough, although we did that already, but we can use more of them. This way, every mouth we feed, including the animals, is making itself profitable.”

“And we use all the labourers we have, and even have room for further hirings to help more people,” said Wendy in awe. “Wicked.”

“Finally,” said Strike, throat dry. “We are changing our vegetable production a little and making it our most profitable thing, putting our focus there. We produce apples, tomatoes, strawberries, raspberries and a few others, which is great, but all of Yorkshire makes that so we’re not competitive. So, we’ll continue to do that, but half of those products will be used to make marmalades.”

“Marmalade?” Parker seemed surprised.

“Yes, we already make some at the house sometimes, the children love it, right? But we can sell it. Evans Yorkshire Marmalade, England loves marmalade, and butter has gotten too expensive, so people are now putting more marmalade on toasts than butter, I know, I went asking around Masham,” said Strike, making them amused. “And we’ll add rye and wheat, and produce bread and biscuits. And finally, I propose we launch our big bomb. Become the largest producers of tea in Yorkshire.”

“But we’ve never produced tea,” said Wendy. “You think it could work?”

“The soil’s perfect, the weather is great… Yorkshire tea. It’ll work,” said Strike, nodding. “It’s genius! We’ll become the traditional brand of tea of England, the original British black tea. We’ll need some more acres of land but… it’s genius. We make the milk, we make the biscuits, we make the tea, full package of British tradition, and we gotta sell patriotism after the war, don’t we? We will need more hands on deck, to produce bread, biscuits and all the derivatives but… the children and I can put hours in the kitchen extra-officially, just for fun, right? It’s masked child labour but they like it, and when they don’t, we hire people. I know how to make all of those, my family made it all the time. And I have made a prevision, detailed there, of how much all of this will cost us and what I expect for us to be making, growing gradually every year, and even with the added expenses… our earnings would be massive, and it’d only make it easier for us to be more charitable.”

“Michael dear, look at these numbers, you’re the accountancy expert,” said Wendy, handing him Strike’s calculations.

Michael took the book, put on his glasses, and for a few minutes he was reading and making his own notes and using the calculator. At last, he seemed to be shocked, and then grinned, turning to Strike.

“You’re a brilliant, brilliant man indeed, my boy! We’re gonna be the biggest farm of Yorkshire!”

The table erupted in celebration and Robin jumped to Strike’s arms, sitting on his lap and hugging him tight.

“You did it!” she kissed his cheek and he blushed. “You saved the farm!”

“Man didn’t just save it,” said Jonas, looking at the numbers too. “He made us bloody rich!”

Nobody would actually be rich, because they were so committed to charity, but the way of speaking was understood by everyone, and Strike beamed as everyone celebrated. They got to stay. By deciding to link his economy to the Ellacotts instead of leaving, Strike had just assured the mutual survival and properity.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10 : Prosperity.

Adapting took a while. They had to slowly buy more land, cut their expenses, grow accustomed to learning to sew for those who didn’t know, recycle, do more crafts, find second and third uses for everything, limit their luxuries and consumption, and train new employees do to jobs. Strike trained people to learn what his parents had taught him, like making their own bread and biscuits, and after a few disastrous attempts, everybody seemed to get the hang of it, and production began, everybody working hard. Strike also spent his days outside on crutches, directing and guiding to organize the lands, the work, the animals, teaching the Evans what he’d learned and sharing generational wisdom, so that everybody learned more effective and cheap ways to do their job, and boxes of product could fill carriages weekly to sell and make profit. Their success in the markets was immediate.

In the meantime, as the summer progressed, Strike began to be fit for a new prosthesis of right foot, ankle, and a small portion of calf, which was all he had lost, and although the process wasn’t fun and he endured more pain than pleasure through it, by the time September came he could walk on a prosthesis with minimum limp, and one crutch in his right hand to aid himself, as the doctors worked to improve prosthetics. And then, he began to work more, in the plantations, picking tea leaves himself, checking the quality of the soil, getting his hands dirty with Robin, no privileges, just like anybody else. The harder he worked, the better he felt, the happier he was.

Lucy entered university, arriving late in the evenings and leaving very early in the mornings, before dawn. She had finally been admitted into the University of York, which was a little closer, but still quite far, but because the Ellacotts had one car which mainly Michael used for work, and he was more often at the hospital in York, he drove her to University every morning, and when she finished classes at four, she was picked up by Stephen and Martin, who were every weekday going to York with a carriage to sell product, and then she could do homework and study in the carriage, have dinner at home and go to bed. It’d be a hard first year, but Strike hoped that the next year he’d be able to pay her a dorm, because with that schedule her days of working were over.

S eptember was also the month Japan surrendered, along with the last German troops and the last Japanese troops. The war was over and when the news arrived to the house, the celebration was unreal. Still, their lives remained the same for a while and in November, the War Crimes tribunal of Nuremberg began. By Strike’s birthday, the farm had stopped losing money and being unprofitable, and earnings and expenses became balanced. It was then that Strike began to think of a better future. For the remaining of Lucy’s education in York, he and Teddy could stay in Masham. Teddy had begun to attend the local school, which had reopened, and Strike, who still played piano a lot, had discovered the joy of teaching, and had been thinking of becoming a teacher in Masham. Robin had begun studying in the University of Manchester, but with a tutor at home, so she didn’t have to go, and could still attend her duties in the farm for the time being, and she, like Strike, agreed that for the time being, while they saw how the country recovered from the war, Masham was the best option to stay.

And knowing she’d be there, and he’d be there, her bedroom just a floor above, Strike began thinking of them. He was by then sure he had intense, profound feelings for her, and felt like they were corresponded. He was twenty-two now, she was twenty-one, they weren’t kids any more, and Strike knew he wanted her in his life.

So on Christmas Day, Strike nervously put on his best clothes and walked to Michael’s office, as he was at the house for the day, and knocked on the door.

“Yes?” a deep voice came from within.

“It’s Cormoran.”

“Come in, son.”

Strike opened the door and hobbled inside, wincing a little with his fake foot, and closing the door after him. Michael was amused at how small and nervous he oddly seemed.

“Everything okay, boy?”

“Yes,” replied Strike. “I would like to talk to you about a personal, non urgent matter, if you’ve got the time to spare.”

“Sure thing, please sit,” Michael motioned for the seat across his oak desk. His office was full of medical books and economy books, and Strike found it fascinating and intimidating at equal parts. “What is it?” he gave him his full attention.

“Michael uh… I uhm…” Strike cleared his throat and nodded for himself. “I wanted to inform you that I have found myself surprised to realize that I have uh…”

“Yes?” Michael half smiled, unused to his nervousness.

“I have developed deep feelings towards your daughter,” said Strike, blushing heavily, and Michael’s eyebrows raised in surprise.

“What feelings exactly?”

“Not the kind I feel for my sister,” Strike clarified, and Michael laughed. “Michael I… I love Robin, with my whole heart,” he admitted, realizing as he went just how truthful that was. Michael grew serious out of astonishment only. “I love her beauty, her intelligence, her sense of humour, her smile, her laughter, her kind heart, her love for learning… I adore her, I love her, I am devoted to her and her happiness to my chore. And I do realize that is a problem because well, you and Linda treat me as a son, and you might not fancy the idea that a farmer like me, with not much money and not a house of my own, footless and with siblings in my care, fancies someone like your daughter, so I wanted to come forth in advance and convince you I’m a good catch.”

Michael snorted a laugh.

“Does my daughter know how you feel?”

“No,” said Strike, most serious. “I haven’t told anybody at least. Nor have I dared to try anything. But if you gave me permission… it would be my honour to ask her to become my girlfriend and ask her whether she’d be happy to go on dates with me. And in a few years, if everything went well… perhaps I could even ask her to be my wife.”

M ichael smiled sweetly, valuing his manners, his romanticism and his education.

“What do you offer her?” asked Michael, although he already knew what his answer to the boy was going to be.

“I offer her my heart, my soul, all of me,” said Strike. “I offer her everything I could give her. To work so hard to provide for her, to pamper her all I can, to one day build her a house for us and Teddy, should Lucy have moved out, and for whichever children we might have, I offer her, for as long as she’ll have me, years of laughter, of love, of unwavering support, and most extreme faithfulness and loyalty. I don’t have much… but I offer her all I have, and all I ever will have, and I promise to spend my life trying to be a man worth of all that she is, and trying to make her feel loved, special, valued, and cared for every single day. With me, she can study or work in whatever she wants, and I will just support her and encourage her and be there to catch her shall she fall, and she’ll always have music and song in her life, and I won’t ever let her feel lonely and miserable.”

“All right then,” said Michael, nodding. “Make sure she knows that.”

Strike looked surprised.

“So you’re okay with this?”

“Am I okay with the best man not biologically related to my daughter, that this country’s breed, loving and worshipping my daughter? You can bet I am. But she’s like a fine horse, Cormoran, you’ll have to earn her not with me but with her. She’s never made it easy.”

Strike grinned, getting up.

“I- thank you!”

Strike rushed out while Michael laughed and, pumped with adrenaline, Strike half ran to the music room, where Robin was frequently studying and secretly half hoping Strike would decide to play piano while she studied. Strike knocked on the door, and grinned, seeing Robin curled on the small sofa with a text book.

“Are you very busy or may I interrupt you?” he asked softly.

“Please, do interrupt me,” said Robin, making him smile, come in, and close the door, discreetly locking it. He nervously sat with her, and saw her put the book aside and smile warmly at him, in the way that made his stomach flutter. He’s spent five months thinking he was on the verge of a stomach bug that never quite came, but now he was sure he knew what it was. “What is it? You look giddy.”

“I…” Strike took a deep breath to calm himself, thinking of how much his mother wanted to find the right person. Then, he took her hands in his, more serious. “Robin,” he cleared his throat. “You saved my life, and I am forever grateful for you, so much in fact that one might confuse any deeper affection with gratitude, but I know mine is something more. I know every time I look at you my heart leaps off my chest,” Robin’s blue eyes widened, but she didn’t pull away, so Strike continued. “I know when you smile my knees feel weak, and when you laugh… when you laugh it’s like coming out of the water to breathe for the first time. I know I’ve been infatuated as a teenager and called it love so I didn’t want to hurry and confuse things again but… Robin, what I feel for you, it is love. It is the deepest, most sincere love I have ever felt. It is constantly wanting to make you laugh, to hear your voice, to look at you… it’s always knowing if you’re not around the day can still improve with your arrival, it’s how much I love our talks, and how smart and brilliant you are, and how big and generous your heart is, and I just love everything you are. I love you. And I can’t give you much but… damn it Robin, I want to give you everything and I promise to work hard to one day give you everything you deserve, but in the meantime… I was talking with your father and I believe we were both wondering if you’d think highly enough of me to maybe do me the honour of becoming your boyfriend and take you on a romantic date and… give me a chance?”

R obin stared at him for a long moment with a mixture of disbelief and astonishment, her eyebrows half raised, and her eyes wide locked in his. And then her pupils moved from his eyes to his lips as if she was seeing him for the first time, and her hands came to cup his bearded cheeks and, surprisingly, she pulled in for a kiss in the lips.

When their lips met, Strike’s eyes closed, and it felt like being kissed for the first time. Her lips were soft and tender and they seemed to have a hint of strawberry, which she’d probably been eating, and in the beginning they only brushed, as if he feared to break her. But then their eyes met again, their noses so close they were brushing, and Robin kissed him harder, closing her eyes and moaning low into the kiss. And Strike melted. He put his large hands on her waist and moved closer, kissing her harder, their tongues meeting, and Robin’s arms slid around them and pressed their bodies close, making him moan and squeeze her closer and tighter as their tongues danced and he kissed her fully, like a thirsty man finding water. It got so passionate that when they separated he was half hard, and their lips were swollen and their lungs screamed for air. To Strike, it was the king of all kisses.

“Is that a clear enough yes?” Robin asked, blushing.

“Yeah,” Strike nodded. “I uh… will prepare our date and inform you of the day and time when I know.”

“Good,” Robin pecked his lips one last time and got up, staring at him like he’d just shown her the universe. “I should talk with my father but… I’ll see you for dinner, Christmas.”

“Indeed,” Strike nodded. As soon as she left, Strike snorted a laugh and muttered a contained shout of ‘yes’ in victory, raising his arm. It felt like winning the World War II all over again, but better.

T hey spent dinner exchanging intense glances and half hidden smiles when they caught the other staring, making it a competition of some sort, and then everybody exchanged Christmas presents , which were always humble and usually home made, and then everybody wanted to sing Christmas songs with Strike in the piano, and so they did, and when the night was over, Strike stayed behind organizing piano sheets in folders, and Robin came in.

“Not going to bed?” she asked.

“Hey,” Strike turned to her. “Yes, just want to leave this organized before.”

R obin nodded and walked closer.

“You left my father quite impressed and touched, which isn’t as easy as you might think,” Robin commented casually. “My mother is quite delighted too.”

“I’m happy that’s the case. Are you delighted too?”

Robin side smiled and nodded.

“I’m pinching myself still,” said Robin. “I quite adore you too, Cormoran.”

“Do you?” Strike abandoned his papers altogether and looked up at Robin so fast his neck cracked.

She walked over to him and slid her hands from his chest to his shoulders, smiling softly.

“I think I actually… I think I love you. It’s like, how did Ted say? Coming out of water, hot chocolate in winter, coming back from the war, first laughter in a bad season. Only that you bring all of that,” said Robin. “When I was ill, I’d wake up from lethargy and find you, when I was cold, you brought me hot chocolate, when the war ended, you hugged me, when you laugh I want to laugh too. You say you haven’t got much to offer but Cormoran… you’ve given me everything money can’t possibly buy. You make me happy. And I love you for that. I want to make you happy… ‘cause you’re actually the only man better than Angus.” She added with a chuckle. Strike snorted a happy laugh and wrapped his arms around her waist.

“Can I kiss you?”

“You’ve got permission to never ever ask for permission again.”

Strike grinned, and kissed him with all he felt, supporting on the piano behind her with one hand, pressing their bodies together with the other. They made out for a few long moments, pouring their souls into the kiss, until Robin separated and looked at him flirtatiously, walking towards the door with full knowledge that Strike was staring at her arse. Then she looked over her shoulder, catching him, and smiled, opening the door.

“Goodnight, Cormoran,” she said slowly, her lips swollen from the kiss. Strike, who was slumped backwards against the piano, grinned.

“Goodnight, Robin,” and as she left, he took a deep breath and looked down at the tent forming in his trousers. “You better get used to this mate, she’s saving herself for marriage.”

With a snort, he incorporated, and walked out to his room.

The first month of their relationship came with a couple of discreet, simple yet romantic dates, and loads of secrecy. Per unspoken agreement, they avoided public displays of affection, but they began sneaking love letters into each other’s bedrooms, which made the cold winter a little warmer. Every few days, there would be news from the Nuremberg trials and the witnesses would explain the horrors they saw, while some Nazi testified and were judged. Hundreds of thousands of Jews seemed to have been targeted and killed in camps, and the horror of what had really happened began to dawn on the Brits, and Strike, who had managed to not dream of the war for a while, began having nightmares all over again.

The 7 ^th of February of 1946 would’ve been Leda’s fifty second birthday, and it was the last anniversary of a bad season of them, preceded by Strike Senior’s fifty-fifth birthday at the beginning of November, Uncle Peter’s third death anniversary in the end of November, Strike Senior’s sixth death anniversary on Christmas Day, Ted’s fifty-fifth birthday on New Year’s Eve, and Aunt Catherine’s third death anniversary on the 6 ^th of January 1946. It was no wonder that Strike and Lucy, who remembered and were conscious of dates much more accurately than Teddy, who’d been so little, could, absolutely hated winter, and were more taciturn, in spite of Strike’s new secret reason to be happy, found in Robin.

S o on the day, wishing to be left alone and with it being Thursday, meaning Lucy was at University and everybody was busy with something, Strike grabbed some charcoal and paper and sneaked to the latest hiding spot he had found, the attic. There were some extraordinarily big spiders, so nobody ever came, but he, having lived in poverty and poor conditions most of his life, didn’t care. He simply tried to keep the bigger ones at bay and stay away from the webs.

They had lost most photographs when both houses were bombarded, and they didn’t even have that many pictures to start with because photographs were expensive. But Strike, gifted in the arts, was good with charcoal, and he had found there were pencils of colours in the house that nobody really used, so he used those too, to make the most realistic ‘photographs’ he could find, as a gift to his siblings. He made colour portraits and black-and-white ‘photographs’ of memories he had, like a comic book, capturing souls into pencil-coloured eyes and little facial gestures he remembered, and sometimes even drew just a pair of hands he remembered, or a beard that had stuck in his memory particularly. He was very observant, like his mother, and there were always little details of people that stuck in his memory and that, when he could recreate them so realistically in paper, feeling like he could nearly touch the dead, he made himself cry a little.

H e worked all day and skipped lunch, but at least he had made two folders, one for Teddy and one for Lucy, keeping Teddy’s particularly generously filled, because he was the one who found it harder to remember and Lucy wasn’t a jealous person, ready to be gifted. He washed his hands on a wet cloth, tidied up in his room, and took Teddy’s folder, walking around the house to find him.

“There you are,” Robin smiled at him. She and Teddy sat on a bench outside, apparently talking and watching the horses pacing. “We had started to get worried.”

“I thought you were at work?”

“And came back to hear you were missing.”

“I was just studying,” said Strike with half a smile. “Can I steal Teddy for a moment?”

“Sure,” Robin got up and walked back into the house, her hand caressing Strike’s arm as she walked past. Teddy looked up at his brother, every day a bit more of their father’s look alike.

“I got you a little present,” said Strike, sitting with him, and handing him the folder.

“What is it?”

“Something I made for you. Take a look.”

“But it’s not my birthday yet,” said Teddy confused.

“So what? I can gift my brother things every day, can’t I?” Teddy smiled and opened the folder, and his jaw dropped. Each drawing had details and dates on the back, each was signed by Strike, each sparked something in Teddy’s memory.

“It’s Daddy and Mummy! And… everybody is here!” Teddy beamed, looking up at Strike with glassy eyes. “Everybody!”

“Everybody,” Strike smiled, nodding, and half hugged him with one arm. “It’ll help you remember, right? So you don’t forget them any more?”

“I will never forget them,” Teddy grinned, excitedly tracing the drawings, sniggering when he recognized something, amazed. “Thank you Cormoran.”

“You’re very welcome,” Strike kissed his temple. “Got Lucy one too, but we’ll see hers when she comes back from school, okay?”

“Okay.”

When Strike walked back into his room, he was surprised to find Robin there, sitting on the edge of his bed. He stopped, surprised, and then walked inside and closed the door.

“Sorry to intrude,” said Robin. “I just… Teddy told me he was sad because it was his mother’s birthday today, and I… wanted to see if you were okay.”

“I’m not,” Strike sat with her. “I’ve been drawing pictures for my siblings all day. This is for Lucy,” he handed her the other folder, so she saw what he was talking about.

“Cormoran, these are stunning,” Robin looked at them in awe. “You truly are talented.”

“I suppose,” Strike shrugged. “I don’t know if I’ll forget them eventually, but they will, if I don’t do these things. The voices are the first that begin to fade away, the sound of laughter, the memory of steps… I can’t recreate those. But this… I can do at least this.”

“I’m sure they truly will value it.”

“Yeah, Teddy’s still amazed appreciating his,” Strike nodded. Robin returning the folder and he put it aside, for Lucy, and nonchalantly removed his prosthesis, sighing in relief as he did so.

“I’m here for you too,” said Robin, taking his hand in hers.

“I appreciate it,” said Strike. “But I wouldn’t even know where to start. I don’t know if I’m angrier at the Nazi or at my own country, making their men fight two horrible battles by force. My father and my uncles survived one only to be crushed by the second, quite literally. My father was murdered in a concentration camp, some soldiers found his body stripped naked outside, even his shoes they took. And the women, crushed by their own houses… my aunt Catherine was awake. Didn’t have anything from the waist down… and Ted never had children because the other war left chronic injuries and he was in a wheelchair and died for it. And I have to stay alive and take care of my little siblings because I promised so, when some days I’d love to be able to just… go too. And for us, there’s no hope that the door will open up and they’ll come back with the end of the war. We won’t even know if the people who dropped those bombs or actually killed them will be caught. Nobody will ever recover Uncle Peter from the Atlantic. My Mum asphyxiated to death from tuberculosis. And we’re just… left to fight our own war now, trying to survive, trying to not forget our family.”

“You’ve done an amazing thing with the farm, I’m pretty sure my parents want to make you Head Administrator or something,” Robin half smiled sadly. “I mean… you guys can stay and maybe happiness will come back? One day at a time, together… war gets a bit easier that way, right?”

“Maybe you’re right,” he admitted while his lips found her shoulder over her uniformed military jacket. She caressed his hair. “I do know that little bombs of happiness come when you’re around.”

“Then let me make them explode?” Robin cupped his face and kissed him hard, and Strike forgot how to even breathe. Before he knew what was happening, she had straddled him in her long nurse skirt, and was kissing him as if he was literally oxygen, until he managed to make two neurons work and separated, even though she continued her assault on his neck.

“Robin, darling…” Strike took a deep breath to steady himself. “Robin, you need to stop, love.”

“Did I upset you?” she asked, worried.

“No, God know, I’m just… loving this a tad too much and… you’re saving yourself up for marriage, right? So we should… calm down, while I can still think clearly. You don’t know the effect you have in me, darling.”

“Oh…” Robin nodded slowly in realization and nodded, but didn’t get off him, caressing his face instead. “I could maybe…” she blushed. “I could touch you, if you’re…”

“Touch me?” it took a moment for the penny to drop and then Strike blushed. “Is that something you want to do?”

“I’ve never… but yeah,” Robin nodded.

“You don’t have to, Robin. Let alone because you’re sad I’m having a rough day,” he said with a soft smile.

“I know,” Robin shrugged, and her hand caressed his chest over his hair. “But I’d happily do it.”

Strike saw her eyes darkened with desire and her throat went dry.

“Robin!” they heard Linda shout from somewhere in the house. “Robin, can you help me please?!”

“Bugger,” Robin cursed. “Sorry…”

“Another time,” Strike kissed her hands and smiled warmly at her, watching her go away. He then looked down at his lap and sighed. “Fuck, this woman’s gonna be the death of me...”

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: Competition.

With the good weather back in spring, strolls around the countryside became almost mandatory. Strike and Robin liked to hold hands as they paced along the river Ure, Strike a little stumbling with his prosthesis and his cane, which was a gift from Michael and Linda, and it was made of oak. They would sometimes talk, but a lot of it would pass in comfortable silence, stopping to exchange a kiss every once in a while, contemplate the flowers or the foxes, or just sit and rest before resuming their walks. Robin busied herself a lot with the farm those days, and when not, she was often found studying for her degree or doing her homework, which her tutor would bring back to the university. Sometimes she had to disappear for Manchester for a few days when she had exams, sometimes she’d read to Strike her psychology books, often while caressing his hair until she heard him snore in his sleep, but most of the time she studied intensively on her own until the evening when they could spend some time alone. In the meantime, Strike worked hard in the farm for a little daily wage, his the smallest one per his own insistence, and had begun putting hours of work at the local primary school too, so that people around Masham began to know him as Mr Strike, the gardener and music teacher. He would also spend hours and hours helping Teddy study and do his homework, and so that life progressed at the large house, with everyone becoming quite busy.

The family also began to leave the house to become independent, with their spouses and children and jobs outside the farm, when they could. Wendy passed away in March from her age, Jonas and his wife remained at the farm as the animals’ main caretakers, while their children Sean and Lily moved to the University of York, where they lived in a dorm, just like Strike hoped Lucy could do the next year, and studied their degrees. Parker acquired a position as an engineer, his pre-war job, in Manchester, and off he went with his wife and their three children, who were some of the youngest, which saddened Teddy, who was their friend, but with that, Teddy began his first postal friendships, letters arriving in mountains every week for everyone. Clara, the only other sibling of Linda’s, remained in a little house a few streets away, while her husband worked in the coal mines of the area, and their children Avery and Lisa, who were teenagers, went to high school in Ripon, by bike, every day, because there wasn’t a high school in little Masham, so they didn’t see them much, unless in the evenings, like Lucy. Robin’s brothers also tried to find normalcy in the post-war Britain, with conscription not completely gone, but not so enforced, so that they still made an effort to acquire jobs that will free them from having to return to the military, even when there wasn’t a war any more.

And so Stephen and his wife, who was announced pregnant that spring, worked hard at the farm to be exempt, Martin, who had reached the age of twenty-one, also worked at the farm, and Jonathan, who was about to turn eighteen, was sent to York with his cousins to live in a dorm and study hard in university. Everyone felt the shadow of conscription breathing down their necks, and it had been announced that students could return to their studies, and would be allowed to finish them before having to serve conscription, unless they had a medical condition or a job that exempted them, and only certain jobs did the trick.

S trike, Robin and Robin’s parents remained the only ones to know about Strike and Robin’s romantic relationship, purely because the couple didn’t want to jinx it telling too soon, and would rather wait until things were more serious, although neither exactly knew how it could possibly be more serious without an engagement, when they lived in bedrooms one floor apart.

Late in April, they were holding hands and returning home from one of their long evening walks, the shadow of laughter still in their faces, when they saw they had guests, which didn’t occur that often. Now the only people of the family who really lived there, aside from the Strikes, were Michael, Linda, Stephen and Martin with Jenny included, Uncle Jonas, Aunt Isabella, and cousins Sean and Lily, who with their parents, worked with the animals at the farm, and had a girlfriend and a boyfriend in the village they saw now and then. They enjoyed the farm life, after all. So they’d gotten used to the large house being a little bit more empty, Teddy the only child reminding, even when he visited Aunt Clara and played with her kids, and vice-versa all the time.

“Who’s visiting so late?” Robin murmured as they walked inside, removing their coats. They had seen the lights on in the sitting room from outside, and could hear the murmurs of conversation. It was unlikely the family remained awake, with how hard they worked and studied.

“Only one way to know,” said Strike, and followed her to the sitting room. Robin opened the door and they came in to find Michael, Linda, Uncle Jonas and Aunt Isabella sitting having a drink with two men, one who was at least sixty, and a blonde look-alike in his twenties or thirties, with a moustache, brown eyes, and a RAF uniform.

“Oh hello Robin, Cormoran, we were wondering when you’d be back,” said Michael smiling at them. “Want to sit and have a drink? We’re sticking to the amounts Cormoran permitted, he’s got us in a nice plan to ration the alcohol, manage our economy better,” he added to the unknown men. “Good lad our Cormoran.”

“Sorry Dad, had we known we were expecting visitors we would’ve returned much sooner,” said Robin, confused.

“No worries now, let me introduce you. This is my good friend Dr Kevin Sonders, we went to medical school together, and he surprised us visiting,” said Michael pointing to the older of the gentleman, who stood up smiling and shook Robin and Strike’s hands. “This is my daughter, Robin, and our beloved friend retired Sergeant Cormoran Strike, who lives with us as he works in the farm.”

“My pleasure,” said Dr Sonders. “Allow me to introduce my son, Robert, he returned to us recently, made a RAF Captain, we’re so proud. His mother couldn’t come, busy at the house, but I’d been wanting to see my old friend Michael and I said to him, you should come, I remembered Michael had children about his age to make friends with.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Robert, shaking their hands.

“Likewise,” Robin smiled and sat with her parents, Strike following suit, quiet.

“It’s so nice to see our men return, uh?” said Isabella cheerfully, dressed in a summer dress with her blonde hair in a ponytail, her husband smiling next to her.

“It’s even nicer to be returned,” said Robert with a chuckle. “Retired now, Sergeant? Where you a pilot too? I’d have liked to meet you then.”

“No, Army,” said Strike, and patted his fake foot with his cane. “Fake foot, lost it in Normandy. Were you gone long?” he didn’t really like talking about the military or war, and he did so without pride or joy, and more like stating facts, like one talks about the weather.

Robert seemed surprised about the fake foot, but composed a polite smile.

“Shame. Yeah, full war, unfortunately,” he shrugged. “Heard now they want to implement a National Service, force us all to serve our country a bit more. Everybody except the politicians, am I right?”

“Right you are,” Strike agreed, and refused an offer of drink from Jonas. “No thank you, I should actually head to bed, long day.”

“Me too,” said Robin. “But it was nice meeting you,” she added, turning to the men, because it was the polite thing to say.

“Actually, Robin,” said Robert, his ears blushing. “My father and I are staying the night and I wondered if tomorrow, you’d accompany me for dinner in York. We’ve got a car, I’d drop you back home afterwards, of course. There’s a restaurant I’ve been meaning to try.”

Robin froze and out of the corner of her eye, saw her parents uncomfortably look away and Strike pretend to be very interested in his cane. Robert and his father, however, stared eager and expectant, like children awaiting for presents. They were clearly posh, possibly a well-paid doctor working for a big hospital, and his tidy-up son, elegant in his uniform. It was as if they were saying ‘look at me, I’m shiny, bright and well-kept, and I’ll cover you with jewellery and exhibit you in frequent parties’. Robin, who was raised around men, learned sexism well while working as a nurse, held her own military rank, even if she was retired from the RANC now, and studied social psychology with all the behaviours of humankind, caught on the intentions quickly.

“Robert,” she smiled politely, but forcefully, “excuse my forwardness but I always like to go straight to the point on things. Are you meaning to ask me on a romantic date, is that it?”

T aken aback, Robert blushed, but cleared his throat and smiled nervously.

“Actually yes, I was hoping you’d agree to date me. I know we only just met, but I’ve heard so much about you I feel like I already know all I need to know.”

“Well unfortunately, you don’t,” said Robin, her smile fading. “Otherwise you’d know I am not available, as Cormoran and I are in a relationship already.”

Robert’s smile faded and Isabella and Jonas turned, surprised, but then Isabella elbowed him and he masked his surprise turning to the bookshelves.

“Oh my bad,” said Dr Sonders. “I should’ve made an enquiry first, I had last heard of the tragic passing of Mr Cunliffe and I had thought… I do apologize, my friends.”

“Me too,” said Robert with a nod. “I’ve been too forward, I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right,” Robin stood up and so did Strike. “And Robert… I think I should tell you, in the name of all women of England if I’m so insolent, that we like courtship, not to just be asked to go off with a stranger, alone in another city, when some men are not to be trusted, if you catch my drift. I was a Staff Nurse, and I’ve seen enough of the damage men can do, to be more wary. Goodnight everyone.”

“Goodnight,” Strike murmured, and followed her outside. “You gave him a nice telling off,” he murmured with a smile, as they walked away towards the stairs. Robin snorted a laugh.

“I don’t like men who think there’s no reason why a single woman shouldn’t accept such daring invitations from a complete stranger.”

“I’m aware.”

They reached the steps and Robin walked a couple steps up before turning and taking Strike’s face in her hands, kissing him tenderly from her slightly raised position.

“I’m sorry they put you in such an awkward situation,” whispered Robin.

“Are you kidding? I’d pay to watch you shut down cocky attitudes any day, and I got it for free!” Robin chuckled, amused, and Strike kissed her again. “I love you a little bit more every day, Robin Ellacott.”

“Lucky me, and even luckier I get to love you back,” she kissed him once more, smiling against his mouth.

“My darlings,” Linda was walking towards them, and they separated and turned to her. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to apologize, from your Dad and I. We had no idea… I mean one assumes, but we didn’t know they were coming.”

“It’s okay Mum,” said Robin. “We’re good. And now Isabella and Jonas know about us, so probably the entire farm will know tomorrow and honestly? I don’t care.”

“Me neither,” said Strike. “I’ll go to bed now, goodnight and sweet dreams,” he kissed Robin’s hand lingeringly.

“Goodnight sweetheart,” said Robin and smiled, watching him go, and turned to her mother, who looked amused. “What?”

“Nothing, it’s just great to see you so chirpy and whipped.”

“I’m not whipped.”

“Oh, I’m your mother, young lady, you’re not hiding anything to me,” said Linda with a plump smile. “Just be careful, will you? I know Cormoran’s a good man, but still… you don’t want to accidentally become pregnant, do you?”

“Of course not, but I told you, I’m saving myself for marriage and he respects it.”

“Well just in case… come along,” Linda dragged her to her bedroom and after digging in her closet, she pulled out a small little box, and then from her bookshelf, a book. She turned to Robin, blushing. “Well this doesn’t get any less mortifying with daughters than with sons, but it’s time. You’re a young woman now, and your father and I know… well, it’s easy to become a bit too excited after the war and get lost in love and passion.”

“Mum what’s this about?” Robin frowned, crossing arms over her chest, worried.

“Sex,” said Linda, and Robin blushed hard.

“We’re not discussing sex, Jesus…”

“Where else are you going to learn about that, Robin? Men go to brothels or read magazines, and get the talk from their fathers, but for women is a bit trickier than that, and it’s our responsibility to teach each other. You do know how Jenny became pregnant, right? They teach you something at school?”

“I, yes,” Robin said, mortified. “I know where babies come from, I menstruate, Dad gave me that talk a long time ago.”

“Dad talked to you about biology and science, I’m talking to you about pleasure, and trust me is about as comfortable for me as it is for you, but needs must.”

“Can’t we wait until tomorrow? I’m honestly tired.”

“I’d rather not,” said Linda. “The sooner the better, come, sit down.” They sat on the bed, and she handed her the book first. It was titled ‘Women’s health and desires’ and was written by Dr A. L. Kales, who Robin knew to be a woman, as her mother had other books from her. “Now I know you think you’ll wait for marriage, and that’s a noble idea, I waited for marriage too, but darling, kids these days, with all that’s happening? Two wars, the world that’s coming, the economical troubles, the pain of death so present… nobody can blame young people, with hormones going crazy and dying for some joy, if they really get stressed and begin smoking, drinking heavily, doing drugs and having sex, because those things are good stress relief, trust me, I lived the two wars.”

“I know Mum but honestly, Cormoran and I are completely aware and he knows plenty about sex, he’s done it, he’s not going to… ravish me in the forest or something,” said Robin awkwardly.

“I know that, ‘cause he’s a proper gentleman. But I also know he’s young, and he’s got needs just like anybody else, and it’s harder for a man who knows the pleasure to resist it, than for someone who does not, like you. And there might be a time when you and Cormoran agree on not waiting, and then I want you to be safe. So you will read this, attentively,” she said, patting the book. “It’s got drawings and everything, all you need to know about cycles and childbirth, contraception and how to enjoy sex. Because it’s not about having children, it’s about having fun and pleasure, and if you don’t get informed, men have it much more than you do, so it’s important to make sure they put their ladies first, otherwise they’re not worth sticking around with.”

“Cormoran would never hurt me,” said Robin.

“Not on purpose, but he might not realize, so you tell him if he does, and you read here to know how to make it better. And,” she lifted the box and gave it to Robin, “condoms, your father gets these easily from work, so… use them, if you must. They have instructions inside, but if Cormoran’s got the experience he knows it then, hopefully.”

“Mum…”

“Darling, it’s a parent’s duty, even if it’s mortifying. You come to me, and we can talk, from a veteran you a youngster, if it’s more comfortable that way,” she patted her cheek fondly. “Just be careful with men, love. Always be careful.”

R obin nodded slowly and took the gifts, getting up.

“Thanks Mum.”

“And let me know if you need more. They have an expiration date and is best not to use them then.”

Mortified enough, Robin rushed to bed, but that night she stayed awake, reading the whole book in one sitting, becoming both scared at times, and intensively blushed, and even a tad horny sometimes, which was a first in her life. The book taught everything. From erogenous areas in men and women, to lubrication, and stimulation and hymens and erections, and she felt whichever sexual innocent she had left melt away, even when a lot had already gone as a nurse. She finally fell asleep between the last page of the book and sunrise, not knowing if she was perhaps less interested in sex now, and if that had been her mother’s intention.

Chapter Text

C hapter 12: Excess warmth.

With that book’s knowledge, Robin understood just how horny she’d been getting Strike, who frequently had felt hard against her, even if he did a good job to hide it. She hadn’t offered to touch him again, and having read how painful sex could be if done wrong, she was less inclined to pursue that type of activity. So she always carried a condom or two with herself, just in case, and began asking Ilsa, in their intermittent correspondence, to tell her all about her own sexual life in detail, so as to be prepared. Ilsa kept it analytical and formal, as if discussing the weather, and wasn’t scandalised by the questions, albeit surprised a former nurse in her early twenties still had them. Robin told her about her relationship to Strike in return, and the romance of their dates, and asked her for her doubts and fears, and learned how good sex could be. Apparently Ilsa and Nick held themselves back these days because she’d already had two scary miscarriages and nearly died, and even having condoms, they were still afraid, but when they did it, Ilsa had always had memorably good experiences, and felt strong desire for her young husband. She told her what to do about erections if she chose to, where and how to touch, what in her experience men didn’t like, even if she’d only been with one man, and what she liked him to do to her to make things even better. Robin would blush with those letters, but always thanked her profusely for her honesty and her friendship.

I n June, Robin felt prepared and less afraid, but still wished to wait for marriage. She didn’t want for men to take pleasure in her body and then just leave her for someone younger, sexier, or newer, and she’d seen far too much working as a nurse to know how often the bastards did it.

“Are you all right?” Strike said, as they enjoyed a romantic summer picnic date one day, after her lessons. They had taken Angus and gone by the river Burn, where they’d found a private spot behind tall bushes and trees.

“I am,” Robin smiled, realizing he’d been talking. “I’m sorry, got lost in the clouds.”

“A penny for your thoughts?”

R obin blushed, but they had a strict honesty policy, so she nodded and answered, sitting with him on the blanket used for the picnic.

“I was thinking of stories I’ve heard that soldiers keep photographs… like magazine pages to uh… cheer up? They call them pin-ups.”

“Pin-ups,” Strike blushed, nodding. “You wanna know if I had those?”

“I mean, no, I just… I wondered why they do that. It’s just… legs, right? Women’s legs? How’s that desirable?”

She blushed harder, feeling childish and inexperienced.

“It’s like art,” said Strike. “Or the skyline and the stars. It’s about things that are beautiful to look at. And for a man who’s into women, and I’ve heard not all of them are… women’s bodies are as beautiful as the stars, Robin. A pretty nose, pretty lips, pretty legs… and those pictures are not really about what you can see, but about what’s hidden.”

“Hidden?”

“Yes, like…” Strike opened the first couple buttons of his shirt collar. “Now you can see bit of a clavicle, tanned skin, bit of chest hair… you can perhaps intuit that there’s a strong chest below, perhaps a pretty chest, perhaps an attractive chest, but you don’t know.”

“I do know,” Robin corrected, blushing harder, and she cleared her throat. “I uh… was your nurse, remember? Who do you think put that catheter?” Strike laughed, blushed, and nodded.

“Well you know what I mean, if you hadn’t been my nurse. It’s the same for men. We see the curves outlined by clothes, the breasts, the waist, the arse… and the more noticeable they are, the more we remember there’s a woman below, and the more we start wondering how she is. And imagination’s a powerful tool, you know that. Those pin-ups… men wonder what’s under the short skirts, what it’d feel like to touch them, to kiss them, to smell them… it reminds them of happier times. I personally never had those photographs or magazines or anything but… I did get into sex young for the same reason soldiers start touching themselves sometimes during war. You get desperate to feel something good, to forget… and you hear stories around, of how pleasurable and beautiful women are, and you wanna try for yourself, it’s like science, one can’t help wanting to know. Now if you reveal it all at once, it’s like giving a present without wrapping it, there’s no intrigue, no build-up, it’s not the same. That’s why the women are covered in those pin-ups, men fill the blanks with imagination.”

“Right…” Robin nodded slowly. “But then once you’ve seen what’s under, what keeps you coming back? There’s no more intrigue any more.”

“Once you’ve seen the skyline,” he pointed at the horizon. “What keeps you coming back?”

Robin looked on and answered.

“That is beautiful. That it’s mesmerizing and enjoyable.”

“The same with women,” said Strike. “Sexuality is a funny thing Robin. It’s odd to feel attracted by something like an arse, or a penis, or a pair of tits but… it happens. Humans are strange like that. And once you’ve felt the pleasure once, it’s like a good drink. You want to try again. And I suppose it’s the same for women, or else my mother wouldn’t have had an affair. She used to say sex was the closest thing the living could get to seeing God,” he laughed, and took an intake of his cigarette, contemplating the beautiful landscape. Robin watched him with a small smile.

“Is that why you get hard sometimes, when we kiss? You’re imagining what’s below?”

“No,” said Strike, turning to look at her, and shrugged. “It’s a biological response. Sometimes one gets hard while sleeping, just because he needs to pee badly and that way you avoid wetting the bed, nature’s wise like that. So kids get it sometimes. And for men my age… sexual awakening. Biology keeps reminding you, you’re ready to be a father, like the period reminds you your body’s all set for motherhood. And biology programmed us to feel warmer when we kiss, and the more you stimulate erogenous zones like the lips and the chest and… yeah, imagination sometimes, the warmer you feel. The body responds, sometimes men can hold on longer, keep their temperature low, but I haven’t touched a woman like that in years so… it’s harder then, to tell your body not to do what it was programmed to do. It’s like it has a mind of its own. And if you get too taken away… you end up having sex, ‘cause eventually all you know is you feel so hot and your brain’s screaming for you to stick it somewhere. It’s like… when you really need to sneeze and you can’t stop it, or when something’s itchy and you just have to scratch it, there’s only so much willpower to resist things like that. But you don’t have to worry.”

“I’m not worried, I know you wouldn’t…”

“That’s right, I wouldn’t. So why are you thinking about these things?”

“My Mum gave me a book about it all, and condoms,” Strike choked on his own saliva and coughed until he was all red, and Robin side smiled. “Yeah that’s how I felt. Anyway, it got me thinking and I realized how for a woman and a former nurse, there’s a hell of a lot about that that I didn’t know. I even asked Ilsa in our letters.”

“Oh dear, I wouldn’t go there. I’m aware Nick loves her quite passionately.”

“He does,” Robin chuckled.

“So is there anything else you want to know?” asked Strike, matter of fact.

“Uhm…” Robin sat thoughtful. It was easier talking with Strike than with Linda or Ilsa, to her surprise. “You’re quite large, right? I mean,” she blushed harder and Strike looked away, giving an apple a big bite to distract himself. “For what I’ve seen, growing surrounded by men and working at hospitals. And I know how big that hole is. And I know it gets bigger when one’s excited, or for childbirth, but… Ilsa says it stings the first time and then no more. The book says sometimes it hurts, even when you’re careful, because some women are more sensitive. But in the hospital… I’ve seen women who were… abused. And they were ripped and bleeding and it was horrible,” Strike scowled deeply, turning to look at her.

“I would never ever…”

“I know, I was just wondering… if it’d hurt, if we did it.”

“I can’t possibly know, Robin,” Strike replied. “I’ll tell you what I do know. My only girlfriend ever, gave me five stars, and if you keep everything very lubricated, you know, getting properly excited, not going in dry like those brutes do… it’s supposed to feel good. Really good. I know when the hymen breaks it can be quite painful, for my ex it hurt a bit with me but I was also fifteen and neither of us knew the fuck we were doing but… honestly at your age you probably broke it already.”

“But I haven’t touched myself there.”

“Well you should, you’re twenty-one, and you’d feel pretty great, it’s healthier stress relief than alcohol and smoking and it would help you know how you like to be touched, to tell your husband when you marry,” said Strike. “But actually it’s probably it broke at some point between riding horses, bicycles, sports, tampons… it wears away, you’re a nurse, you should know. My Mum told me those things, she was quite open.”

“I know, just…” Robin shrugged. “I never wondered if it’d still be there.”

“I’ll tell you what, it can’t possibly hurt more than having your period, can it?” Strike shrugged. “I don’t know about other men, but I’m a good lover, I think. Always made her orgasm first, makes it more fun actually.”

“Why is that?” asked Robin with amusement.

“One the wetter the better and two… vaginas kinda squeeze a bit more when…” Strike raised his eyebrows and she nodded, understanding. She could feel herself becoming aroused.

“Why aren’t you aroused? We’re talking about sex.”

“Who says I’m not? I’m thinking strongly of dead people in concentration camps to keep things polite,” said Strike eyeing his groin. “I don’t want to seem like a horny dog.”

“Aw, such a gentleman,” Robin moved over and kissed him hard, her tongue finding his and battling for dominance. Strike moaned and Robin smiled, their arms around each other. “Can we try something?” she whispered, kissing his neck.

“What is it?” he asked hoarsely.

“Can I…?” Robin gulped, dubious, but she was just so curious and greedy to learn. “Can I watch you touch yourself? Nobody walks around here.”

“You want me to…?” Strike’s eyes were so wide in surprise Robin was astonished they didn’t fall off.

“I know it’s asking a lot, I’m just… curious.”

“Okay… but you’ve got to do something too,” said Strike. “Not taking your clothes or anything just… touch yourself, for me? I won’t look.”

Feeling daring and excited, Robin nodded.

“Okay.”

Strike picked up their picnic and looked around to make sure the bushes and trees shielded them properly, and that they hadn’t attracted any animals. Angus was eating bushes and playing with the butterflies, oblivious to them, and it all looked calm.

“Okay…” a bit nervously, Strike removed his waistcoat and lowered his suspenders down his shoulders, so he could open his trousers and lower them a little. He lied back on the blanket and, under Robin’s intense watch, he opened his shirt and drove his right hand under his white underwear, lowering it to expose himself completely.

Robin, who had already seen him once but in a medical and professional mindset, felt herself get inexplicably hot, seeing the round sack, his large shape, and the dark bush over it. Strike began to fondle his sack gently, and touch his length, focusing on the tip and controlling his breath, pressing himself against his stomach as he rubbed himself. He was mid-hard, and Robin found herself transfixed.

“You have to do it too,” Strike reminded her, hoarse, and Robin nodded, lying with him. She kissed him hard, thankful he was doing this for her, and lowered her pants and her underwear a little, and began to touch herself gently. True to his word, Strike’s eyes reminded on hers, not looking down. “What do you feel?” he asked her, his breathing getting faster.

“It’s warm and wet,” said Robin. “Soft too… little hairy,” she side smiled, and he chuckled.

“Found your clit right?”

“Yes.”

“Gentle circles there,” Strike instructed, “you might want to go between the nether lips, press circles around your entrance, not pushing in, just… tease, you know? And bring the wetness back up to your clit, there you go…” he knew, because her eyes closed and she gasped in pleasure.

“It’s almost like I need to pee.” Strike touched himself faster and she moved faster too. He could hear how wet she’d gotten. “Oh God… fuck…”

“Touch your breasts,” said Strike, and Robin moved her free hand under her blouse. “Your nipples, pinch gently, gently… it’s like… a massage, squeeze and release.” His voice trembled with desire and Robin’s lips parted. It took all his willpower not to touch her.

“That’s good… oh… Cormoran… oh…”

“You’re so hot and beautiful, love,” said Strike. Her hand moved from her breasts to her wetness for a moment and then to his surprise, it moved, wet, to his hardness, and he covered it with his own hand. “Robin…”

“Teach me how you like it,” said Robin, looking at him. He was buckling into her hand now. “Like this?”

“Fuck yes…” Strike panted, nearly there. “Can I touch you?”

“Here,” Robin pulled her other hand from herself and took one of his, bringing it with hers back into her core. He moaned, feeling how drenched she was, and she moaned deeply and hoarsely at the feel of his large, calloused fingers moving fast. “Oh Cormoran, there… there…”

“Robin… Robin…”

Their moans escalated, and with a shudder, they came at once, collapsing in the aftershocks.

Chapter Text

A few nights later, Robin wasn’t a virgin no more. She lied on Strike’s chest in her bed , while everybody was gone. The family had gone to visit other relatives in Ripon, Lucy was in the pub with some friends, and Teddy was at Clara’s house playing with Robin’s little cousins. Strike had to stay because he had lessons to prepare for the school tomorrow and Robin had just returned from Manchester from exams to find the house empty. The rest had followed pretty naturally. Everyone knew about their relationship now, and were cool with it.

“I’m sorry,” said Strike, while her eyes closed against his chest, a hand entangled in her hair. “I should’ve restrained myself, you wanted to wait…”

“It was me who sat on you,” Robin reminded him. “And it was me who kissed you first. This happened because I wanted it to happen. And at least we got condoms.”

“I’m not going to run off with thirty women now, if that helps.”

Robin snorted a laugh and kissed his chest, feeling his heart beating below.

“You better not.”

“We could marry, if you want,” said Strike. “The school’s pay is not too bad and the farm’s thriving.”

“I’m not gonna marry just so no one knows I didn’t wait,” said Robin. “If we ever get married, it’ll be because we’re ready to commit to each other for life. I’m happy just with having had my first with someone who loves me and made it special.”

“It’s ridiculous but… it felt like a first to me too. Like nothing I ever did before compares to this.”

“I’m looking forward to do it again with you, when I can breathe again. It was so good.”

“Yeah? I liked it too, very much,” Strike smiled, rolling over to kiss her, wrapping his arms around her. “You’re pure perfection, I’m so lucky to have found you.”

“You’re lucky indeed,” Robin grinned, kissing him too.

T he days that followed were sweet and loving. With the summer and Nick and Ilsa’s graduation came beach trips, river baths, anything to cool down and have some fun in the post-war. To Strike, hanging out in the beach with his best friends in the whole world, his girlfriend, his siblings, and some other Ellacotts, was glorious, and he knew happiness then in those trips.

One of those trips took them to Lancaster. They had bathed in the beach and then put out a picnic, and it was Strike, Lucy, Teddy, Robin, the Herberts, Stephen, his pregnant wife Jenny, and Katie, Robin’s cousin and best friend. They were having a blast, and had made a bonfire and everything.

“Corm, can I bathe again?” Teddy requested jumping up and down in his bathing trunks. Strike had taught him to swim and about the currents and everything just a few weeks before, when they had begun going to bathe, because at the age he should’ve learned, he was in Masham, and the river wasn’t that deep there, and the trips to the beach, not recommended during the war. Now, Teddy, who’d turned ten, always wanted to swim, and he was good at it.

S trike smiled at his brother, checking it was still sunny and decently warm.

“Again? Don’t you want to sit for a bit?”

“I wanna swim,” Teddy smiled, excited.

“Oh, someone’s addicted, true Nancarrow,” Lucy smiled warmly at his brother.

“All right then, but stay where we can see you, uh?”

“And where you can touch the ground, Teddy!” added Lucy. “Don’t go in deep! He’s gonna love St Mawes’ beach, when we can go visit.”

“It’s looking real pretty now,” said Ilsa, who’d gone again this summer, and sat in her bathing suit with them. They were all drying off. Strike hadn’t thought he’d be able to swim, but with Nick or Robin to help him in and out, the rest was easy.

“I miss Cornwall,” said Lucy, looking onto the ocean. “And London. Maybe I can transfer my studies to London in a year. It’s safer now, and they probably will have rebuilt most of it then.”

“Well, you’ll be nineteen now, you’re old enough to make your own decisions, Lucy,” said Strike. “I’ll always help you out, but that doesn’t mean you’re forced to do what I say like that little rascal is. You can make your own dreams, your own plans.”

Lucy nodded slowly.

“Perhaps next year. I don’t want to fly solo yet.”

“Your choice entirely,” Strike patted her back. “And if you wanna stay attached to my hip forever my heart will appreciate it.” He added jokingly, making them laugh.

“Careful Luce, he might kidnap you!” Robin added laughing.

“We love having you guys in Masham too,” said Stephen. “Besides, Dad wants to rent the rooms we don’t use now, so the more of you occupy it, the less spoiled tourists I’ll have to endure.” He said chuckling.

“What are you two going to do now?” Katie added, looking at the Herberts. “Back to London, is it?”

“Back to London,” Nick nodded with a smile. “We already started organizing the house there before we returned from St Mawes, my uncle and aunt are taking good care of it, and we’ve brought down some stuff already. There’s space for you guys, when you decide to come back.” He added, turning to Strike and Lucy.

“I might take your offer, if I transfer Uni,” said Lucy. “But I’ll pay the rent of my room.”

“Nonsense, we’ll have enough now, when we start working, even if it’s beginner’s level,” said Ilsa. “You’re family, you don’t pay to stay with family.”

“We’ll have to repay you one day, with all the help we’ve received,” commented Strike, enjoying a fag.

“You can repay us with drinks,” said Nick, and Ilsa nodded in full agreement.

“And I’m collecting the payment in the name of my family in the form of kisses,” said Robin, and Strike chuckled, kissing her shyly.

“I think something’s wrong,” Lucy said, getting up, eyes on the ocean. “Teddy! That’s too deep!”

Strike squinted his eyes and stood on his crutches to see. Teddy was swimming erratically a bit too deep.

“Out now Teddy!” he shouted, crutching closer.

“Oh no, he’s drowning!” Lucy ran to the water, and Nick, Katie, Robin, Stephen and Ilsa ran off too. Jenny and Strike stood anxiously, rushing to the shore as fast as Strike’s crutches allowed, because he couldn’t use his false foot on the sand, watching as the six adults didn’t hesitate to throw themselves into the water and go get Teddy, who seemed, indeed, to be drowning.

Strike could see his head bobbing up and down, and then he could only see his hand for a brief moment.

“TEDDY!” he roared. “TEDDY, USE YOUR LEGS!”

“I think there’s a current,” said Jenny, pointing at the water. “See? He might be trapped in a current, but Lucy’s got him, and they know about currents. Stephen surely can touch the ground Cormoran, it won’t be trouble for them to get him out.” She tried to calm him, seeing his anguish and powerlessness as he was unable to run into the water without his foot, and not faster of a swimmer, maimed as he was, than the others were.

S he was right, getting out didn’t seem hard for the adults. Lucy and Stephen had Teddy and as they swam to shore diagonally to get out of the current, Stephen, who was the tallest of them all, touched ground first and carried Teddy in his arms, but he was motionless and the others’ anguished expressions didn’t put Strike at ease. Stephen was running as soon as he could, looking equally anguished, and as soon as he was out of the water he put Teddy on the ground and Nick was right there to begin CPR, as the boy was unconscious and turning blue.

“No, no, no,” Strike fell on his knees, slapping Teddy’s face gently. “Teddy wake up, wake up!”

“A jellyfish got him,” said Robin, who had noticed it in his leg and was already, breathless, assessing the wound. “Doesn’t look like the bad ones, but it’s probably what made him start drowning, the pain…”

“Come on…” Nick was frantically doing CPR with his hands on Teddy’s chest while the others observed in tension and anguish. Robin rushed to help, taking over the mouth-to-mouth so Nick could focus on one thing.

Lucy covered her mouth and fell to her knees, eyes turning damp. Ilsa knelt with her, wrapping her arms around her as the others kept trying to bring Teddy, who was bluer by seconds, back.

“Should I try and get some help?” Stephen wondered out loud, looking around. The beach was empty, and they weren’t exactly in Lancaster, but a bit further south, farther from the city.

“From where?” Katie murmured, looking out too, helpless. “We have a doctor and a nurse. If they can’t help…”

“Just keep trying,” said Robin, taking a moment to recover her breath and inhaling again to give Teddy the breathe of life.

“Get him some towels,” said Nick, sweating now from the effort. “He’s cold.”

Ilsa and Jenny hurried to do so, trying to warm Teddy up, but the child wasn’t moving. With trembling hands, Strike pressed his fingers to Teddy’s neck and felt himself be stabbed inside, not finding a pulse.

. . .

A week later, everything was different.

The half an hour Robin and Nick had spent trying to resuscitate Teddy, doing everything they knew to try and help him, until Nick had made the difficult call to stop, because he was going to break Teddy’s chest otherwise and it’d kill him anyway, had been completely in vain. It weighted on them, who had to cry it out properly, but everyone who was there knew they had done everything that could be done, but that sometimes it took as little as twenty seconds for a child to drown, and Teddy, albeit a good swimmer, was inexperienced, and they had needed a minute to reach him, with the way the currents were that day.

At home, Michael confirmed with great pain that the boy had died of drowning, not from the jellyfish sting, and that he had probably felt in a lot of pain and before he was able to ask for help, he’d drowned, the currents not making it easy for him either, dragging him deeper than he probably was at first. Strike and Lucy were so devastated there was no consolation, and they locked themselves in their bedrooms, once the funeral was done in St Mary the Virgin’s Church and Cemetery. They had thought of going to London for it, so Teddy could rest with his parents, but the cost of a funeral there was too high, and the distance hard to cover with only one car and a few horses, and Teddy would’ve begun to decompose before they could make it there. To Strike and Lucy, for the little they spoke, Masham was okay. He’d be with Wendy and Charles, who’d been like Teddy’s own grandparents, in the place where he’d had so many good memories, and made his first friends. It seemed fitting for him.

N ick and Ilsa, who were in no hurry to go for another month, stayed for their friends, both struck with grief just like everybody else. The entire town came for the funeral. Robin’s family in other towns came as well, some of them remained indefinitely if they could. Teddy was well-beloved, and the idea that a ten year old had just drowned with six adults looking, only because of the unfortunate combination of currents and jellyfish, was unbelievably tragic, specially in a family of which only two members remained. No grandparents, no uncles or aunts, no cousins, no parents, Strike and Lucy only had each other now.

A nd in consequence, they mourned together. As soon as the funeral was over, Lucy sneaked in Strike’s bed with him, and she never left. They moved sometimes to go to the bathroom, and returned to the bed. They didn’t talk, they didn’t eat, they only had water and, if the family could convince them, maybe some fruit during the day. In a week they looked pale and unhealthy, but no one knew what else to do. For the time being, Robin at least hid Mr Strike’s gun, which Strike kept in his closet, as it was found with him when they found him and got him back to England, so that he couldn’t shoot himself, as she feared he’d do.

“Everyone did everything that could be done,” Jonas insisted sadly one day, as the family, as usual, sat together to try and find ideas that could improve the situation. “It could have happened to anyone, it was a tragedy, and these things unfortunately happen. It’s no one’s fault.”

“Lucy and Corm told him he could go into the water,” said Stephen. “And I agree is not their fault, but all they’re going to ever think is that they allowed it, specially Corm. His family always made it clear if they died, his siblings were his responsibility, isn’t it? It’s eldest child’s sense of responsibility. And now he’s managed to pull them through a war, Teddy dies so fucking stupidly. He’s always going to blame it on him.”

“It’s so bloody horrible I can’t even believe it,” said Grandma Daisy, shaking her head in disbelief, her white hair back in a bun. “He was such a good boy, such a lovely child…”

“Loveliest of them all,” Linda agreed, rubbing her eyes. Nobody could say they hadn’t cried, probably not one in the entire town. “That laughter he had…”

Nick had his head in his hands. It was his first loss as a doctor, and he wasn’t even working yet. Ilsa leaned on his shoulder, both too heartbroken to cry. Robin then returned from the regular trip to check on the Strikes.

“I left food,” said Robin. “But they’ve made themselves sick with grief, and they’re not eating. Lucy vomited this morning, and I don’t like how Cormoran’s breathing sounds.”

“Last he needs is a heart attack,” said Michael, saddened. Robin nodded, sitting with Nick and Ilsa. “And if he’s not listening to you, he’s not listening to anyone.”

“It’s not that he doesn’t want to eat or doesn’t want to come out or… it’s not about wanting or not,” said Robin softly. “It’s inability. He’s in a kind of pain none of us can come close to imagining, I’m pretty sure he’d sooner have had both legs ripped out without anaesthesia than going through this. Grief makes them sick. Just like… a bullet wound or meningitis. Only that no medicine and no surgery is going to fix this at all.”

“So what do we do then?” asked Jonathan to no one in particular, sitting on the rug petting Rowntree. “We’re all the family they’ve got left. They’re our siblings too, there has to be something we can do.”

“Be there,” said Isabella with a deep sigh. “For whatever they may need, just be there. Time is the only one that can improve things now, and company.”

T hey sat in silence, lost in their thoughts, until Lucy entered the room frail and quiet, hugging herself.

“I think Stick’s not breathing right,” said Lucy. “I think he’s dying.”

Katie, Robin, Nick and Michael rose to their feet and ran out of the room. Robin reached Strike first, finding him pale and sweaty and with shortness of breath, not responding. She palmed his cheeks, and moved aside to let his father work. He was the experienced surgeon and doctor, after all, and she hadn’t worked as a nurse in over a year, since she’d had meningitis.

A few minutes later, everyone except for Robin returned to the rest of the family.

“He’s not dying Lucy,” Michael said, hugging Lucy like a daughter more. “Robin will keep watch over him, okay?”

“Why is he breathing weird then?” asked Lucy in his arms, worried.

“For the same reason one breathes weird after running too much, grief takes its toll on the body too, but he’ll get better,” Michael reassured her, rubbing her back. “Will you try to eat some now, uh? We don’t want you getting ill, Luce.”

W hile they got Lucy to eat, Ilsa strolled down the corridor to Strike’s room, wanting to see for herself that he was doing okay, and surely, found him sleeping. Robin lied next to him, and was singing quietly while rubbing circles over her chest. She acknowledged Ilsa with a smile, and went on, while Ilsa sat on Strike’s chair, dragging it to the bedside and taking his hand affectionately. After a while, Robin stopped, and she simply watched him, making sure he continued to breathe. Then she looked up at Ilsa, who seemed battered, and far older than a girl who was only nearing her twenty- third birthday.

“Hey,” Robin moved a hand over Strike and touched her arm. “You all right?” Ilsa forced a small smile.

“As much as anyone can be,” she murmured, and sighed deeply, looking at Strike. “You know we’ve been friends since babies? We’re actually kinda cousins.”

“Really?” Ilsa nodded.

“My Uncle, who drowned with his ship during the war, he was a marine, he married his aunt. So we’re not cousins hundred percent but it was always how we felt, because we’d always known each other. I grew up in St Mawes, and he grew up mostly in London, but I still remember the good times, and how happy we were before the war,” she said with deep sadness. “My parents’ house is two houses from the farm that Cormoran’s grandparents owned, and that passed on to Uncle Ted and his wife, because Cormoran’s mother married her Londoner father and they went to Bromley in London. My Mum and his Aunt Joan were best friends from school, so our families were always close, and when my uncle and his paternal aunt happened to meet one of the times they visited us, and fell in love and married, it became official for us to work as one family.”

“Sounds like really happy times,” said Robin accompanying her in sadness.

“They were,” Ilsa sniffled and rubbed her eyes, and Robin squeezed her hand in support. “Our family was like yours, Robin. Bunch of people, farmers… we’d spend every holiday together, each and every one. My two siblings, Oggy, Lucy and myself running naked across the beach, Cormoran, senior one I mean, we actually called the little one Oggy there, they’d be singing songs, and Leda… they had the most beautiful voices. Part of our grandparents still lived then and everything. And we considered each other uncles and aunts and cousins… we took care of each other, we loved each other… and we always told each other to look one after the other no matter what. When Nick and I started dating, his family joined too, they’d become the Strike’s best friends in London. And Uncle Corm used to take my Dad and Nick’s Dad, one in each arm, and tell them they were his fucking brothers, and that he’d kill for them, no questions asked. So when the war started, he did,” she took a deep breath, shaking her head. “They could’ve all stayed home. Farmers were always exempt… but the farm in Cornwall was so small, there was no way to employ so many people, and so my family went to the naval factory to find jobs that would protect them from going, but Uncle Peter and Uncle Corm… the first was a committed marine, the other a policeman, and they’d survived the other war so they thought they’d survive again. They left… promising they’d be back. They found Uncle Corm, their Dad… outside a concentration camp, in a mountain with other bodies. They’d taken even his underwear. And Uncle Peter… they’ll never recover his body, is sunk like the Titanic. And when they left, Teddy was the only one who didn’t get it, he was too young… he’d been an accident,” she snorted. “Because Uncle Corm and Aunt Leda couldn’t keep their hands off each other for a minute, and I guess they thought nothing was gonna happen any more, but you should’ve seen how happy they were to go for the third. Uncle Corm loved babies, and loved family. He built us all toys and cribs and whatever… and Aunt Leda was the only woman I’ve ever known capable of going through three pregnancies and keeping a perfect body, model, she could’ve been. They were so romantic… and now everything’s ruined. The bombs… who would’ve thought we’d die more for staying home than for leaving? My family’s the only one which remains, and they’re not the same, no one is. My Dad could hardly write me back after I wrote him about Teddy, he was so heartbroken the entire letter was still damp. And the beach, that once was our friend, where we’d have our first kisses, our most happiest memories… it feels like double betrayal that it was our beloved ocean that took Peter, and the beach that took Cormoran’s foot, Teddy’s life… they’re sea people. It’s supposed to be our safe place, but no. I walked past what was the farm the other day in St Mawes. You know what’s left?”

R obin sighed saddened, and shook her head.

“No.”

“Nothing,” said Ilsa. “I thought rubble would be more comforting, but no. It was worse to see complete emptiness, like it never happened. Like it was all a dream. Just imagine… a bomb falling here. Your entire family gone in an instant, but worse ‘cause… they didn’t die quick and easy, not all of them. Aunt Catherine lived her last moments in agony. Aunt Leda needed months for tuberculosis to kill her. Lucky me, my family is still going strong, and I married a wonderful person to keep me strong, but Nick? He only has an uncle, an aunt, and a couple cousins left in London and that’s it, aside from me, his parents and brother wiped off the map in an instant. And Cormoran and Lucy… what do they even have left to live for? All they want is to reunite with their family.”

“And it’s the one thing we can’t let them do just yet,” Robin caressed Strike’s hair and kissed his damp cheek. “Poor family… how can one believe in God after this hell, uh?”

“I can’t. Not any more,” Ilsa muttered.

“D’you think returning would do him some good? Cornwall or London or whatever?”

“At this point… might not make a difference. And the beach might bring him worse memories. This place is the nicest he’s going to get, and at least bringing flowers to Teddy might help him mourn… and there’s you. He truly loves you.”

“And I truly love him. Them both, actually. I never had a sister until Lucy came around, even with Jenny… is not the same. It’s funny how it’s always like we rescued them, like we saved them but… I think they rescued us. I think no matter how many we are, none of us would’ve made it without them. Not just because Cormoran literally saved the farm but…” Robin shrugged. “It’s all they’ve given us. Their warmth, their humility, their sense of humour prevailing… Teddy’s innocence and charisma. And all the music we’ve had since they came around. And what they give to the town… there’s a reason the funeral was overcrowded, people here love them. Lucy breaks her back to help anyone who need it, Teddy made everyone laugh, played with all the kids here, made friends with everyone. And Corm… you should’ve seen him at the school, teaching songs to the children who’d only known misery, making them smile… and then I’d come from work and hear the songs wherever I went, and knew he’d taught them. This village was sad and poor before the Strikes came around, and they brought happiness here, that’s why everybody is desperate to help now, bringing food home in case they’ll eat, asking about them when we walk around… they’re grateful people, and Teddy’s left a hole in all of us.”

“Robin…” Strike murmured, gasping. “Love…”

“I’m here,” Robin kissed his forehead. “I’m here with you, my love.”

“My heart hurts Robin,” he murmured, eyes half opened. “Everything hurts.”

“I know,” Robin wrapped an arm around him and kissed his cheek. “Ilsa, would you please pass me the paracetamol? Is in a box on the bedside cabinet. And the glass of water next… thanks,” Robin took them from Ilsa. “Here, darling, this’ll help.”

“No…” whispered Strike.

“What d’you mean no? It’ll take away some of the pain.”

“Leave it,” he murmured. “Perhaps it’ll kill me.”

“No,” Robin slipped the pill in his throat, holding his head up, and forced him to swallow it. “You’re not dying on my watch, Cormoran. Not you too, it’d kill Lucy.”

“If you all loved me enough…” Strike murmured, closing his eyes. “You wouldn’t force me to stay alive in misery… you’d give me a merciful end, so I can rest… It’s just mercy…”

“Mercy is doing our best so that when you’re old you can say you had twenty horrible years, but sixty or eighty incredible ones. If you die now, you stick with the shit and never see the silver lining,” Robin argued, taking his hand in hers and kissing his forehead.

“The silver lining doesn’t exist Robin. It’s just… like Santa. A lie.”

“I beg to differ,” argued Robin. “Rest now. I’m not leaving your side.”

N ick and Lucy came after a while, and Robin moved to let Lucy lie down, because she looked terrible, even though she’d managed to keep down some food. And so the other three stayed in watch, united by their affection and love towards them, hoping they could change the world for them.

Chapter Text

It took all summer for Lucy to finally leave the bed, and it was to decide she was moving into a dorm in York, which now they could afford. It meant saying goodbye to her for a while, but she had made friends there, and also some of Robin’s cousins, her friends too, were there living as well, including Jonathan, who promised to look after her. They thought that, overall, it might help her to be on her own for a while, to focus on something else, to be around friends her age, inspiring teachers, and things that she liked. She had worried her absence would hurt Strike further, but in his weak state, he encouraged her to go, and a month later, around Robin’s birthday, he, too, was able to move out of the bed, to which he was confined for two months, which meant when he got out, he was in terrible shape, but at least he was out.

N ick and Ilsa had to go to London in September or risk losing their jobs, but Robin was okay being the main caretaker for who after all was her boyfriend. So she’d take him on walks to have some fresh air, hold him when he unexpectedly collapsed in tears, force feed him if necessary, and sleep in his bed to keep him company day and night. And still, somehow, one day she woke up and he was gone.

“What do you mean he’s gone?” asked Linda, when Robin rushed into the kitchen panicking one October morning.

“His things are gone, his gun, which I had hidden, is gone, his prosthesis, his cane, his shoes… everything. All he’s left are his books,” said Robin, trying to breathe through the raising anxiety. “I’ve looked everywhere, the attic, the bathrooms, every room, took Angus and searched all over the lands and by the river, his usual spots, the pub, asked around town, nobody’s seen him! He’s vanished into the night!”

“He left this,” Michael said suddenly. He’d gone to grab the tea and he had found an envelope closed right on top of the box. “It’s his handwriting. Addressed ‘to family’.”

“Gimme that,” Robin nearly ripped out of his hands and opened it with trembling fingers. It was indeed his handwriting, and she feared the worst, slumping on a chair.

She read it out loud.

‘Dear Family,

I know I have done the most cowardly and most terrible and unforgiving thing leaving without so much as a goodbye. I accept that makes me a royal tosser at the bare minimum, and many worse things, but I do hope you can one day understand that my pain was so great,and I left in such frenzy of tears, that biding farewell would have literally broken my heart in pieces. I am now a weak shadow of myself, and I do not feel strong enough to look at you one last time and say goodbye,but I also know I ought to either leave or just shoot myself to get out of this hell I’ve put myself into. I hope you will give Lucy this letter too, so she understands I have not abandoned her, but left in a last effort to save myself so that one day, hopefully soon, I can come back to you a changed, better, composed ma n, because I do not wish to die, I wish to have the will to live, and I plan on doing what it takes in order to find it.

W hen this whole war started, I was just a foolish teenager, only fifteen, having my first girlfriend, losing my virginity, being careless and reckless and only worrying about my own fun and amusement. I was not prepared in any way to lose any member of my family. My father was my guidance, my mentor, the policeman I then hoped to become,the example of everything I wished to be, and my mother was my caretaker, my sunrise, my dance partner. And without them, and without every other figure that I had consider a mentor, a guide, a caretaker, I have struggled terribly to find my footing in this world I do not understand, in a war I do not understand, and in a succession of events that seem crazier by the second. But I feel like the days I saw bombs destroy the two places I had called home in my life, I died too, in some way. My father asked me to take care of our family for him before he left. My mother asked me to take care of my siblings and keep them safe before she died. My aunt’s last words were for me to look after my family. I have failed them all. My only success, and it’s not really mine, has been Lucy, who is forever my greatest pride and joy, and who I hope to see one day become a fully grown woman, an exemplary teacher and everything she wishes to be. But that’s her own merit, because she is extraordinary. She’s taken care of herself and made Teddy the only one I really had to keep my eyes on, and in that, I have failed in a way that’ll hurt my heart for the rest of my life. And you do not know the pain of being asked by everyone you love to do one thing only, and fail, and see your littlest brother, a child, drown in front of you, while there’s nothing you can do because you’re fucking maimed. That’s a hell I’ll carry with me for as long as I breathe, and that feels like a physical weight on my chest that makes it hard to take another breath, and yet every time I think the pain might kill me, I stay alive, and I do not know if it’s cruelty or mercy. Perhaps a bit of both.

And yet, when I look at Robin, I can’t help but want to live and become the man she deserves. The man my sister deserves, the man I deserve. I shall become who my father or my uncle or my grandfathers were, a man strong enough, tough enough, to endure life, and to keep loving, smiling, dancing and singing. A man who does not become ill out of grief, or a stone cold,but who manages to deal with his pain in healthy ways and not lose his warmth and his ability to light up the world and do some good. Truth is I have felt like a weight on everyone’s shoulders for so long, not your fault obviously, and I desperately crave being in a position where I can do good things for people in big ways every single day. But in order to do that, I need not to put a bullet in my head, but to heal, and so I have decided to join the Royal Military Police as an officer and sergeant rank remaining, to investigate war crimes and put some order in this post-war mess, and hopefully, bring some level of real justice. I feel like as much as the army destroys people’s souls, my family belonged there so much it half feels like home, and there I met comrades who felt my pain, shared it, and we could help each other more in shared trauma, than home could. I feel like the more I embrace the pain and surround myself with people and places that have also lived similar things, the stronger and better I will become,and I will finally learn not to be a boy and how to become a man. And in the process, I will achieve my first dream of being some kind of cop, enjoy my hidden passion of investigating things and finding truth and justice,and do good things for people, also avoiding being sent somewhere I hate via conscription. I choose my destiny, not Britain. And I know people there, and I have been assured it will be fine even if I don’t have a foot, and the military might help me get better prosthesis over time. I’ll work mostly in offices, away from combat zones, safe, so you don’t have to worry. I’ll probably spend the first few years prosecuting the criminals of World War II, and then move to lame things like soldiers doing shit they shouldn’t be doing, nothing dangerous, so don’t be anguished . Either way, I know it’ll keep my mind absorbed with the mysteries I’ll get to resolve, and help me forget the pain and become a new, improved version of myself. I hope you don’t perceive it as running away… I intend to come back. But I have fought for everyone else, and now I need to fight for myself. I think Robin would want that.

I do not want to leave without telling you how much I wholeheartedly love you all, and how incredibly grateful I am for what you have done for me, for Lucy, for Teddy. I am forever in your debt. I plan on writing every chance I get, I plan on sending all the money I can for you to help Lucy get by, and I plan to return to Masham a better man, a happier man, and give back to the town and the family who helped me survive. These years have been about survival… I hope what’s coming can be about being happy.

To the Ellacotts and the Evans, aside from my greatest thank you, I want to tell you I will forever consider you my family and I already look forward to playing music for all of you again, to hugging you, and to laughing with you. I hope your lives prosper more in my absence and fill with more happiness with the arrival of the littlest new Ellacott, and that you enjoy years of joy and good luck. When I write back, when I can, I’ll provide an address for you to write to me, and then we can always stay in touch. I don’t know what I would do without you.

T o the Herberts, to whom I hope you also give a chance to read this letter, because I’ve no more strength to write more, I hope you know you are my siblings, you are my best friends, and I love you both infinitely. When I come back, you’ll be a lawyer and a doctor fully, and perhaps there might even be a little one around… and I cannot wait. Look forward for letters, and for that beer long promised at the pub in London when I return.

To my beloved sister Lucy, you are a rock star and you don’t need me half as much as you think. This brother will return. This brother will stay in touch all he can. And I will never forget you. Please, be happy in my absence, study hard, work hard, make many friends, tons of better memories, discover the joys of Scotch, and be one hell of a teacher like Aunt Catherine was. Inspire the future generations, gift them your voice, never forget your music. And I promise you wherever I am, I will be singing for you too. And if you date anyone Robin, Nick AND Ilsa don’t approve of, I will personally shoot whoever you’re dating. Only the best for my sister, understood? I love you with my whole heart Luce, my sweet rascal. Find a happy life. For us.

T o Robin. Thank you for saving my life and my soul. Thank you for becoming oxygen to my heart, for your love, for your letters, for your care, for everything. I know when your boyfriend leaves without even a goodbye, you’re bound to be furious and sad, but I want you to know I leave because of you. I was ready to jump off a bridge or something, but you made me rethink things. And you made me realise if only I loved myself half as much as you love me, I would be fighting for me, I would be putting a real effort, and I am going to. I do not see the silver lining yet, but fuck I’ll build it with my own hands if I have to. Because I don’t want anybody else. You are the love of my life. You are everyone I want. And I refuse to be half a man, I refuse to settle with being less than you deserve, I refuse to not fighting to be my best, for you. So I have stolen a photograph of you, because I don’t want no magazines or anything, and I am not planning to forgive you, and I’m gonna go and heal, and leave you for a tiny bit, what’s a few years of a hopefully long life for us to be together ? And because of my love to you, I am going to hope for a long life, when I come back, with you. I will understand it if in the meantime you find someone you love more, and you deserves you more… and I will respect that. I know love sometimes grows cold during these things. You know my parents’ love was also tested by war. But I will still come back, I will still dream of singing songs to you and only you, of drawing only your smile, of hearing only your voice and not the bullets. And I will write to you every single day, and if you don’t get 365 letters every year, blame it on the post, because I surely wrote them. But until I see you again, take my heart, because it’s all yours. And when I come back, if you will still have me, I am going to marry you, Robin Ellacott, and I will spend the rest of my life making music just for you.

All my love and best wishes,

Cormoran.”

R obin couldn’t help but dropping the letter and weeping into her hands, but deep inside, she understood. Similar reactions struck everyone over the incoming weeks, specially for Lucy, to whom Robin brought the letter using Angus, and who had never phrased so many curse words and angry insults within Robin’s hearing before, but people knew it was perhaps his only choice to stay alive. Weeks later, they received a new letter. This one only contained an address they could write to, for a military building what would find him for them, wherever he was sent, and a few piano sheets titled ‘For Robin’ along with a note of Strike’s handwriting in which he promised to one day, play it for her.

Chapter Text

Strike had never felt more nervous in his life. He found himself standing at the doors of the massive Imperial College of London, back in a city he hadn’t visited in thirteen years, in his khaki military uniform with a thick brown belt over his jacket and a light khaki tie, his shoes black and shiny and a bright red cap and a red band in his right arm with the letters MP in black. Looking like that, attention was impossibly drawn to him, but he tried to pass discreetly, with his dark hair neatly trimmed short and his face clean-shaved, his large hands stuffed in brown leather gloves, all looking correct and tidy. The weirdest thing of his appearance was perhaps the large luggage bag over his shoulders and the fact that, as he walked into the college, his elegant military style of walking was affected by a slight limping.

S trike found himself lost, and searched for the entry desk, where the secretary there looked at him with wide eyes.

“Good morning,” said Strike with a polite smile, taking off his cap and holding it in his hands, his dark green eyes looking kindly at the middle-aged woman. Now that he was shaven, the large lip scar he’d acquired over his right upper lip in Normandy twelve years previously was more prominent. “I’m Major Cormoran Strike, Royal Military Police. I am looking for a professor here, Doctor Robin Ellacott, she teaches psychology?”

After a moment of just being stunned, the secretary nodded.

“Yes, Sir,” she said nervously. “Second floor, the lift is around the corner. Classroom 225, she finishes in fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you ma’am, have a good day.”

“Ah, Sir? Is she in trouble?” she asked worrisome.

“Oh no,” Strike hurried to clarify, then smiled broadly. “We’re childhood friends, you see? I’ve been gone for a long time and… wanted to surprise her, that’s all. Thank you, again.”

The woman nodded, visibly more relieved, and Strike walked off to the birdcage lifts to the second floor. He nervously checked his watch as he found the door and removed his backpack, quietly slipping into the room as smiling immediately as Robin’s voice resonated, but she was turned and didn’t see him sit on a corner seat, the nearest to the door, at the very last row. He was so nervous he hadn’t been able to wait outside. It was a tiered classroom, a big one, but luckily not that many levels that he wouldn’t be able to see Robin good enough, and for a moment he was transfixed observing the room. He had never attended university, and it was all new for him, a smile growing in his lips as he saw how attentive the students looked, nearly all the seats taken, with their tables full of piles of books, and taking notes quickly.

Robin stood near the teacher’s desk, writing psychological theories on big blackboards. He couldn’t see the details of her, but her voice was already putting him near the point of crying, not having heard her in a decade, and he could see her strawberry blonde hair, now curled at mid-length, a bit like Marilyn Monroe, but longer and prettier in colour, to Strike’s taste, beneath a small hat, and a jacket and skirt outfit with heels, as it was common in middle-upper class ladies of the time. Everyone listened in silence, and so did Strike, hidden behind all the students, trying to make himself harder to see by putting his hands on the table and his chin over them, smiling at the woman he still loved, even after all that time, even when he had no idea what she was talking about.

“All right kids, see you after the holidays,” said Robin at last. “Study hard, party harder, Merry Christmas everyone.” There was a general murmur of giggles and approval as the students grabbed their things and began to stand up to leave. Most of them exited through the door below at the teacher’s level, so that on the way they could pass by the smiling teacher and give her flowers and wish her happy holidays. They all seemed to appreciate her greatly. Strike waited, not moving, and when most of them were climbing down, he put his hat back on, grabbed his backpack with one hand, and began to walk down too, while Robin entertained herself collecting her notes and books into her briefcase, and the last of the students left.

“Doctor Ellacott,” said Strike with a smile, as he neared her. With a start, Robin turned around, and immediately her jaw dropped and her eyes widened and became glassy. “Hello.”

“Cormoran,” she gasped, dropped what she was doing and rushed to him, their bodies colliding in a tight hug. “Cormoran, is it really?”

“It is,” Strike dropped his back and hugged her tightly, inhaling her new perfume, burying his face in her hair, and sinking in the feel of her, still so right against him. “I’m sorry I left for so long.” He murmured into her ear, closing his eyes.

“You’re back, that’s all that matters,” Robin murmured, taking a deep breath to calm her emotion and closing her eyes against his chest. He felt bigger between her arms now, in a healthier weight, not squalid as he’d been, and she could’ve sworn he was also taller. He also felt her taller and fuller, not fat and not too slim, with bigger breasts pressed against his chest and more a woman than a girl. “Let me look at you,” she separated and beamed, a silent tear falling down her cheek as he looked at him upside down. “Look at you! You look so healthy, so grown, so… Major,” she added with a chuckle. “Is that true?”

“It is,” Strike beamed. “And you look absolutely stunning. I wanted to bring you flowers but… London wasn’t so busy and full of public transport in my day, I don’t know anything here any more and didn’t want to be late and miss you.”

“That’s okay, I’ve been given plenty today,” Robin looked at the mountain the students had given her on her desk. “You’re better anyway,” she beamed back at him, his hands in hers. “Does Lucy know you’re here? Nick and Ilsa?”

“No one,” said Strike. “I wanted you to be the first. I have missed you so much when I came here and heard your voice I nearly sobbed like a baby,” he chuckled, caressing her face. “You’re so grown and beautiful… I always knew you’d grow into a really beautiful lady but damn…”

Robin blushed, unable to stop smiling. They’d been writing now and then but post during the Cold War wasn’t very trusted and letters were often brief, with minimum detail, and arriving once a month, if lucky, because everything was registered in Army correspondence. Last she’d heard, two months before, he was planning on returning, but never gave a date.

“Are you back for good now?” asked Robin, not wanting to become too attached if he was leaving the next week.

“Yes,” Strike promised. “I’m the only one of my group who has been on deployment, per own choice, for ten years straight without a break so… I spoke with my superiors and I’ve been accumulating rights to time off so I’m getting up to a year off or less if I get bored sooner and when I come back it’ll be at the London Headquarters in Brixton, providing investigative aid and support in London as a reservist, nor regular officer. And I never plan on leaving London, if they ever want me out of here I’ll sooner quit than leave, that’s my word. From now I go wherever you go, like a creepy shadow.”

Robin snorted a laugh.

“I’d like that. D’you know where to stay? With Lucy?”

“Well Lucy’s got that boyfriend I’ve heard… Nick and Ilsa have a baby correct?” Robin nodded. “And I see no rings,” he added looking at Robin’s hands. “Would it be okay if I stay with you for a bit? I can afford my own place, they have paid me right but is just… I’m like an alien, I need some time to figure out how housing works now in London.”

“You should stay with me all you want,” said Robin. “I’ve got a house all for myself and the neighbours won’t stop judging me for being alone and single at thirty-two. Very sexist times for women, for a change…”

“I’ve noticed. I think you’re the first female professor I’ve seen,” Strike looked at the blackboard and the piles of books on the desk. “Look at you… four times best selling author, doctor, professor… you’ve done bloody marvel for yourself, Robin. I’m so amazed, so proud.”

“I had to keep busy to avoid thinking of you,” Robin smiled sadly and hugged him again. “I can’t believe you’re back. Lucy’s going to flip!” they sniggered, hugging tightly.

“Will you tell me everything I’ve missed?” asked Strike. “You know how cryptic the mail was, I could hardly learn anything from home, it was so frustrating. But the Cold War is serious business, I suppose.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll catch up. Is that all your luggage? Travelling light as always?”

“Yes, straight from the plane,” Strike grinned. “Let me help you with those books.”

Robin packed her briefcase and Strike insisted on carrying the separate bag with her four large best sellers. Then they both walked out.

“I have copies for all these,” said Strike, lifting the books as they walked. “Read them all thrice. You’re such a wonderful writer.”

“Really?” Robin grinned impressed and a little blushed, because they were quite inspired by him and them. “Which one is our favourite?”

“Hard to choose but, I have a top two. The first and the last, because ‘The Fallen’ was impressive for a first novel and it’s my family’s story, right? I’m not so silly, I recognized things. Did Lucy help?” Robin blushed harder and nodded. “It’s so lovely. Tragic and sad but… made me see my life in another light. And ‘In search of the silver lining’ is just… it’s our love story, isn’t it? Loosely based, perhaps?”

“It’s my autobiography so very thickly inspired,” said Robin shyly. “I titled it after the song you used to sing, and it remains the book I’ve sold most copies of, pays my rent every month, that book alone. People’s most favourite, for how often I’m asked to sign a copy.”

“Will you sign mine?”

“Of course.”

Strike grinned next to her, walking together out of the university.

“How do we get to your place?”

“I have a car,” said Robin, briefcase across her chest and back and the flowers in her hands. “I don’t like using it because London’s so bloody contaminated one can hardly breathe next to Masham but…” she shrugged. “When I’m carrying so many things like today it’s a must. I mostly use it to visit Masham or our friends. You’re going to love little Amanda, she’s so beautiful, has Ilsa’s entire face and Nick is always drooling after.” She added with a snigger.

“I bet she’s perfect,” said Strike, following her around.

“How does it feel to be back here?”

“Profoundly strange,” Strike admitted. “It’s odd how the places were bombs fell are so clearly marked. I wonder if it’s the same in Bromley as it was.”

“It is,” said Robin. “That’s why the Herberts and Lucy didn’t stay there long. The Herberts got a new house in Wandsworth, and Lucy and her sweetheart moved to Battersea. I’m in Fulham, my Cousin Katie and Angela are in Lambeth, my Cousin Amelia is an interior designer in Lambeth as well… few of us here. But the Herberts and Lucy told me Bromley’s just… full of ghosts. They didn’t want to be there long, they couldn’t. Too difficult.”

“That’s normal,” Strike nodded. “So does Nick’s maternal family still live in Bromley?”

“Some of them, his cousins left the city. Too much contamination, but in spite of the roughness of London, there’s good work for everybody,” Robin shrugged, and they reached her vehicle. Strike nearly tripped out of astonishment.

“YOU DRIVE A LAND ROVER?!” he shouted out of surprise, and Robin smiled, putting her things in the back of it. “Robin! You’re a posh girl in heels driving this beast!” he laughed, deeply amused.

“1952, a sweetie. I call him Angus, after my poor horse died.”

“Ah, God bless him,” Strike grinned. “This is great. What do the other posh people say?”

“Frown upon, to my deeper amusement,” leaving their things in the back, they sat at the front, Robin driving. “But I’m not posh. Deep inside I’ll always be a farm girl, I only make money because I wrote some good books and spent many years studying. A degree, a master’s, a doctorate… paid most of it with work and scholarships.”

“Like I said, bloody marvel,” Strike beamed at her. While she drove them, she couldn’t help smiling, specially when Strike looked around in wonder and commented on the new things. He was astonished. “So,” he turned back to Robin, nervous again, “seeing someone?”

“No,” replied Robin, eyes on the road. “Not for three, nearly four years now. You?”

“You’re the love of my life Robin, I’ve never even looked at another woman since.”

Robin rolled eyes in disbelief.

“Come on, I won’t be offended. You said it yourself in your letter, we’re free to date other people.”

“I meant it for you, ‘cause I left. I sneaked out of your arms and bed in the middle of the night, packed my bags and vanished,” said Strike, serious now. “I wasn’t going to be more of a jerk even and be mad if you dated other people, I wanted you to be happy at all costs, with or without me. But my heart was always yours, and you know I can go years without sex and it doesn’t fall off.”

R obin stopped at a red light and turned to him, surprised.

“You really never…?”

“No. But I heard you had a couple boyfriends, nobody wanted to mention much because you’d become a name and we knew our letters were being read for security and they didn’t want to accidentally prejudice you somehow. I heard the family didn’t really like them too but I thought… maybe you’d be engaged by now. Didn’t want to ask more in case it was sensitive information.”

Robin nodded slowly.

“I had very frowned upon relationships, Cormoran. That was the problem.”

“Did you…? Like Katie?” He knew that Katie had a best friend, Angela, and now he knew they lived together. He didn’t need to ask what they were up to.

“No, they were men,” said Robin, driving again, towards the west. “Two university professors, doctors as well, I’m boring like that. But the first one was thirty-five while I was twenty-five…”

“Woah.”

“And the second one was only five years older and I was around twenty-nine, so I wasn’t so young and it was better but… then I heard he was married and having an affair with me, so… I left him, sent a letter to his wife and told her what he’d done. Later I heard he’d divorced,” she shrugged. “I hate cheaters. But that was the end of it.”

“D’you have some problem with… normal relationships?” Strike asked half jokingly, nudging her playfully. Robin side smiled.

“I had many suitors, as per usual but…” she shrugged. “After the war I found men wanted me to go back to the house. Not my family, they’re more permissive but outside… Ilsa and Lucy have the same battles, luckily not with their partners, but it’s not well seen for a woman to study, to teach, to be famous writers and live alone and want to work instead of take care of the house alone while their husbands work, specially if they’re mothers. Ilsa gets frown upon every day at work. Lucy’s a teacher, there are more females there but Ilsa and I… surrounded by men, having to prove our worth every single day to judges or lawyers or clients or in my case students and colleagues who think less of us for being women. And we became revolutionaries and… they call them feminists, people who fight to end sexism. Lucy got her boyfriend’s full support, he’s a good guy really, everyone loves him, and he’s a teacher so he’s got culture and understands sexism comes from ignorance. Ilsa, same, she’s got Nick and her family have always made women work hard, just like the men. Mine, they supported me. But my suitors… they see a pretty woman in fancy clothes and they feel threatened. They want to dominate, control, push you back into the kitchen and have you bear their children. The last boyfriend I had… took off his condom mid-sex, I realized after he released only. And it was the end of it. I decided I will not be relegated to the kitchen, and if men have a problem they can fight me. I am a teacher, and a writer, and a doctor and fucking proud of it, not gonna make myself less because a man feels threatened by my success, you know?”

“Sounds like the Robin I know and love,” said Strike softly. “I’m sorry you’ve got to stand that, though. I have very few female colleagues but… I see it with them. Have to jump in sometimes so foolish guys back off. But I don’t think women and men are equals, I think men are more physical, and women have more brains. And most jobs really need people with more brains rather than bigger sack of balls.”

R obin laughed and reached out a hand to squeeze his.

“Thanks for that, Cormoran. Oh, do you want to go to a pub for lunch? You must miss them.”

“Actually… I’m craving a hot bath and pyjamas,” said Strike with half a smile. Robin chuckled.

“And food?”

“If there’s at home…”

“Of course there’s food at home. I have a shower too. And a TV, a phone, a typewriter, a record player… an upright piano,” she added, raising an eyebrow.

“You have a shower and a TV?” Strike’s jaw dropped. Many houses in England still didn’t have bathrooms, according to a study, let alone showers or TVs. Strike hadn’t had one in his life.

“I do get fat pay checks,” Robin smiled. “Welcome to London, Cormoran.”

S trike grinned and leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes, happy.

Chapter Text

Chapter 16: Home sweet home .

Robin lived in a pretty little house in Fulham, detached, with its own little back garden, and two stories. The ground floor was raised a metre from the street’s ground level and accessible through a few steps in the entry, and it contained a kitchen in the back, and a sitting-dining room in the side and front. The stairs were in the other side and accessed the second floor, which had two bedrooms and a bathroom. There was also a little attic for storage , and a little basement which was the laundry room. And it didn’t look posh at all, with a mixture between the farm and a middle-upper class home. Strike was invited to bathe upstairs and he changed in the guest room, which was actually an office with a double bed in the corner surrounded by high bookshelves full of books. Robin had always been an avid reader.

When Strike came downstairs, the house smelled of fish and chips and he had changed out of his uniform, recovering his dressing style from 1930’s and 1940’s farm boy. He wore no hats, exposing his curls, and he recovered his suspenders, put on slacks, and below his suspenders, a short-sleeved t-shirt as underwear shirt, and a simple white shirt rolled to his eyebrows, because Robin had fancy electrical heating in the house. He left the upper buttons of his shirt undone, and put on less fancy shoes, and went to the kitchen, finding Robin cooking. She had also changed out of her work clothes, into overalls with an apron, her hair loose and stripped of decoration, and she was humming while filling two big plates with fried fish and plenty of potatoes. Strike’s stomach gave his presence away and she smiled at him over her shoulder.

“You look like the old you like that,” said Robin.

“Is that bad?”

“No, it’s nostalgic.”

He hugged her from behind, and felt her inhale deeply as he buried his face in her neck. She turned the stove off and cupped his hands over her waist.

“D’you think you can love me again, despite what I’ve done?” he murmured into her neck.

“I never stopped loving you. We all understood, sooner or later, you did what you had to do to survive. We have been proud.”

His lips found the back of her ear and her neck, and he cheek.

“I’ve wanted to come back every single day, but I wasn’t ready and I knew that if I came back too soon and you saw I wasn’t ready, then the time away would’ve been for nothing.”

“I understand,” Robin squeezed his naked hand in hers. “You don’t owe me any explanations. I understand. Now,” she patted his hand and smiled, moving away, “eat. I don’t want you looking squalid ever again.”

Robin cooked like the angels. She showed him, making him laugh of excitement, that his tea came from a ‘Yorkshire Tea’ box, from her farm, as he’d dreamed it would one day be, and she kept refilling his place and his glass of Doom Bar, his local Cornish beer which she drank too, while telling him all he had missed. Lucy had finished her degree with honours, and four years after Strike left, she moved to Bromley, after breaking up with her first boyfriend with whom she had been from 1947, two years. He was a classmate named Greg Meyers, and eventually Lucy had decided she simply wanted to go back to Bromley. There, she had begun working as a teacher of history and literature, and had fallen in love with Christopher Davis, a science teacher a year older, who was single and childless like her. Their relationship had begun late in 1950, and now, six years later, they were growing strong, and had, a couple years previously, moved together into a house in Battersea, closer to his family and away from the ghosts that tormented Lucy in Bromley, and worked in separate schools so that their relationship was more distanced from work, and not gossiped about between their students. In Robin’s opinion, Chris was a good man who had also served during WWII, who had known tragedy and death in his family like Lucy, who was absolutely devoted to her, worshipped her, supported her and admired her, and they appeared to be very deeply in love, but when he had begun talking about marriage, Lucy had said she wouldn’t marry a man her brother hadn’t met yet, and she wouldn’t marry at all, if her brother didn’t walk her down the aisle, so it was good that Strike had returned. To Greg, it was no bother. He’d lost a little sister, and he understood the love of siblings.

N ick and Ilsa had been doing well, and only growing stronger and closer together. They had become aunt and uncle because Ilsa’s siblings had two boys aged five and one, and a three year old girl, Ilsa had a great position as a solicitor in a law firm down-town, and Nick was the lead GP at the Wandsworth surgery, and both were happy and doing great, spending their summers in Cornwall with Ilsa’s family, who were all doing great as well. The big news was the daughter Nick and Ilsa had had, who true to Nick’s word when they were younger, was named Amanda Joyce Herbert after their mothers, Amy for short, and who would turn two years in March.

As for Robin, in 1949 she had graduated in the University of Manchester, and right afterwards she had started a Doctorate in Clinical Psychology at the King’s College of London, where she had moved. That year she’d begun dating one of her professors, the much older Dr Edgar Jones she’d told him about before, secretly, because it was still her professor, and the next year she had published ‘The Fallen’. She had finished her doctorate by 1952, and by then, she was writing her second book, ‘The mind of the soldier’, which had come out the following year, was still living in London, and had started dating a history professor, Dr Ewan Montgomery, of whom she had bad memories after he’d disregarded her safety by releasing inside and had cheated on his wife and betrayed his children through it all. Both boyfriends had lasted only about a year, and in 1953 she had at least published her second book and finished a year long Master’s Degree in War and Psychiatry. She had then begun an annual tradition of travelling the world in summer to give conferences in some of the most acclaimed universities in the States and Europe, about the effects of war in society and the damages beyond the bullets. Strike was only prouder listening to that. Her third Best Seller had come in 1954 when she’d published ‘Northern hospitality’, a novel containing real life stories she had collected of ways in which Yorkshire came together to help during the war, and how kindness, generosity and empathy would be key for the country to move on together. And her final book had come months before and was already an international success translated to French, Spanish, German and Italian. She now worked for the Imperial College, gave conferences and seminaries around the world in the summer, and gave lectures in other universities in the country too, sometimes.

“And the family,” continued Robin per his question as they sat on one of her two sofas with tea and cake after lunch, “they’re more or less okay. My parents are getting a more relaxed life now at the farm, my Dad’s taken over Masham’s surgery so he doesn’t have to travel so much all the time, Stephen and Jenny handle a lot of the farm, and Martin, and they made me an aunt, Stephen and Jenny. Annabel is beautiful, she’s ten now, was born a couple months after you left, her birthday just passed, then came Thomas, who’s seven, and Valerie, who’s four. Beautiful children.”

“Keeping the big family tradition strong,” said Strike filled with amusement. He could sit and hear her talk for hours, and it made his heart feel so big to see how well everybody was doing.

“Yeah,” Robin grinned. “My parents are overjoyed, you can imagine. Martin’s writing a family biography, he doesn’t know if he’ll sell it, but he says is for us. He’s single, most of the time… he’s had some issues, mental health. Tried to kill himself seven years ago.”

“You’re kidding,” Strike scowled, his smile dropping. Robin nodded, biting her lip.

“It’s part of what inspired me to focus on the psychological effects of war so much, because we almost lost him. He cut his veins in his arms, but Dad found him fast enough, and then they called me over. I knew he’d been upset a lot, but had talked with him, thought it was handled, he was seeing a colleague, someone I trust… but it wasn’t enough. After that, I sat down with him in all seriousness, and now he’s truly doing better, we talk a lot, it helps him. But he had issues because he had nightmares, wasn’t sleeping or eating, began hallucinating things.”

“Shit… I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah it’s been tough on him. Now he’s on medication, I oversee it myself,” she nodded. “And Dad looks after him in Masham. They visit here sometimes but usually I go every now and then, never spend too long without visiting. His hallucinations are under control now but… I think maybe you should talk to him when we visit them next, because he’s been saying…” she bit her lip in thought. “That he saw soldiers killing civilians, as in murder, assaulting their wives and children and… terrible stuff, it’s what really makes him lose his head. He’d suppressed the memory for years but I think it eventually just came back, maybe someone triggered, and now it’s all he thinks about. Anyway, I thought maybe the Military Police should investigate, but he’d only talk to you. He’s terrified, to this day.”

“I’ll protect his anonymity.”

“Thank you,” Robin patted his thigh affectionately. “And Jon is a paramedic in York, he’s living with his girlfriend, this lovely girl called Maggie.”

“Woah, a paramedic. Who would’ve thought?”

“Two former nurses and a couple doctors in the family do that to people I suppose,” Robin grinned. “And now we’ve got the NHS, amazing thing.”

“Indeed. What about the others?”

“Well, my paternal grandparents passed away late in the 40s, of age.”

“Aw, pity.”

“Yeah… and Uncle Joseph and Aunt Ciara, Katie’s parents, they’re in Leeds, he’s still an engineer. Katie had to move because… well, Angie. They’ve been together four years and Leeds was too small, people tried to hurt them a few times. My family doesn’t mind she’s with a woman, but they said to her, why don’t you go with your cousins to London? It’s bigger here, they get more privacy and anonymity… lived with me for a while, and now they’re doing great. Katie continued to be a nurse, pays well now, and Angie’s a painter, which doesn’t provide much, but they’re happy, God bless them. Four years together and they’re raising three dogs like they’re babies.”

“Cute,” Strike smiled. “And Katie’s brother Rolf? He must be what, late twenties?”

“Twenty-eight,” Robin nodded, sipping from her tea. “A sales representative in Leeds. Dates sometimes, but nothing serious. And Aunt Sophie and Uncle Corey are in Ripon, he’s a train engine driver, and she’s a teacher. Their kiddo, my cousin Emma, is studying a Master’s Degree, something about animals.”

“And the Evans clan? Still farmers?” asked Strike with interest.

“Yeah, Uncle Jonas and Aunt Isabella are still the main animal caretakers, and their children too, Sean, Lily… they’re happy in Masham, they love it there. And Sean’s engaged! His wedding in in June, so you’ll have to come, she’s Helen, our veterinarian at the farm, came to work a few years after you left and they fell in love.”

“So sweet,” Strike grinned, supporting his elbow on the back of the sofa and his head on his hand to face her fully. Robin was so beautiful he could stare forever. She looked older, but her eyes remained the same blue-grey he adored. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Good,” Robin nodded satisfied. “And Uncle Parker and Aunt Bonnie are in Manchester, she’s retreated to taking care of the not so kids any more, and he’s an engineer, quite successful. Amelia came to London as I told you, she’s dating but nothing serious, and Cassidy and Talek are students.” Talek was twenty, as Teddy would’ve been. “Off to Uni these days. And Aunt Clara and Uncle Frank remain in Masham, but no longer do coal mines, she’s at the house and he’s at the farm, working there. He missed the fresh air.”

“Understandably.”

“Yes… and Avery studies law, so we’ve got another lawyer in the making, and Lisa is also studying. The youngsters.”

“Teddy’s best friends,” Strike nodded slowly. Robin smiled sadly and nodded.

“They leave flowers for him all the time. Every time I visit his grave, it’s full of them.”

“I didn’t know you visited.”

“We all do,” said Robin. “Which leads us to… how are you?” Strike took a deep breath and smiled small.

“I’m okay, and now I mean it. I left suicidal and shattered and now… I got a sense of purpose. I realized, reading your books actually, that I’d been forced to be a caregiver, and it was my role, and once Lucy was independent and Teddy died, I lost it and had to find another one. And the army’s been good to me. It’s different, when you’re in it because you want to, when you get to choose exactly the type of job you want to do,” he explained, and now it was Robin’s turn to sit quietly and listen. “And in the beginning it was hard because I missed everyone and mistrusted the army so badly but… they gave me help, therapy, ‘cause I got decorations and I was good and they wanted me to do better, and I got into antidepressives, which has been good for me. And loads of exercise… they’ve improved military diets too.”

“I see,” she nudged his belly with a smile, and he smiled warmly. “You look much better.”

“Yeah… I feel much better,” Strike nodded. “Even coming and seeing everything so changed and being so out of place… it was time. I helped with the Nuremberg trials, I helped put away people that were really bad, even some of our own, because unfortunately that’s our main role sometimes, Military Police, catching our own jerks, so the others don’t like us much but… I still have had friends on my side, I’ve gotten to return to places like Normandy and healed seeing them not full of death but life, new houses being built… I needed that like I didn’t know. And the sense of community, of all of us having similar nightmares and ghosts and darkness inside of us… it helped. Many of them came to London too, so we’ll stay in touch.”

“Where have you been? Europe? The letters took months, most of the time.”

“Yeah, shit post service during the Cold War I’m afraid,” said Strike. “I travelled. France, Italy, Africa… but for the past three years I’ve been in Germany. I specialised in the Special Investigations Branch for serious crimes like six years ago, and Germany is a big place for that, they got a big base in Mönchengladbach, so I learned Germany and all. The irony of being in a place I hated so much as a youngster surrounded by Germans, befriending Germans…”

“Must have short-circuited you,” she joked. He sniggered.

“It was very healing though. In the last year I worked to specialise in intelligence, and that’s where I’ll return to, not as a SIB, but FIB, Force Intelligence Bureau. Basically I’ll be sitting at a desk analysing intelligence, data, accessing all databases you can imagine… I liked the adventure but my leg, albeit much better thanks to military advances in prosthesis, will thank me. And I like manipulating intelligence during the Cold War, make sure I know what’s going on, you know? When that’s over… that’s when I’ll seriously think of leaving, if I haven’t already, and just being a normal cop or something,” he shrugged. “Still time to decide.”

“Yeah, there’s time,” she had finished her tea and now she caressed his cheek with her warm hand. “It’s weird seeing you in your thirties, you look… fitter. Bigger. But your face’s the same… weird without a beard though.” He smiled.

“Your eyes all the same,” Strike put a hand on her waist gently. “I’ll grow the beard back. I shaved it for the military, they don’t enforce it but… it was easier to stay clean while deployed and having not so good bathrooms. But you know I like my hair in my face in winter.”

Robin smiled, leaning her head against the back of the sofa next to his arm and caressing his chest lazily.

“How’s the depression going?”

“It’s okay,” he replied. “Like I said, medication, exercise and diet, it helps. And the therapists I’ve had were good too. Now I don’t cry just from thinking of Teddy, for five years it was nearly impossible. I miss him, I miss all of them but…” he shrugged. “I’ve accepted the facts as they are. What about us?”

“Us?”

“I know it was hard to… with Matthew, after he was gone for a few years. I’ve been gone ten years, I don’t have big expectations but…” Strike shrugged again, timid. “I love you Robin. I want to be with you. I want to marry you, to do life with you… and of course it’s your pace completely, up to you, I respect that, and I want to respect you more than anything and be understanding with you. And if you don’t want me that way any more, best of friends, you know? I’ll get a house, get back to my own life. But I’m not going to lie to you or play pretend… I came here hoping we could reconnect. Here, not to Lucy, not to Nick and Ilsa, not to Masham or St Mawes, here, to you. And I asked for time off so I could devote myself entirely to rebuilding us, to you, to figuring out what we could be together before I had to divide my attention between you and work again. And you know being with me… I won’t take the condom off without even asking, I won’t cheat on anybody, I won’t push you into the kitchen. You’re a free bird, and I’m not here to force you into any role, I’m here to love you, support you, encourage you, cherish you, push you to your greatness as much as I possibly can for as long as you let me. If you want to travel the world, write books, teach… whatever it is you want, you know I will encourage you. You know I won’t be jealous or possessive or any of that. So… maybe you can think about it?”

R obin stared intently into his eyes. Every word he had said only made the dormant love she felt for him wake up like a dragon sniffing the air and raising at the scent of The Most Desired. He respected her, he valued her, he didn’t wish to change her, and he was at heart the same sweet, generous, loving, romantic man she’d fallen in love for so badly when she was pretty much a kid. And knowing he wasn’t even going to push her to love him, that he was only asking her to think about being together and nothing else, made her feel like he truly put her first and understood things might be difficult for her, having in count how he’d left, and that she might not trust him any more. And suddenly, the decision was easy.

“I don’t need to think about it,” said Robin, moving closer. “You have always been all I wanted, and I think in the back of things… it’s always been you. But if you leave me again, I will find you and chop your balls, mister.”

“And I would have it deserved,” Strike smiled, cupping her face. “May I kiss you?”

“After ten years? You better do so much more than that.”

“Oh, I plan onto,” he smiled into the kiss, both moaning at the old feeling of connection and the familiarity of it, the kiss deepening quickly.

The first round in the sofa he didn’t even last enough to be inside of her because it’d been so long he released hearing her release with his mouth in her, but upstairs in the bedroom they continued making love, well into the night, stopping for a quick dinner in bed before continuing, both thirsty to reacquaint, to memorise the new freckles and moles and the new and familiar bodies, both wanting nothing but to be as physically close as possible.

Their bodies had both changed, from being in their early twenties, too slim from war and stress, to being grown-ups in their early thirties, after a decade of intense exercise and proper eating. Robin was more curvaceous and a little plump, yet still tall and beautiful, and Strike was larger, a tiny plump too, hairier, and far fuller of muscle than Robin remembered. She adored having him squashing her a little as he moved into her and kissed her lovingly, she adored seeing him quiver below her when he mounted her, and to reduce him to a puddle with only her mouth and finally, once they fell asleep, she adored being entangled with him, enveloped by his warmth everywhere, his breath against her neck, not feeling her legs any more . It felt like home.

Chapter Text

C hapter 17: Reconnaissance.

It was remarkable how easily they fell into domesticity, as if he’d never left. In the morning, Robin being on her first day of holiday, they made love again, and he left her sleep in while he mowed the lawn in the garden. They cooked breakfast together, exchanged kisses and sweet nothings, and Robin called Katie, Lucy and the Herberts to invite them over for lunch, as it was Saturday, so the two went shopping to Sainsbury’s. It was strange for Strike to see the supermarket so full. There was still some rationing in place, but lesser, and prices were a bit high, but Robin seemed to have no worries about that, and he had to insist to pay half.

But before they got to cooking, they sat on the sofa, resting, and Robin cradled his head on her lap and stroke his curls. One morning and his face was already full of dark stubble.

“I love you,” she whispered softly, staring adoringly down at him.

“I love you too,” he replied, turning to kiss her hand.

“Christmas is on Tuesday,” Robin commented. “I was planning on going to Masham on Monday for the rest of the holidays but… if you want, we could stay.”

“No,” said Strike. “We should go. Time is precious, we should spend as much of it as we can with our family.”

“Okay,” said Robin. “D’you need some clothes? We could go shopping, I don’t want you to be frozen in Masham. Remember the snow?”

“I do,” Stroke chuckled. “And the birds and the river… and Teddy playing with the animals, and kissing you in the attic…” he caressed her face with his knuckles, transfixed. “Yeah, we should go shopping. I only have my uniforms, a suit and a couple changes of normal clothes, and no real winter clothes, since I was always in uniform. Got some good boots at least.”

“I’ll treat you. It’ll be my Christmas present.”

“Shoot! I haven’t bought anything to anyone!”

“And no one has bought you anything,” Robin leaned to kiss him. “Your presence is more than enough of a gift. Lucy’s going to weep.”

“You didn’t weep.”

“I wept in the inside.”

He snorted a laugh, and then got serious.

“Is Lucy angry at me?”

“I told you no one is.”

“Right but… you sure she’s okay? I left and she was alone and… I’ve always felt guilty.”

“You tell her but look, she wasn’t alone. You know what my parents say when they talk about their children? And I’ve heard them, when guests came home and stuff. They say, we have a son and a daughter in law, who work here, we have two younger sons who are in the farm as well, and another son who’s away in the Military Police. And we have two daughters, a best selling writer, and a teacher in London. And we had a younger child, a boy, who drowned at the beach when he was little. They make no distinction, Cormoran,” he smiled warmly. “We’ve never stopped considering Lucy family, and Teddy, and you. My parents think that… they’re your adoptive parents, they say you three deserve two and three and four sets of parents, and they’re the lucky ones to be one of those. To them, they had five boys and two girls, and to my brothers, they have an extra couple brothers and a sister too. You know how they asked if there was news about you? They’d say, how’s our traveller brother? Or… our younger sister? That’s how Jon talked to his girlfriend about his family, seriously. So she’s always had us.”

“That’s beautiful,” said Strike, deeply touched. “Your family… our family…” he corrected, and she smiled, nodding. “Makes you wonder how we never felt like this was incest.” He joked, and she giggled.

“Once I put that catheter there was no looking back,” she joked, and they laughed openly together.

“Did you always look at me and think ah, there goes that dick!” he continued to joke.

“No! I thought, there goes that impressive phallus! Gotta remain professional!” they laughed harder until their bellies ached and then Strike sat up and kissed her deeply in the mouth, making her lose her breath.

“I thought a lot about your questions regarding pin-up posters while I was gone this time,” he murmured.

“Did you buy one this time around?”

“No,” replied Strike. “I read your books. And every time I read them… slowly… I could hear your voice. I could see your lips moving, your face… I could draw portraits of you then, and collect them. D’you want me to show you?”

Robin smiled softly.

“Yes.”

Strike got up and walked upstairs. Robin heard his footsteps, with the familiar slight limp, one foot sounding slightly heavier than the other but no longer needing a cane, and at last he returned with a thick sketchbook full of drawings of her. They were almost all black and white, almost all made with pencils, some with charcoal, and they were all hyper-realistic, nearly three dimensional, in a way that made Robin stare in awe and utter fascination, wondering how it was even possible. For ten years Strike had painted her as he imagined her. Writing, laughing, being serious… it was like staring at photos of herself, only that in much better quality, and more dimensional. Sometimes he’d only painted her eyes, using colours, spending notably hours just to catch her way of looking at things, to pour a soul into otherwise empty eyes, sometimes he’d drawn her hands, her feet, her profile, and sometimes her body too. Her chest, her naked back and arse, her mouth. To her surprise, although she was the main topic, and she suspected there were many more notebooks like that with more drawings, she wasn’t the only topic. He’d drawn portraits of their friends and family too, of Teddy, often laughing, of Angus, her drawn family pictures, meals outside, her parents, Masham, the view from his window in the farm, her studying, York, the beach. But what truly drew her attention were the portraits, the way he put souls in faces and filled them with expressiveness and feeling.

“Cormoran these are… incredible. Not just sentimentally speaking this… have you thought of opening a gallery?”

“No.”

“You should. You’re an artist, love, and one of the good ones.”

“I have realized that when it comes to art, and music… I pour my heart when it’s about my family. Playing piano and singing together at the farm, composing ‘For Robin’, drawing out of nostalgia… but if I made profit from it, a part of me fears it wouldn’t be the same.”

Robin smiled tenderly at him and nodded.

“Of course. I love these very much… will you paint me some day? In a canvas, and we’ll frame it?”

“I’d love to,” Strike kissed her temple.

“Did you masturbate painting me naked?” she inquired raising an eyebrow. Strike snorted a laugh.

“I masturbated without a need to put my visions in paper, my dear,” said Strike, and she blushed. “When I painted you… I cried.”

“Oh, Cormoran…”

“It wasn’t sad weeping. It was… happy. I felt lucky I had such beautiful things in my mind to paint. And one day I’ll paint our children too, all of you,” Robin smiled and looked away, and something passed through her eyes that made him frown and tense. “I’m sorry darling I assumed… do you not want children?”

“No, is not that…”

“Then what is it?”

“Nothing,” Robin smiled at him, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes, which he fixed in him. “If our relationship progresses well, one day we will marry, have children, and you will paint them, I love that.”

“Robin,” Strike got serious, “I am an investigator, please be honest with me. I can see there’s something off about the topic. Listen if you don’t want children we don’t have to have them, I’m more than happy just being yours.”

“I do want them,” she assured.

“Then why are your eyes so full of pain?”

“They’re not full of nothing!”

“Robin,” he put the book aside and took her hand. “Why do you look so anguished? Please tell me, listen, I will never judge you. If there’s anything wrong, I’ll fix it. If there’s something you don’t want or are afraid of… we’ll never do something you don’t want.”

Her eyes, which appeared troubled, avoided his haze again, her lip trembled and her face filled with tension.

“You can’t fix this,” said Robin, and Strike frowned deeper, caressing her face.

“Tell me what it is,” he said softly. “We’ve never hid things from each other, have we?”

Robin took a deep breath and sighed, turning to him with glassy eyes.

“Cormoran… I’m not sure I can have children. It’s not that… I do have my period, I know I’m fertile is just…” he looked at her concerned. “Things inside could… maybe… potentially… not be in good shape to assure a successful pregnancy. Can’t be sure, but there’s the chance.”

“Why? Did you get an illness?” then, a worse idea passed through his mind. “Did somebody hurt you?” he nearly growled.

“Cormoran… it’s complicated.”

“But you can talk to me.”

“Love…” Robin played with his suspenders absent-mindedly. “If I tell you… you can never say a word, Cormoran. Lucy, Nick and Ilsa have kept my secret for three years, no one else, not even my family, not my own mother, not Katie, no one else is allowed to know, because if word got out, if someone accidentally slipped… I would go to prison, and so would Nick, not to mention he’d lose his career. And I’m talking about life sentences, Cormoran,” she said, her eyes fixed on Strike, glassy and pained. It hurt Strike to see her like that. “I don’t want to burden you with a secret so big, Cormoran, it’s enough that they withstand such burden for life. You’re a law enforcer. Could you know your love and your best friend broke the law and never say to a single soul?”

Strike took a deep breath. He did have a job, a duty, a responsibility, oaths he’d taken… but should a poor father of four steal a piece of bread, he wouldn’t report it. Should a man try to kill his partner and she kill him first, he would protect her. There were laws, Strike had accepted, that shouldn’t exist, ‘sins’ that he could understand, and far too people filling prisons for pity offences. What could Nick and Robin have done, with Ilsa and Lucy’s knowledge and protection, that was so bad and so criminal? Ilsa was a lawyer, surely it couldn’t be so terrible and even if it was… he wouldn’t report his family. He couldn’t.

H e cleared his throat after a moment of thought and nodded slowly.

“Robin, love… I understand it must be great burden you guys are carrying… but it’s related to you, to your health, to our chances of parenthood…” he sighed. “You are my family. We’re not married, and yet I owe myself to you sooner than to any law. I owe faithfulness and loyalty to you, to Lucy, to Ilsa and Nick… you go before the law, all of you. And some laws honestly are stupid or far too severe so… tell me, please. And I promise you won’t have to carry the weight of such secret on your own, you all will have me too. You’ll have my protection, if anybody somehow ever found out… I would protect you. But I need to know what’s about, and then you’ve got my word, I am first yours, then my family’s, then the law’s, and you’ll always be first, and I will protect you. My word.”

S he nodded nervously and bit her lip.

“When uh… well after you I didn’t make the best romantic decisions, as you know, and my family, despite how permissive and loving they always are, they couldn’t hide their disappointment and frustration with what I was doing. That I’d date such an old man, my own teacher, what if people found out? I’d get kicked from University, he’d get kicked out…” Robin shrugged. “I thought, when I dated Ewan, that it’d be different. He was only five years older. He wasn’t my professor. He was a gentleman, he was loving, he was sweet, he was intelligent and handsome, what family wouldn’t be happy with him?”

“Wasn’t he sexist?”

“He wasn’t actually. It was other men who tried to flirt with me,” Robin shrugged it off. “I had no idea he was married. He didn’t wear a ring, he never mentioned a wife or children… when I went to his place it was a small, nondescript flat with no pictures, not much of anything really, he said he was a basic guy, light luggage. But so are you, so I never thought anything about it.”

“He had a flat for his lovers.”

“As it turns out, yes,” said Robin, nodding. “Thing is, only a couple months into our relationship… and I was doing my Master’s in the same University so we had common acquaintances who didn’t know we were together just in case… we had sex. I thought whatever, I’m a grown ass woman. And then I felt him… as I told you, he took off the condom mid-way I realized too late. I had thought just one time wasn’t going to be dangerous, but I got the fucking lottery… and I became pregnant. Do you understand what Nick did?”

It dawned on Strike with horror and he sat back on the sofa, stunned and horrified. Abortion was illegal, so much it was paid with life in prison, and for Nick, being a GP, the consequences would be brutal. That was without mentioning the risks of illegal abortion, how many women died from it day in and day out, and the shame on families in a society where reputation, class, and appearances were everything.

“He helped you abort the child,” Strike murmured. “But why? You could’ve had it, or given it for adoption or… I don’t know…”

“I’d just published my second book. I travelled for it, and as I travelled, I realized my period wouldn’t come down,” Robin explained in a low voice, looking down. “Then there were other… symptoms. And I returned to London and I was afraid of what I might have so I asked Nick to take a look, as a doctor, mortifying part of a friend looking down there aside, right? And he diagnosed me with syphilis. And a pregnancy, a couple months at most, since I’d been away. And he told me that syphilis was very curable with antibiotics, but that it might already have affected the baby. It’s as dangerous as causing miscarriage, stillbirth, problems with the baby’s development, their death short after birth… and I realized Ewan had given me both, so I took the antibiotics and went to Ewan, furious, and he wasn’t in the flat. A new family was, somebody had rented it. I called him, he never answered. I went to our University and requested contact details alleging it was for a paper for the master’s or for a new book, twice best selling by then, people didn’t ask much. I was given an address and when I went… it was a family home. I could see him through the window, kissing his wife, playing with little kids…”

“Fucking bastard.”

“Yeah. And it’s how I understood the gravity of what was happening. Cormoran you’ve been raised a man and you’ve been away, you can’t possibly understand… but a child out of wedlock…” Robin shook her head. “I would’ve lost my reputation, my job, everything I’ve worked so hard for. I didn’t have that much money then, most of what I have has come later, and I couldn’t take care of a child. I thought… give it to my family in Masham, make some story up… but by then my professors, my colleagues, everybody would have seen I was pregnant, and not married, and single, my entire reputation would’ve already been ruined. I had acquired relevance with my books, academics recognized me, if I went to give conferences, to do my life, people saw, rumours would start… I would’ve had to disappear until the baby was born, and I couldn’t, how would I make money? And once the baby was born… I would’ve had to give it away, and even if it was to my family, I wasn’t sure I could. I wasn’t sure they could accept that either. And in any case, when Nick told me the baby might already have syphilis I thought… great, what if I give birth to a really sick child? I still tried one thing. I went to Ewan, waited until he left the house… told him everything. I offered him the child, I had seen how loving and nice he was with his kids, I thought… tell your wife is an orphan. Tell her you found it and adopted it out of compassion and mercy.”

“I’m guessing he didn’t like it?” Strike murmured, already wanting to kill the man with his bare fists.

Robin leaned forward with her chin on her hands, staring sadly at the centre piece on her coffee table.

“A new Ewan came out. He became aggressive, threatening… he slapped me. He said he didn’t have syphilis, he called me a whore, said if I dared to insinuate anything again, if I told anyone what we’d done… that he’d find me and kill me. And I had no proof to go to the police with, and he was a respectable professor, I wasn’t a professor yet, he was an older man, family Dad, I was just a young woman, who were they going to believe? They’d see a respectable man and a whore, that’s society now. So I knew my options. Abort, and I didn’t have enough money to pay posh doctors who would be able to cover it as a miscarriage or something, so it’d have to be backstreet, or have it, and risk it being very ill, stillbirth… and what I’d do with it if it was born was another story, the major problem was how not to have my life ruined during the pregnancy when people realized I was pregnant. I thought even of faking a relationship but… wouldn’t work out. And couldn’t get into a marriage just to cover it. I wouldn’t be allowed to teach. I wouldn’t be the best selling author, Dr Ellacott. I’d be the whore who broke a family fucking a married man and got pregnant, and he might even go and say I gave him syphilis. He was upper class and powerful… I’m a farmer girl who looks posh but it’s not. I wouldn’t have been able to find jobs any more, nobody would buy my books… I didn’t know what to do then.”

“You had no choice.”

“Yeah… I didn’t,” Robin slumped her shoulders.

“How come you told his wife though? You said before…”

“I wrote her an anonymous letter. I said I was pregnant of her husband, that he’d given me syphilis too, and that I was letting her known in case she became ill too, so she’d know. I told her I did not wish to see her husband ever again, I apologized, told her I didn’t know he was married or else I wouldn’t have done it, apologized again, and told her I only warned her for her health, not to cause her pain. I figured he’d come to try and kill me then, but I wasn’t worried. I felt so miserable I thought you know what? All the better. And then he never came. He left the university, his wife left him… I heard he left London. All I could’ve won from him was his help, police wouldn’t have helped me, so if I wasn’t gonna have it I was on my own either way, I figured I’d at least tell the wife so she’d look after her health, that was it.”

Strike placed a hand on her back, and kissed her temple.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“Nick knew, because he’d diagnosed me. We told Ilsa, we sough her legal advise. And she… she knew how screwed I was. She agreed with me than even if I could raise the baby, society wouldn’t be kind in the slightest, I would suffer a lot of prejudice and not just me but the child. She’d had cases in her firm, women that had a child alone for this or that… and Katie had been attacked just for being seen holding Angie’s hand in public, Cormoran. What would they do to this child in school? To me? We worried about our safety, and even if I gave the child for adoption or something… Like I said, people would see me pregnant, the well-known author, and I had just published so the height of a recent best seller hadn’t passed, I was giving interviews and stuff… and then they would see no ring, no partner, suddenly no pregnancy and where’s the child?”

“You don’t have to justify it for me, love. I know society can be very cruel. I know you feared for your well-being, your safety, and that of the child. I know Nick and Ilsa and you must have thought very in deep, and been very desperate to agree to a backstreet abortion, it had to be serious to get a doctor and a lawyer in your corner.”

“It was,” Strike wrapped his arms around her, kissing the top of her head, and she let him comfort her, breathing deeply into his chest.

“How did Lucy become involved?”

“She caught me through a strong wave of morning nausea,” said Robin. “I was throwing my guts out, still with syphilis getting the meds and trying to finish my master’s… she was worried I was overdoing myself, wanted to call a doctor so I told her everything. I told her Nick, Ilsa and I were trying to find safe ways of aborting. Nick wasn’t a specialist and was trying to find a doctor, discreetly, who knew how to do it safely… Lucy said she’d help us cover me up. My publisher wanted to go on book tour as soon as I finished my master’s, weeks away, for two months, so it had to be before or it’d be too late to do it more safely, I was already like two months pregnant then… and if I was too ill to go, for whatever could happen, my publisher might show up here, I’d need a strong cover. Lucy would say she was my sister, pretend she was staying here taking care of me so the publisher wouldn’t see me, we had it all sorted out.”

“Smart.”

“And Nick… well he couldn’t find anyone. Everyone was too scared of losing their jobs and all… but he found someone who was willing to tell him how it could be done more safely, with the medical knowledge of a GP, with less risk of death. And Nick managed to smuggle some sedatives and tools from his surgery and show up here. He wasn’t head doctor then at the surgery, so it took a lot of nerve, nowadays I might have just been able to show up there but then… no chance. He risked a lot for me, I won’t forget that.”

“Bless him,” Strike nodded. He tightened his arms around her. “But if a doctor did it… does Nick think it’d be dangerous for you to be pregnant then?”

“He’s not sure. He said a lot of women get pregnant just fine afterwards, but that he also knew cases of women who just kept miscarrying later. And that he… he’s a GP trained during the war, he doesn’t know so much of obstetrics, he admitted he could make a mistake and hurt me, he’d never done that before. But I had no choice.”

“Was it… did you suffer?” Strike had chills just thinking of the gore stories he’d heard through his job, of backstreet abortions, the dead women, the screams. Thinking of her going through such agony made him feel like throwing up.

“Well… to tell you the truth it was more the build-up than the actual thing. I was super nauseous, to start with, and I’d heard stories, I thought it would be agony. But I trusted Nick. Still, the time until we did it… I was an anguished, anxious wreck full of fear. My surprise was Ilsa and Lucy came along. Ilsa, with her two miscarriages… but they didn’t want me to be alone, Nick had to focus on his task, and they could focus on me. The girls had gotten plastics to cover the bed and floor, leave the least possible trace in case the neighbours watched, and they closed the blinds and the curtains, and poor Nick was anxious as hell. So I was in bed, and he gave me sedatives. He couldn’t get the real good ones, ‘cause he would’ve been caught, but it was enough to be mostly out of it, like half unconscious, so I only felt like a really bad case of period cramps for a couple of weeks. And Ilsa and Lucy held my hand the entire time, and they all took care of me for weeks after, because of the heavy bleeding and the weakness…” Robin explained, murmuring into his chest as he embraced her. “They were really sweet. I did have to start the tour later, my publisher did show up, Lucy, Ilsa and Nick convinced her I was contagious and it was better not to be close to me…” she snorted a dry laugh. “And they helped me hide it from my family as well. I don’t think they’d hate me for it, I just don’t want to put the weight of the secret on them, you know? My father’s a doctor. If word gets out that he knew it, he’ll lose his license. Three saints of friends we got, bless them.”

“I’m so grateful they were there for you like that,” Strike kissed her softly, cupping her cheek. “Can’t help but wonder… if we’d waited for marriage like you intended to, maybe none of this would’ve happened.”

“Don’t carry blames that aren’t yours,” Robin said sweetly. “Don’t give him the luxury.”

T hey stayed hugging for a long time, and Strike checked his watch over Robin’s hair. They still had time before they had to cook lunch for their guests, and there was a question in the back of his head that he was both afraid and needing to ask.

“Love… how…? How does an abortion work? I mean— you don’t have to answer. It’s just that I’ve heard things and I know a lot of people die and I get very gore ideas in my mind like people just stab there and… is it that… gore?”

Robin looked up at him and smiled softly at his confusion.

“It can be, some people do really brutal and dangerous stuff. This was… well there was a lot of blood for days but weeks helped enough. And he didn’t… Nick didn’t stab anything there.” He sighed in utter relief, and she smiled tenderly. “Were you worried he’d been too brutal?”

“I would’ve killed him.”

“No, he wasn’t…” Robin reassured him. “There’s a metallic tool that… well it kinda makes the cervix open. You know the cervix, the… what’s between the vagina and…”

“I know, I know.”

“Okay,” Robin nodded. “With the sedatives I didn’t feel much of it. What hurt were the cramps. The cervix is supposed to be closed, and when it opens, it causes cramps, like provokes labour, or in this case a miscarriage. So I had that… took a couple days… and then Nick… he’d seen this part done with Ilsa when she miscarried, so he could do it with some expertise, he did a dilation and curettage, a standard procedure to clean the area. You sort of have to scrap inside the uterus to make sure it’s clean and everything that was there is gone, so the bleeding stops and everything, and to avoid health complications. Gets the lining of the uterus out, and then it grows back on its own. Supposedly it all went well, it was a more uncomfortable and painful part without the good sedatives but… Nick was pretty satisfied with his job, and after a week a bit bothered, I was all good as new. But if something went wrong and we don’t know, maybe… maybe you and I won’t be able to have children.”

“For all we know I might be infertile, Ted was after World War I,” Strike shrugged, not wanting to make a big deal of it. “If you’re healthy, that’s all that matters Robin. We can adopt, or get a dog, or a horse… or it can just be us. If you’re okay, that’s all that matters.”

Robin grinned looking up at him and kissed him hard, feeling happy and relieved and like a weight had lifted off her shoulders.

“I really hit the jackpot with you, Major.”

“No more than I did with you, my love,” Strike grinned right back at her and kissed her for a long moment, taking her breath away. “Now shall we cook?” he said when they separated to breathe. Robin’s smile grew impossibly and nodded, getting up, knowing whatever came, the love of her life would always be there.

Chapter Text

C hapter 18: Reunion.

There was a long wooden table covered with a Christmas tablecloth which was dark red with the giant geometrical shapes of white snowflakes through a magnifying glass. There were wooden chairs with thin cushions in cases that matched the tablecloth, and nearby, a low cabinet with a mini Christmas tree, the phone, the record player and a framed black and white photograph of all of them at the farm the summer of 1946, before Teddy died. Between the dining and the sitting areas, against opposite walls, were the upright piano and the chimney, over which were several shelves filled with books to the brim, and a couple more photographs. And at the far end, two sofas formed an ‘L’ with the small TV in a corner, and the large window bay illuminated the room and provided a cushioned window bench which also contained books in a corner. The only entrance was a large arch by the chimney, leading to the stairs, the kitchen and the hall, so if you were on the stairs, you could see a bit into the dining area. It was homey, it smelled of Robin’s perfume, and wherever he looked, Strike smiled because it was such a Robin space.

S he’d made spaghetti bolognese with sausages, which he’d never had, and he’d made salad and steak to go with it, and opened a bottle of wine. He liked to cook with Robin, moving around together like a dance with inside music, catching her smiling or humming just because she was in a good mood, and if he passed behind her, stopping to hold her from behind for a minute just because his body seemed to be addicted to her.

“Don’t you ever feel lonely here?” asked Strike as he grabbed cutlery to set the table. “I mean when you were alone.”

“At times, mostly in the beginning, used to a house full of people. But I like the quietness, sitting and reading for hours, listening to the radio… I find it relaxing, after all the hustle of travelling and talking so much for work, to sit quietly and enjoy some silence and me time.”

“I’m so happy you succeeded so big,” he hugged her from behind, closing his eyes while she chopped cheese and pressing his cheek against her ear. “Makes coming home sweeter.”

“Is it home? For you, here?”

“You are home. The house could be anywhere, it’s just brick and wood,” Strike kissed the junction of her neck with her shoulder and set off to set the table.

Robin had put the flowers her students had given her in a glass jar just by the phone, below a giant painting of horses running in a green land, and the y gave off a nice smell. He looked over at the wall clock over the piano, and saw it was only a quarter past eleven, and right then, the doorbell rang and he felt jittery with anticipation. Robin peeked into the room.

“Shall I?” she asked with an excited smile, and he nodded, tucking himself out of view.

H e heard her open the door and smiled to himself as he heard Nick and Ilsa coming. Pleasantries exchanged, the usual how are yous, oh what a cutie towards the baby, that type of things. And after a prudent amount of time, Strike peeked quietly into the hall. They were tucking the baby carriage in a corner, and apparently little Amanda slept there. Strike stared at them for a few seconds, valuing the changes. It was incredible how they’d all gone from squalid war children in their early twenties to grown up adults with grown up bodies and in their case… parents. But some things were the same, like Ilsa’s long, fair hair, now pulled in a semi-bun, and Nick’s sophisticated doctor’s appearance, even if his blonde hair had begun to recede.

“Surprise,” said Strike softly. Nick and Ilsa turned around like they’d been pulled with an invisible rope, and both filled with surprise right away.

“Oh my God!” Ilsa gasped, and rushed to him, crashing in a hug. “Oggy! You’re back!”

“And this time is permanent,” Strike assured, hugging her tightly. Her perfume was familiar, and the feel of her, a little fuller, as it had happened to Robin, only that in Ilsa’s case she was breastfeeding and still a bit more swollen than normal.

“Pinch me,” Nick laughed, staring in disbelief. Then he turned to Robin. “When did he come back?”

“Yesterday morning,” Robin grinned as they both watched the others.

“Oh God… how are you? Let me see… god you look so good!” Ilsa sniggered happily, looking at him properly and squeezing his cheeks. Her glasses were newer, still squared, but her eyes were the same, only brighter, happier.

“You too!” Strike held her at arms length. “Beautiful as ever. I’m very well, you? All good?”

“All good! Well we had a baby, we wrote to you, you got it right?”

“Yeah,” Strike grinned. “Got the picture too. And Nick, my brother, how are you mate?” they hugged too, exchanged the classical pats on the back that men tended to do, as if to draw a line.

“Happier than ever now, Jesus,” Nick hugged him cheerfully.

“Thank you for what you did for Robin, with the abortion,” Strike murmured low into his ear. “Ask me anything and it’s yours.”

Nick smiled and shook his head, patting his shoulder.

“You look like a proper major indeed,” Nick beamed.

“Does Luce know you’re back?” Ilsa asked.

“Nobody knows,” said Strike. “I came straight from the plane to Robin’s class to see her. I wanted to see how University classrooms are, and see her in action! Turns out they let you enter anywhere if you’re in uniform, fascinating.”

Ilsa chuckled, wrapping an arm around him.

“You’ve been very thoroughly missed my friend,” said Ilsa.

“Indeed,” Nick shook his head in disbelief. “Part of me feared we wouldn’t see you again!”

“Bah, don’t be dramatic, like I could stay away from that one so long. There are only that many years a dry spell can last, if you know what I mean,” Strike joked, pointing to Robin with his head, and they laughed. “So! Where’s that famous baby of yours?”

“You mean your god daughter, hopefully,” said Nick. “We were hoping to get her baptised, an Anglican like us.”

“It’ll be my honour mate.”

“Come here, she’s sleeping, but you can hold her later. Poor thing’s teething and sleeps badly sometimes,” Ilsa dragged him to the carriage and Strike peeked to see the young one and a half year old, tucked beneath a blue blanket.

Nick dragged down the hood so they could see better and Strike smiled softly. Amanda was deep asleep with a pacifier in her mouth and a little stuffed rabbit between her chubby hands, and she looked so much like her mother it was unreal, with the chubby cheeks, the longer face, and all the blonde hair in messy waves.

“Reminds you of someone?” asked Nick with amusement.

“Blimey, Ilsa’s miniature,” said Strike, who had known Ilsa as babies, and had pictures in which both were the same age.

“Right?” Nick grinned. “Beautiful, beautiful little girl. Absolutely perfect.” Said the proud father.

“Well with the time she took, she better have been born perfect,” Ilsa commented. “Forty-two weeks, I was ready to get her out myself,” she added towards Strike jokingly. Strike chuckled, adjusting Amanda’s blanket to cover her little feet better.

“What a doll,” commented Robin. “Wanna put her upstairs in my bed Ilsa? We can put a barrier of pillows and she’ll have more peace and quiet.”

“Oh that would be great, ‘cause when Lucy sees this one that’s not gonna be quiet,” Ilsa chuckled, carefully taking Amanda, who didn’t flinch, probably soothed by the motherly smell and familiar feel. “Nick can you take the baby monitor please honey?”

“Sure thing,” Nick grabbed it from the baby bag and pushed the carriage more against the wall to make room, following Ilsa upstairs. Strike smiled at Robin, watching her thoughtfully.

“What’re you thinking?” she asked softly.

“Silver linings,” he replied, and she grinned.

H e was just about to lean to kiss her, when the doorbell rang again and Robin raised her eyebrows excitedly, looking through the peephole before turning to Strike and mouthing ‘Lucy and Chris’, so he moved backwards a little, next to the stairs, and Robin opened the door. There was a moment, while Lucy hugged Robin, that her eyes locked with his, petrifying, and he could almost hear the damned Ivor Novello’s song.

“Stick?” Robin moved aside to hug Christopher, who’d been part of the group for six years and was like family to them, and Lucy stared at him in disbelief, her eyes dampening.

“Hi Luce,” he said softly. “I’m sorry I never said goodbye properly.”

Lucy walked over to him and collapsed in weeping in his arms, and he hugged her tightly, feeling his own eyes become damp at the feel of her, both new and familiar, because she wasn’t his ‘little’ sister any more, not the nineteen year old he’d left behind, but an adult, a teacher, with her own house and everything, but on the other hand, she was his little sister, the fat baby he’d hold when he was three, the annoying toddler who used to steal his toys before she learned about private property, and to sing with him for hours and hours. They’d gone through so much together, she was his only blood relative left, and it somehow felt way more meaningful, this encounter, than all the others, like coming full circle. They had separated roughly in the middle of intense mourning, and they met again ten years later, grown and happy.

Nick and Ilsa descended the stairs quietly and joined Robin and Chris at the door, not wanting to interrupt the siblings’ emotional re-encounter, as they held each other weeping like babies.

“Don’t ever leave again,” Lucy whispered into his shoulder between sniffles.

“Never, ever,” Strike promised, nodding against her own shoulder, rubbing her back lovingly and closing her eyes. “I’m so sorry Luce. I’m so fucking sorry…” he murmured.

“It’s okay,” Lucy tightened her grip around him and laughed-cried. “God you’ve gotten so big I can hardly wrap my arms around you! It’s like Dad!” Strike giggled, rubbing tears off his eyes.

“And you’re so beautiful like Mum,” he kissed her head soundly, repeatedly, and squeezed her tight. They rocked a little, and when at last Lucy separated, her makeup ruined, Strike grinned at her. “You okay?”

“Sod off,” Lucy punched his chest gently, and Strike giggled. “I’m gonna… fuck, freshen up, you guys…” she gestured to her boyfriend. “That’s Christopher.” She raced upstairs and Chris chuckled, moving to stretch Strike’s hand.

He was tall and handsome, with broad shoulders, brown hair swept sideways forming waves, and dark blue eyes, and clean-shaven like Nick, showing a squared jaw. Even with his tidy look of shirt and jacket, Strike could tell that there was fitness underneath.

“Chris, so nice to meet you at last,” said Chris, Lucy’s boyfriend. “How are you?”

“Pretty well, thanks,” Strike smiled, shaking his hand. “So do I hear you’re planning to marry my baby sister?”

“Only if you let us,” Christopher half smiled. “She’s got the ring, but she insists… and you know what, I agree, with the creeps out there these days, it’s only normal that a lady will want a family opinion before committing so much.”

“Helps that I’m an army investigator and if you’ve done something wrong, I will know,” Strike half joked, winking. He took a deep breath and rubbed the tears off his face. “Oh, what a bloody mess.” Chris smiled warmly.

“So when did you come back?”

“Yesterday morning,” replied Strike. “We ambushed you a little.”

“What a lovely surprise, right on time for Christmas. Ah there you are,” Christopher smiled at his girlfriend, who returned from the bathroom upstairs, having fixed the facial mess. She still looked at Strike like he was an alien, but smiled. “All good babe?”

“Very good,” Lucy kissed Strike’s cheek and shook her head at Robin with a smile. “You sneaky thing…” Robin chuckled.

“Guilty as charged. Wait until Mum sees him for Christmas, she’s gonna lose it.”

“I’ll call in advance, I don’t want to give her a heart attack,” said Strike with a chuckle, and nudged his sister. “So show us the ring then?”

“Oh,” Lucy showed him her hand and surely, a sparkly diamond sat there. “Technically, I’ve been engaged two years, but we wanted to wait until you were here before planning anything. I mean at this point I’d just go and grab you by the ear back home but y’know…” Strike smiled broadly, admiring the ring.

“Good taste Chris.”

“It was actually my Dad’s taste, he bought it for my late mother, and since my sister also passed Dad gave it to me to give it to Lucy. She’s very loved in the family,” said Chris happily.

“Sorry about your fam,” said Strike more serious. “But sweet of your Dad.”

“He’s so sweet,” Lucy agreed.

“Okay well I’m not gonna put you through hell considering I will never forget the stress of asking Robin’s father to let me date her so,” Strike put a hand on Christopher’s shoulder and locked eyes with him, suddenly serious. “You can marry my sister, but have this very clear. I am never going to think you’re even remotely good enough for her, because no one’s even remotely good enough for her, so don’t try to charm me with stupid jokes and paternalistic treatment. You can aspire to have me like you, maybe even love you, but my sister will always go first and if you have children, her children will go next, not you, in my scale of affection, and if you ever hurt her, or your offspring, even remotely,” he came a little closer and Chris, who felt amused, made an effort to remain serious. “I will find you, I will chop your legs, and I will hang you by the thumbs from Tower Bridge, so you better spend your life making whichever family you make with her happy because if you fail, or you cheat, you try to pressure her to be a home carer and not have her own dreams and career, or you even raise your tone at her, I will smell her unhappiness no matter where I am, and you’ll wish to be dead. Otherwise, welcome to the family, mate,” he smiled and patted his shoulder.

“Crystal clear,” Chris smiled back. “Shall we open the wine then?”

Strike turned to Lucy with an approval nod, and went inside to gather the wine. Lucy snorted a laugh, rolling eyes, and took her fiancé’s hand, following behind.

Chapter Text

Chapter 19: Stories of the past and present.

After a few minutes they were also joined by Cousin Katie and her girlfriend Angie, because Cousin Amelia had already returned to Yorkshire for the holidays, and Katie and Strike hugged affectionately in re-encounter before he was introduced to Angela, a tall brunette with her hair cut mid-length, warm brown eyes, and a 50s blouse and trousers, who shook his hand excitedly with a warm smile. They sat for lunch in a hustle of overjoy and excitement, chatting and catching up, reunited.

“What a great surprise,” Katie grinned at Strike across the table, pulling her chair in. “I didn’t even know you were planning to return! Last I heard was ‘in a few months’, very vague.”

“I’m afraid mail has been very dissatisfying,” said Strike apologetic. “The world’s a mess and nobody trusts nobody any more, so after I was named Major, my international mail began being read, checking I wasn’t revealing too much, I wasn’t talking with people I shouldn’t be talking with, and making sure if the Russians got a hand in it, there wasn’t any key information, because then I started having access to a lot of stuff. I know they read the mail of pretty much everyone, they weren’t secretive, cited safety reasons…” he shrugged, filling his plate sat between Ilsa and Lucy. “So anyway, I couldn’t give any dates, couldn’t be precise much… everything’s been very vague to everyone’s mail. I mainly wanted to make sure the army wouldn’t show up at your door asking questions.”

“Must be a big deal in the army now, right Stick?” asked Lucy, looking over at her brother. “D’you like it now, what do you do?”

“I’m now a commissioned officer, goes with the rank, and I work for the Special Investigations Branch, which investigates serious crimes and offences, such as a soldier raping a civilian, unbelievable stuff that unfortunately does happen,” explained Strike as they began eating. “So I get paid pretty decently now, which wasn’t always the case, and I’m entrusted with very delicate secret information and things like that. And now because of the Cold War and all the tension, they’re always breathing down my neck to keep things very strictly private, there are a lot of threats of nuclear bombs in one side and another, and nobody wants to be the tosser who accidentally lets the other team get information that prompts them to implode London or something like that. But in the SIB we’re mostly out of conflict, dealing with inside issues, our own soldiers misbehaving, in the beginning helping with Nuremberg a bit too, trying to right the wrongs. I love the part where I get mysteries and get to resolve it, but overall…” he puffed. “We’re in a very shit situation with this Cold War, I don’t think nobody’s doing things right, and I can’t even talk much about it with my superiors because I’d end up getting myself fired. But I like my mates, my friends, the travelling, the offices, the mental challenges, the camaraderie, the respect and authority we’re given… feels nice after being so used for the war so long. And they like me, I got promoted reasonably quickly because they fancied my hard work and distaste for breaks.”

“He liked going back to Normandy, right Cormoran?” commented Robin over her glass of wine. “You told me that?”

“Ah yeah, well to all the places I’d only known as ruins, death and misery really,” Strike nodded. “I found it very healing, to see kids playing where their fathers probably died, houses being built where there was only ruin and blood stains… it’s like they say, life breaks through.”

“So you travelled a lot?” inquired Lucy.

“Before yes,” Strike nodded. “First, around Europe for the Nuremberg trials, then as the Cold War progressed we were sent closer to conflict zones, which was mostly the west, Asia, Africa… but for the past three years I’ve lived in Mönchengladbach, in North Rhine-Westphalia. The army built a base, so I lived there, didn’t have to fly that long to get here.”

“So when did you know you were coming?” asked Nick.

“A week ago,” said Strike. “Well, I’d told my bosses a year back that it was time for me to come home and that in a year’s time, if they didn’t send me to work in London, I’d resign. I had already done what was mandatory by contract so… and we spoke over few months to try and concrete a date I could return. Originally it was going to be September, but a few units were scheduled to return then, so I was asked to stay a bit longer and come back for sure before the end of the year, so I could train the newbies that were coming. I agreed, and a week ago I was told the exact date, I came back with a few mates so they had to organize a few of us. And I decided to surprise.”

“Do you have to come back, Cormoran?” asked Christopher from an extreme of the table.

“No,” replied Strike. “My agreement with my bosses remains that if they try to send me somewhere I disagree, I’ll resign sooner than leaving my family. Another thing would be if I asked to be moved for whatever reason, say Robin and I decided to move somewhere else… but like I said, they like me, want to keep me happy. And so we’ve agreed I can get up to a year off, like a holiday, because usually people who enlist voluntarily and are high ranked officers and not subjected to conscription and stuff, unless we’re at an active war, get time off, deployments don’t tend to last ten years in a row, should be at this point like eight months or a year gone, a month off, things like that, depends on the units. And I’m the only one who hasn’t moved or complained in ten years, so they let me go and then they said if and when I want to return, it’s up to me, so unless I say otherwise I should, in January 1947 enter the London headquarters and instead of working for the SIB, I’ll move to intelligence, which doesn’t require me to travel internationally really, because we investigate, decode and analyse the information we get in British soil and then we send it to wherever it needs to go encrypted or whatever.”

“A year off, you? You’ll be bored as hell and begging for housework in two weeks,” Ilsa joked with a chuckle. Strike smiled back at her.

“Well I’m using the year to spend time with family, charm my girlfriend, that sort of thing.”

“So you two spent yesterday fucking like rabbits, speaking plainly, which is why we didn’t know he was back,” Katie commented turning to her cousin next to her, and Robin blushed, while Strike laughed.

“Do your parents hear that dirty mouth?” Robin joked, but didn’t refute it. “We were catching up!”

“Code for checking out the physical changes,” Lucy joked, and they laughed, Strike and Robin blushing. “Well at least you’re back together right?”

“Yeah,” Strike nodded. “If I leave again she’ll chop my balls off.”

“Damn right, my Dad’s a surgeon, don’t think I don’t know how,” Robin threatened jokingly.

“No girlfriends in Germany then,” said Katie giving him a bit of a warning look.

“To put it plainly, there hasn’t been anyone after Robin, not even a kiss. I wanted to come back every day, it was a health trip,” said Strike. “I know is unconventional, people usually go to therapy but… The army’s done me well. Turns out the Military Police is miles different from being a regular soldier in a battlefield in the middle of one of the worst wars in history.”

“I know, you’ve got such good colour, and is that a belly I feel?” Lucy patted him gently. “It’s amazing how much you look like Ted, the older you get the creepier it is.”

“I do give a vibe, don’t I?” Strike nodded. “I’ve been thinking it myself since I turned thirty and the hair just… is a bit out of control but I haven’t heard complains.”

“If I wanted a hairless chunk of skin, I’d date a snake or a dolphin,” Robin joked, laughing.

“An elephant would be more bed-efficient,” Katie snorted under her breath, and they roared laughing.

“Katie! Oh my God!” Robin laughed, rubbing her eyes. “You’re so dirty, you’re a nurse!”

“And I have to survive, humour keeps me going,” Katie grinned, an arm around her girlfriend.

“By the way, Katie, Robin told me you guys were attacked for being lesbians?” asked Strike with concern.

“Technically, for holding hands in Leeds,” said Katie, and Angela nodding. “Caught us alone one evening, we thought there was nobody… these guys came out of nowhere and would’ve killed us both hadn’t a police car scared them off by pure luck, they had the sirens on going after somewhere else but when they heard then, they thought it was for them. After that my parents pressured us to come here, it’s better here, sometimes. Well at least we’re women, it’s easier for us, but you heard what happened to Alan Turing after all he did for his country, I bet.”

“It was absolutely terrible,” Strike nodded, grim. “So I don’t suppose you can let anybody at work or anything know, right?”

“Absolutely,” replied Angie. “Her family know because everyone’s been so supportive. Our London group of friends like you guys who we know understand and support us, my parents, my brother… but outside of that is top secret. We’d lose our jobs and if too many lesbians let people know… it’ll be a matter of time before they put us in prison like they do with the men.”

Strike frowned, nodding.

“Well if you’re in trouble again or something, call me, yeah? I’ll help.”

“Thanks Cormoran, you’re a sweetie,” Katie smiled, nodding. “We’re more careful now, we’ve gotten used to it. But on the holidays we find the most remote places where we don’t have to hide.”

“And we got the thickest curtains in the world,” Angie snorted a laugh. “We’re in love! And besides, gays existed in medieval times, it was perfectly normal between soldiers, right? We’re not the ones that are committing a crime.”

“The world has a lot of progress to do,” said Christopher with a nod. “But one day, you guys will be able to walk around and kiss in the park all you want and nobody will flinch. You’ll see.”

“Hopefully soon,” added Nick, nodding.

“There were plenty of touchy soldiers in the army,” commented Strike. “I’m fairly sure I’ve seen guys fucking in the dark. Dudes didn’t see a woman in five years, and they were stressed with death looming, it was perfectly normal.”

“There you go,” said Angie satisfactorily.

“I saw them too,” Christopher nodded. “Plenty of them. But we know the law here, plenty of laws are absolutely bollocks, bet Ilsa knows plenty about it.”

“Yes, I spend my days trying to give a free out of jail card to people affected by those,” Ilsa admitted, nodding. “Every time I have to attend a trial on a homosexual I come home spitting fire, as a way of speaking.”

“Yep, not all the tea in the world calms that,” Nick looked fondly at her wife.

“Work’s going well then? You got a surgery for yourself right? And a law firm?” Strike asked, remembering he didn’t know that much of his best friends’ careers.

“Nick was made head of his surgery, fantastic accomplishment,” Ilsa grinned proudly at her husband. “I work at a law firm, I’m now a newbie, not a boss, decent pay, decent amount of respect. Lots of sexism, but luckily those tend to shut up when you make some elegant comment about nicking them in the groin.”

Strike snorted a laugh, nodding.

“That’s the Ilsa I know, unchanged by the decades.”

“Well none of us had the incredible advances of miss here,” Ilsa looked up at Robin, who blushed. “Our pride and joy, she is, changing the world.”

“Oh shush, I didn’t do anything…”

“We’d disagree,” Strike smiled fondly at his girlfriend. “But this is great! People advancing, being happy, getting good careers… it’s the dream.” He stopped himself, thinking of how much his family would’ve loved to see how life was now for them, how the pain had passed, and left space for the light. “And your siblings’ been making tons of babies in Cornwall I heard?”

“Oh yes,” Ilsa chuckled. “My parents are over the moon, you should visit, they’d love to see you. They’re not going to believe me when I tell them how great you seem. I mean you are great, right? Your letter worried us as hell when you left.”

“I’m great,” Strike confirmed. “It was tough in the beginning, not gonna lie. One thing is knowing what you have to do and another is it being easy, but turns out they’ve got some therapists in the military, nothing fancy like Robin but… okay enough. And I painted a lot, explored a lot, got my brain entertained with investigations and things… that helped.”

“I suppose Cormoran, that being surrounded by comrades must be good, right? I mean,” said Christopher, looking over his lunch. “No one understands soldier issues like soldiers do, most of them leave and return to find they’ve got no family left and their only family left is the army, really. There’s a sense of camaraderie quite big, for what I remember experiencing.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” agreed Strike. “It helped a lot. Sometimes we were each other’s best therapists,” he joked. “And then after a few years, smiling wasn’t so bloody hard. Once I made it into the SIB, that was life-changing, I was so absorbed my intrigue and mystery from cases that I couldn’t think of sad things, and at night could sleep like a hibernating bear, it was fantastic. Still, the last year I found a therapist in Germany, because I learned enough German by then, to prepare to return. Our Dad used to say London is a country onto itself, for how fast it changes, and I thought otherwise the shock would be too big and I’d run for the hills. And good thing I did, it was useful. And I devoured every book Robin wrote like three times, even made notes in the margins, left them all worn out.”

“When is the next one Robin?” asked Chris. “I could use with some new books myself.”

“I literally published one few months ago,” said Robin with a smile.

“And we devoured it,” Lucy said.

“It was just like water,” added Katie.

“We read it to each other,” said Nick. “Was supposed to help soothe us to sleep after work, but had us so trapped it just took sleep away.”

“Worth it though,” Ilsa added. Robin rolled eyes and chuckled, happy with their enthusiasm.

“Well I don’t know, I was thinking of taking a few months off writing, let the brain cool off, focus on my classes, rest my fingers from the typewriter.”

“She handwrites them,” Katie told Strike. “And then type-writes them. So like each is written twice.”

“More, I type-write them for my editor, who corrects them, sends it back, I fix them, write them again… takes weeks, or months,” Robin specified. “And I don’t want to be repeating myself using the same ideas to write more books. The brain’s gotta rest and think new thoughts. But this last one is selling particularly well, so I’ll enjoy that and not rush into the next. It will be written eventually, just not yet.”

“Have you seen her lectures? Her students were so invested,” said Strike filled with pride and admiration. “They give her flowers and everything.”

“You know, one of the boys that gave me flowers,” said Robin with amusement. “Back in September tried to bully the hell out of me for being a woman doing that type of job. I write under Dr R. V. Ellacott precisely so people don’t judge by the cover, they only know I’m a woman when they dig in. The boy would interrupt me, disrespect me every chance… I kicked him out of class like ten times, eventually he was failing exams and I was giving him zeros after zeros, because he didn’t bother to study, said classes given by women were lame. Eventually I sat him down alone in my office and I shut him down, very politely, didn’t want scandals, parents coming, nothing. After that he hasn’t missed a minute, his grades picked up, he devoured all my books, and sends me papers he writes now and then doing psychological literary analysis, which is very interesting. And he buys me flowers for Christmas.”

“What the heck did you tell him to get that change?” Ilsa asked.

“Many things,” said Robin. “But in short, it was sort of like… you’re twenty, I couldn’t care less what your opinion is, but fact remains I’ve got a degree, a master’s, a doctorate and four best sellers for which I am asked to give lectures in the best universities across the world, which means I am someone you could learn a hell of a lot from, you’re here to learn, and if you bail because I’m a woman it’s your loss. You won’t learn, you’ll miss out on a huge opportunity, you’ll be so stupid to throw away thousands that your parents put here, you won’t graduate, you won’t finish your studies, you won’t become a psychologist worth nothing because even if you go somewhere else, it’ll be in your record that my big name didn’t let you pass this class, and I’ll still go home and be a successful psychologist while you root in misery, so it’s your call, but after this either you show up and be a student up to my level, or get the hell out of my class, because otherwise I’ll have you reported to the Dean and sit with him and your parents to tell them his son is a sexist, lazy boy who doesn’t work, doesn’t deliver homework, and should therefore be expelled. And if I’m the one fired, I’ve got a pending job offer at Oxford that pays double.”

“Do you really?” Strike asked.

“Oh yeah. Oxford, Cambridge, St Andrews, Harvard, Brown…” Robin nodded, and he whistled in admiration. “They ask me to give lectures every year and every time they end with job offers. The only reason I stick with the Imperial College is because it works better geographically, I like where I live, and it’s close. Sometimes I even walk there. They pay decent, but I’ve got bigger offers whenever I want.”

“Shit Robin,” Strike’s jaw dropped. “That’s bloody incredible, you know? That’s absolutely impressive.” She blushed, nodding.

“Thanks. Still get confused by the other Dr Ellacott sometimes though,” she added with a giggle.

“I would’ve paid real money to see that boy’s face,” said Lucy.

“Went pale, apologized a thousand times. I made him write me a two-hundred pages paper on the psychology behind sexism, and the effects of sexism in sociology with a month’s time limit, told him otherwise I’d be talking to the Dean. He’s a rich, son of politicians, snob, egocentric, self-centred know-it-all, but that changed him,” said Robin. “I had thought he’d have his parents get me fired, but no.”

“Y’know what that reminds me of?” Strike smiled at the memory. “That RAF pilot that came once to your house, when we were dating then, asking you out and saying he felt like he already knew you, self-entitled snob. And you made him sweat cold, funniest night.”

“When?” Lucy asked, pissed she’d missed it.

“Everybody was in bed, we’d come from a stroll,” said Strike, “and only the parents were up.”

“He didn’t even glance at you until I told him you were my boyfriend,” said Robin. “It was infuriating, ghosting you like you were a peasant or something. Even the maid got a second glance.”

“Lioness, that’s what you are,” Lucy snorted a laugh, looking proudly at her. “But speaking of people from the past, I expect you’ll be joining us at dear Sean’s wedding in the summer, right Stick?”

“Sure,” Strike nodded, taking a sip of his beer. “Like I said, family’s my duty now. Specifically,” and he smirked at Robin, “where she goes, I go. If she says we’re moving to Melbourne, then we’re moving to Melbourne, if she says we’ve got a wedding, then we’ve got a wedding. And Sean’s family, and I’m done not showing up for mine.”

H e was rewarded by seven pairs of pleased eyes with satisfactory smiles to match them.

“It’s so romantic,” murmured Angela after a moment of silence, leaning back in her seat, “how love can just hit pause for ten years and then return as if nothing had happened. Even in spire of the pair of trashy boyfriends this one’s had us stand.” She added with a teasing smile.

“It doesn’t hit pause though,” Robin reflected, savouring the wine in her throat.

Chapter Text

Chapter 20: Stories of love and need.

“Did I ever tell you about my first boyfriend Angie?”

T he question popped from Robin’s lips as they settled after a good meal, enjoying dessert lazily, and each other’s company.

“No, I thought it was Corm?”

“No,” Robin shook her head. “My first boyfriend was a little boy named Matthew. He lived in Masham like me, and his father was a RAF pilot, and his family had a lot of money so he had one of the most beautiful houses in Masham, and yet he went to the same little primary school as all of us. He was a year above me, and yet we used to play together all the time in the playground, run around Masham… we connected somehow, always connected. And he became my best friend. But he always wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps and be a pilot, and I wanted to be a policewoman, which he found rather eccentric.”

“A policewoman?” Angela snorted. “That would’ve been a sight for my sore eyes.”

“It would’ve,” agreed Robin, nodded.

“What happened to Matthew?” asked Christopher.

“Well… like most teenagers we reached the age when you start looking for a handsome boy or a beautiful girl to get acquainted with, and as best friends, we naturally set eyes on each other and began to date, before I had turned fifteen. But my older brother, Stephen, had warned me against sex,” she snorted in amusement. “So that was off the question, until marriage I said.”

“So innocent,” Katie smiled softly. “He was quite handsome though, don’t know how you resisted it.”

“To tell you the truth I’ve always been more interested in brains,” Robin shrugged. “Perhaps I could’ve dated a woman even, God knows. And he was sweet and funny then, but later that year the war started, and he was changed. I know his father only spoke of the war at home, his mother was gone, he was the next man of the house as they’d say. His father was ready to jump into a plane and go again, he loves war, to this day. His little sister was put on the care of an aunt, and Matthew was suddenly obsessed with patriotism, with our duty to our country and with nationalism, ideas I found dangerous. And I was infatuated, but not in love, I don’t think. And then he said he was going.”

“He went?” Christopher asked, and Robin nodded.

“Conscription was forcing us both sooner or later, anyway, but he had to wait, because he was only sixteen when the war started. No, he at first stayed with his aunt, but he was already different, all he cared about was the war, all he said was ‘Robin, you don’t get it, I should be out there, protecting our country’. Every time there was a raid he’d throw the newspaper at me and say ‘see? Was I in a plane, I would’ve stopped it’. He was so frustrated. Didn’t help I pointed out his father was in a plane and didn’t stop it. So he swore the minute he turned eighteen and was subjected to conscription he’d go, and his idea was that our supposed love would hold, that I shall go and make myself useful too. To our surprise, his father hadn’t left without telling my parents if the war ran long and Matthew had to go, we should marry in advance, and we found out before Matt’s eighteenth. My parents and his aunt said it’d be perfect, because if I was pregnant I would be safe from conscription, Matthew would make good money and we’d get a house, our own footing, be better off than other people. Neither of us was ready for marriage of course but…” she shrugged. “I managed to convince them our wedding should wait until the war finished, I said it’d be a way to double celebrate, and it was settled. Matthew got me a giant diamond ring and right on his birthday he enlisted. A month later came mine, and I dropped my studies and became a nurse.”

“A nurse?” Angie raised her eyebrows. “I thought you avoided conscription with the farm.”

“No, we joined together,” explained Katie. “Sense of duty. This one dropped off after getting meningitis around the end of the war, decided enough was enough and returned to study. I didn’t, but we started off the same.”

“I’m kind of scared of your curriculum at this point,” Christopher smiled at Robin. “So what happened then? I like story time.”

“Well, the story wasn’t pretty,” Robin shrugged. “I never heard from Matthew, you know how it was, letters were awfully complicated. And Katie and I worked and worked and tended to many injured soldiers, and three years later, in came this one,” she pointed to Strike with her head. “With half a leg so badly wounded that they had to remove it, half dead already he was.”

“My saviour,” Strike smiled warmly at her.

“The surgeon was, I just dealt with the after care. Some horrible infections he got, anyway,” Robin continued, glancing affectionately at Strike for a moment. “I took Cormoran home because the hospitals were overbooked, my family was taking in people, helping them… none stayed so long, there was no need, but Cormoran was passed out for a month, as ill as he got. But I knew in hospital it’d be worse, too much bacteria and illness accumulating, better the fresh air of Masham, the farm… and I saw a photo in his pocket, of his family, so I thought there was a family waiting for news, and I investigated and asked my father to dig in, and my father had many friends in the army one of which recognized the name Strike, for a Lieutenant Cormoran Strike that had died early in the war and served in both of them, and a Sergeant Richard Strike who died in the first war. His father and grandfather, as it turned out.”

“I didn’t know you dug in so deeply,” commented Lucy is astonishment.

“Me neither, never asked,” added Strike, stunned. “Thanks love.”

“I felt it part of the job to be honest. We were supposed to tell the family if we had a dying relative, and we thought it was the case. Eventually I found the only living relatives were Lucy here and their little brother Teddy, who as you know passed tragically when he was still little. And I brought them over to the farm and our friendship began, and eventually Cormoran and I would become the best of friends too. And only a few months later,” Robin continued, “I saw Matthew again, at the hospital. He was moribund, and this time it was for real. The Nazis took his plane down, and he had spinal damage, had no feeling from the neck down.”

“That’s absolutely horrible,” Angie frowned. “I thought it was gonna be a love story.” Robin snorted a dry laugh.

“Yeah well… then I won’t tell you how exactly he died, ‘cause I had to end his suffering, he begged me.”

“You…?”

“It’s not legal, I know that,” Robin shrugged. “No one ever saw, no one ever knew. Only Cormoran will ever know the details. To my Mum, I said he’d just died in my arms, and everyone thought I was just sad. You know what I was really sad about? And angry and all things? The sudden realization that love doesn’t wait, love doesn’t stop and just returns… which is why I was first telling you the story. When I saw him again, when he was dying, there was a moment I didn’t know he was even injured. I was with some other patient and I was called and told my fiancé was there, I thought wicked, he’s back! And I wasn’t elated. I wasn’t excited. Not even for a moment. All I could think of was shit now I gotta marry the guy. It wasn’t like… now Cormoran comes in and you cry and hug him ‘cause you miss him. I didn’t miss Matthew. I dreaded him. And it took writing books and studying all I’ve studied for me to realize many years later that I’d already buried my best friend, the boy I’d fancied and adored, when he became a shadow of himself and was no longer who I knew and adored, but someone else in love with war who I didn’t recognize, so burying Matthew then… it was more like burying a stranger. Cormoran was my best friend then. Cormoran, who never once fancied war, who never once talked endearingly about it, who never once forgot the pain and the victims and the cruel reality, romantic ideas of war aside and buried. So of course we fell in love, we were everyone that was left that hadn’t changed terribly. But it wasn’t put on pause.”

“Then what?” asked Angie, and Robin shrugged.

“What’s not on pause just continues, doesn’t it?”

“But with all due respect and understanding, he still left. Sneaked out during the night,” commented Angie, stunned. “And you just keep loving?” Robin nodded.

“That’s how it works. You know what the difference was? Matthew was dying to go kill Germans. Cormoran was dying not to die. I understood it, hurt, but I understood it was the same man I loved, and that a change was necessary, even a big one. Teddy’s death was huge, and so it had to be the consequence, and it was. Everyone changed. Cormoran left, Lucy went to York and didn’t come back for nearly a year even to say hello, she just studied, we all eventually left somewhere. Because the farm… it wasn’t about the farm. It was about the family in it, and when people began to have to leave, for work, for death, for studies, for personal preferences, there was nothing else for us the next generation. And now that you meet him,” she gestured towards Strike, “is he completely different? Of course, he’s thirty-three, we’re all completely different. But is he the exact same? Somehow yes. So love never pauses, it goes on.”

“So what were Edgar and Ewan?” inquired Katie then, a bit more serious. “’Cause Robin, God knows I love you but even I never understood that little stunt. Ewan had a pass fine… but Edgar? He was bloody old, he was your own professor and he obviously just wanted to fuck you. And your Dad, who’s one of the calmest guys I know, flipped. It’s the one time I’ve seen him lose his shit. I thought well let her be perhaps she’s in love what do we know? But now you tell us it wasn’t even that? You loved Cormoran all along?”

R obin pursed her lips in thought and finished her glass of wine, and Strike stared at her intrigued and flattered all at once.

“You want the truth about Edgar and Ewan?” asked Robin then, giving her cousin a more serious glance.

“Yes please. What’s the point? Your family lost it, you dragged it for what, a year each or so? And it wasn’t even meaningful.”

“Edgar was all brains to begin with,” said Robin. “And he wasn’t that old. Fine, ten years older… that made him thirty-five, which is not much older than Cormoran is today, and he’s not bloody old.”

“He was taking advantage.”

“And I knew, and I was taking advantage. Not to pass his classes, I’m not like that,” added Robin quickly. “But it’s funny, psychologically, he was the man so everyone automatically assumed he was taking advantage of poor Robin, and nobody asked what I was winning. I got a good fuck, and he knew his job in bed, and most importantly, his brains. It was all a matter of intellect, he was someone I admired as a professor, someone whose brain I wanted to absorb. Information is far more of use than money. So I seduced my professor, I shagged him, and not for good grades which I was already getting, but because I wanted to spend countless hours discussing intellectual matters nobody else at the time in University would discuss with a young woman. He was the only one who wasn’t sexist and patronizing there.”

“You shagged him for his brains? Oh dear your father better never know,” said Katie, stunned.

“He won’t. Like I said Katie, I could’ve dated a woman, I’m in for the brains more than nothing else, and the good heart. I was already in love, I knew I wasn’t going to find anyone better than Cormoran, I had his blessing to go be with other people, and I used it to grow as a human being and become a little better. The fact that my first job came after that relationship it’s not coincidence, I wrote it during, and I’ll have you know we didn’t even have a sexual relationship really, we hardly kissed, it was mutual convenience. He got a shag now and then if I felt like it, and I got a psychologist, in my territory, to deal with my mental crap, and I could start a doctorate because he helped this,” she tapped her brain. “Heal. And nobody was duping anyone, I knew he was in for my brains and my body and he knew I was in for his brains and the company, we were perfectly clear. Like I said, he was my psychologist at the time in private, he knew my heart was with Cormoran, even during sex. I could be ashamed and hide it but honestly? I’m tired being shamed for my relationships.”

K atie rolled eyes but smiled small, nodding.

“I never mean to shame you, I tease you, it’s different.”

“That’s why I don’t get angry,” Robin chuckled. “Who was Scotch? Cormoran picked a lovely one.”

“I’ll have one,” Nick said, and Strike and others joined, not Ilsa, who was breastfeeding still and tried to limit her drinking to one glass of alcohol a day, at most.

With the whiskey they moved onto the sofa, and Strike smiled to himself, settled with company he loved.

“If that was Edgar, and now just for gossip,” Angela said after a while, with a sneaky smile, looking at Robin. “Then Ewan? He didn’t seem that smart to me.”

Strike contained his breath because he knew what Robin hid of that story, and Nick went to check Amanda was still sleeping peacefully, probably not trusting his poker face skills. Robin herself became a bit stiff for a moment before smiling politely.

“Ewan was a mistake.”

“A mistake? That’s it?”

“The biggest mistake I’ve ever committed,” Robin elaborated, more serious. “I make mistakes too, I’m only human. But, mistakes are lessons and after we broke-up, I went on a worldwide tour for my second best seller so… don’t think I did too bad.”

“You know for a psychologist, your brain’s a mystery,” commented Katie with a hint of admiration. Robin snorted a laugh.

“I’m not a psychologist, I’m a professor, a writer,” Robin said modestly. “And I’ve needed therapy as much as many of the people who’ve wanted my help. Imagine the irony.”

“That’s why you don’t work as a psychologist?” asked Christopher.

“Yes and no,” replied Robin. “I decided I was no one to help no one for money. I do it as a good gesture, now and then, that’s all.”

“Anybody would be lucky to be your patient,” Strike smiled fondly at her. He liked getting to know her again, them, his place, and the place of other men in her heart in comparison.

“It appears we’re going to have an exciting year, then,” Lucy commented, changing topics. “Christopher and I will start planning our wedding, Sean’s getting married as well and… I suppose you two will be engaged soon as well, right?” she looked excitedly at Robin and Strike, and Robin raised her eyebrows at Strike.

“What do you think?” Robin inquired towards him, sitting together on her sofa. Strike took a sip of his whiskey as he thought about it, then shook his head.

“I think I was very clear to Michael eleven years ago when I requested his permission to date you, and when I told him I intended to marry his daughter at some point, but… it’d be irresponsible to become engaged now just because I returned and ten years is a lot of time, I think. I don’t feel ready to plan a wedding, personally,” he said honestly, not seeing the point on lying in a group of such close friends that were more like family. “Eventually though… yeah. But why rush it? Marriage is not a destination, after all. It’s a formality.”

“Agreed,” Robin nodded.

“Works better for us,” said Nick, returning with his daughter in his arms, smiling. “Can only afford so many wedding presents in one year, right?”

Strike sniggered, nodding and Nick brought his daughter over.

“Oh, was she crying and we didn’t hear her?” Ilsa asked, seeing the girl was awake.

“Not at all, she was just staring at her surroundings. Wanna hold her Cormoran?” asked Nick. “After all you’re the godfather, once we can baptise her.”

With a smile, Strike nodded and he was carefully given the little girl, which was placed in his arms and contemplated him with big blue eyes, without bothering in the slightest. The last time he’d held a child so young had been Teddy, which was nearly twenty years before, so it was somewhat both odd and familiar.

“I see someone’s inherited the Herbert Zen,” Strike joked, looking down at the little girl. “Hello Amanda… she’s truly beautiful, you guys.”

“And wickedly smart, like her mother,” Nick grinned proudly. “Say hi to Uncle Oggy, sweetie. You’ve gone shy now?”

“She inherits the good and the bad,” Ilsa snorted a laugh, looking at them.

Next to Strike, Robin contemplated him looking down at the baby snuggled in his arms, both holding each other’s gaze as if it was a competition. She thought he could be a great father one day, but not quite yet, with Teddy’s death under his watch still feeling, probably, too heavy on his shoulders to bear the responsibility of another human being once more.

“She looks a bit like you did,” Strike commented, looking up at Lucy, who looked surprised. “Only a bit. The eyes and the chubby pink cheeks, but hey, Dad had us giving Mum all the bacon when she was pregnant, so no surprise there.”

He laughed as he joked and Lucy feigned offence, but laughed too.

“Hey Stick, you’ll walk me to the altar, won’t you?” she asked Cormoran then. “And you’ll be our best man, right?”

“That’s a wonderful idea!” Christopher supported with a grin. “Our guest of honour.”

“The guest of honour will be the bride, she’s the only one allowed late,” joked Strike, watching as Amanda examined his suspenders. “But yes, sure. Anything you need me to do… did you really not plan a thing in advance?”

“We’ve shared ideas, but that’s all,” Chris explained. “Like… we both want a summer wedding so maybe there won’t be time to plan for this year, but for the next. We were thinking of Cornwall, actually, sunny and warm.”

“And the church there is little and beautiful,” added Lucy. “We don’t have that many people to invite anyway, mostly Ellacotts. You won’t be busy with work in the summer, right Corm?”

“That’s up to our country to decide, but you tell me the date as fast as you’ve got it, and I will make sure nothing stops me from being there,” Strike reassured her. “Rest assured, Lucy, you will have your dream wedding, and I will not miss it.”

“Well, let’s hope the Cold War doesn’t implode then, and forces you to go,” Lucy said, not wanting to get too ahead of herself.

“It won’t force me anywhere, I’m telling you I will be there.”

“What if they throw another nuclear bomb?” Katie wondered. “That’s the fear now, right? That someone will push the button.”

“If they were going to, they would have already, but either they can’t and are lying about their power,” said Strike confidently, “or it’s too inconvenient. Sometimes nuclear weapons are far more powerful as a threat than nothing else. And even if they did drop it… not my job. I already gave eleven years of my life to war, that’s over with. Now I’m gonna be… what do you say, Amanda?” he bounced her softly, as she watched him intently. “Baby entertainer? Sitter? Piano man? Trophy boyfriend? Or all of it.” He smiled, tickling Amanda, who squirmed, and chuckled, letting a little giggle out. “All I beg of you, Lucy is please, please, don’t drag me dress shopping.” He added to Lucy, who laughed, shaking her head.

“There won’t be dress shopping, Christopher’s aunt is a dressmaker, she offered,” said Lucy happily.

“Well, anything you need just ask,” said Robin, smiling at who one day could be her sister in law. “Right Cormoran?”

“Absolutely.”

“I must go now, I’m so sorry but… kinda have last minute work stuff to hurry between today and tomorrow before going to Yorkshire,” said Robin, getting up.

Confused, Strike frowned.

“Really? You didn’t tell me anything.”

“Well I realized this morning that with your sudden arrival I’d forgotten to care for my schedule,” Robin looked profoundly apologetic. “It’s just a patient today, you know, pro bono, a veteran who’s really struggling and I promised to see before Christmas, and another tomorrow morning, should be back tonight though.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t think you might be busy, hogging all the attention,” Strike passed the child to her parents and stood up too, as Robin bid farewell to the others. “I should’ve been more mindful.”

“Darling, not at all,” Robin smiled warmly at him. “I suggested this lunch for you to be with your family, we have plenty of time, we live together now, right? So enjoy the day, be with your people, explore London, whatever you like, and tonight we can have dinner somewhere nice,” she kissed him longingly. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. And see you all on Christmas, right?”

“Of course, lovely to see you as always Robin,” Ilsa hugged her goodbye.

“Be a good host for me dear, and if you go out, lock the door, there are keys in my bedside cabinet,” Robin winked at Strike, gave him a last breathtaking kiss, and hurried out of the house, grabbing her coat and purse on the way.

Strike flopped back on the sofa with a puzzled expression and Nick laughed, flopping on the sofa next to him and clinking their glasses of whiskey.

“You’ll be marrying a very busy doctor one day, you better get used to it my friend.”

“Jesus,” Strike nodded, taking a sip of his own whiskey. “Some things never change.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 21: All I need.

Hours later, when Robin finally returned home and it was just her and Strike, the couple decided to go out so Strike could get reacquainted with London, having dinner in a classy restaurant and then having a stroll around Hyde Park. Strike still had a bit of a limp, but he liked walking with Robin, he liked Hyde Park, and he liked seeing what London had become, even if he didn’t approve all of it. In the 50s, with the rise of coal-powered heating systems and chimneys, London had become densely contaminated and cloudy, and even as rainy as it was, there wasn’t enough water to clean the atmosphere it had acquired. As they walked, Robin told him about the Great Fog, which had put them through great panic earlier in the decade, through days when nobody really dared to go out into the street, even Nick and Ilsa.

“So did you enjoy today?” Robin asked Strike, walking hand in hand. “They didn’t drill you too much with army questions, did they?”

“No, it was fantastic,” said Strike. “And after you and they left, I even went and did some shopping, clothes and shoes for Masham. Unpacked in your room using the empty drawers and empty closet space you left me.”

“That’s excellent. It’s now your house and your bedroom too, I want you to make yourself comfortable, anything you want to change… just let me know and we’ll do it.”

“It’s perfect as it is, because it’s ours. And since it’s ours, I expect you’ll let me pay half the house expenses off my salary, right?”

“Of course, anything,” Robin kissed his cheek happily. “I’ve only known us living together, I know we make a great pair, great housemates too.”

They had reached St James’s, and Strike looked up at Buckingham Palace in the far distance. For some reason however unrelated to the sight, and, he suspected, more related to his relationship to Robin, Queen Elizabeth II and the Duke of Edinburgh popped into his mind. The Queen and Robin both liked horses and Land Rovers, they were both skilled drivers, they had both contributed actively in World War II, and in fact, Robin was two years older than the Queen, who’d been born a year ahead of Lucy. They both had similar characters, Strike thought, women of power who wanted to control their own lives, one couldn’t, another could.

“Robin,” said Strike after a while walking in silence, squeezing her hand softly. The night was cold, but their long coats made it better, “you’re still the same farm girl you always were, right? Underneath all the titles and the growing fame.”

“Of course. I’ll always be Robin, the doctor’s daughter.”

“And I will always be Oggy, a metallurgic in a vehicle factory turned Air Force factory,” said Strike. “It doesn’t matter if my father was a policeman, it doesn’t matter if both he, my uncles and my grandfathers had military ranks… they were forced to military service, none of them went happily. And even when I was the only one who later went willingly… it was to the Military Police, not to be a fancy pilot, a marine… just to be a policeman and do good things and be better with my mental health.”

“I know that,” Robin smiled warmly at him. “Your heart is still in the right place.”

“It is,” Strike nodded, as they strolled by the Serpentine. “I am proud of being a Major, though. And I am proud of my job… but purely ‘cause it took me ten very hard years to get here. And just ‘cause I sometimes go to fancy military events like balls and dinners… in my heart, I’m still just Oggy. A factory boy, a farm boy, the music teacher and gardener in a small little town… the only people for whom my rank must mean something are my colleagues, here I’m just… your boyfriend, and proudly so.”

“Why are you telling me all of this now Cormoran?” asked Robin, stopping, suddenly confused. Strike stopped walking too and turned to her.

“When you were talking about those men, Edgar, Ewan… I know they mean nothing any more, I am not jealous love. But you admitted to only being with them for their brains, for what you could get in return, which sounds most unlike the Robin I knew—,”

“I’m not with you for your rank, it was never the case. I was never with you for anything you had to offer aside from your persona, and I don’t think such way of you either,” Robin reassured him. “Is that what you’re afraid of?”

“No,” said Strike, and sighed. “It’s just that now… we can’t pretend nothing’s changed, it’s been ten years, everything is different and I think for good. I think you have become an incredibly successful lady and I’m so proud of you but… I worry I still don’t have enough to offer you. I wasn’t worrying before, but after you admitted what got you with those men… I worry now. I’m not an intellectual. I went to school intermittently when the war allowed, I was tutored sporadically by teachers who weren’t of Universities, and the only time I’ve entered a University was yesterday to see you. I know how to read or write which I know is more than many people our generation can say, I know music by instinct not studying it, I know basic Math, most basic Science, Logic and Art… but all I excel at I do for instinct and good genes, not ‘cause I went to fancy schools or nothing like that. I’m not an intellectual, I wouldn’t say. And I’ve never cared, because I’ve been a good man, I’ve had great house-care skills like cooking, sewing or gardening, I’ve learned metallurgy and farming, I’ve been incredible at my job and a skilled musician and artist… I’m not an insecure man.”

“Cormoran I know all of it, d’you think I care? You know all the things I don’t. I’m not an intellectual woman either, I’m an expert in psychology, bring me to Music, Art, Math, History, Politics… and I’m useless. I went to Masham’s little school, I’m not different than you. We complement each other knowing things the other might not. I’m just a psychology nerd, big deal,” Robin shrugged.

“So you feed off people who are intellectuals. Those doctors, people who probably attended places like Eton, isn’t it? Is that something you are going to need Robin? That’s my concern. A good shag and brains, is that what you want now, have you become someone who’s just going to want that? No matter their age, no matter how politically incorrect it is… I need to know.”

R obin puffed, shaking her head in disbelief, and looked away for a moment.

“I never thought you’d be at me too about them, Cormoran.”

“Nobody’s at you.” But she raised eyebrows in disbelief.

“Seriously? Because it’s been years and it’s all I hear. My parents, my brothers, Ilsa and Lucy more quietly, Katie… everybody has an opinion. Now I need to prove myself to you too.”

“You know for a psychologist you’re quite oblivious.”

“Am I now?”

“Yes,” Strike sighed in frustration, walking closer. “Robin look at me,” reluctantly, Robin did so. “People are worried, not pissed. D’you seriously think all of those questions Katie had about your exes were a matter of public shame or gossip? You are her favourite person in the world next to Angela, you’re her oldest friend and confidant, and the way she was asking you… she was trying to mask it as friendly teasing, but she was just hoping in front of me, surrounded by people who love you and care about you, you’d come forth and tell the truth.”

“I did tell the truth.”

“Half of it.”

“I can’t tell her about…”

“I’m not referring to that. Robin, your family is worried you’re not the woman they knew, meaning, none of us could believe our ears hearing you’d first date someone who is your own teacher, who’s a decade your eldest, our of academic advantage, even if it wasn’t for your grades, how do you think it looked like publicly? You’re the one that’s told me how judgemental society is, you’ve got a reputation, and it’s most unlike you to go and engage on romances like that, which aren’t even romances! You wanted to wait until marriage and next thing you go and just… sell your body for knowledge?”

“For psychological services!”

“You could afford psychologists if you needed them, that had nothing to do with economy. Katie asked, and for the silence of others… it made me think they’d tried to understand before too, and couldn’t. And that maybe they’re hoping I can restore whatever of the old you is left. So I am asking, should I be concerned you’re going to use me for the sex and the romance and then crave someone else’s company for intellect, even if it means using your beauty to gather it?”

“I can’t believe you’d even ask!”

“Me neither! But in the light of recent circumstances, I have to. If you were capable of doing what you admit to have done, while admittedly being in love with me… I need to know what to expect now I’m here.”

R obin glared at him, which was new, as they hadn’t ever really fought before, and set her jaw before answering, which seemed to take her great physical and mental effort.

“You left, Lucy left, Nick and Ilsa had their life here, my cousins went on with their lives, my fiancé was dead. I don’t know if you ever stopped to consider I’d run out of friends,” Robin murmured. “Everyone I loved or cared about outside my family were either in other cities or countries, or in the military deployed, or fellow nurses I could never see again because I wasn’t a nurse any more and schedules were too complicated. And I was a lone psychology student in Manchester, and I know I don’t get to complain—,”

“You do,” Strike corrected. “I’m sure the family would’ve appreciated you admitting you were just lonely and making mistakes out of it, rather than seeming proud of… selling your body.”

S he took a deep breath and shrugged.

“I didn’t feel I could. Lucy had lost her family, Nick and Ilsa had gone through tremendous loss and hardship as well, Stephen and Martin fresh out the army, Martin’s mental health was inexistent, my family was working hard and had their own issues… I was the privileged and spoilt one, I didn’t feel like I could complain. I never have felt.” She admitted.

“It’s not a suffering competition and the one with most baggage gets to complain, or do you tell your patients they’re being silly if they’re traumatised by small things?” Strike frowned, disconcerted. “Love, you’ve suffered too, everyone would’ve understood you needing a shoulder to cry on, or a friend to listen…”

“They had enough on their own.”

“So you took your burden alone,” Robin nodded, looking down. “And then you went to a university full of men who undermined you, and the only way you could get them to shut up and listen was using precisely what they undermined you for, your gender. Your body.” He came to realize, slowly, and she nodded again, embarrassed.

“I’m not proud but… I’ve felt terribly alone, Cormoran. People act so proud of me, as if I travelled so much and did so much stuff alone and lived alone because I liked it, but I never did. I’ve been raised in a big family, being alone is completely unnatural to me, but I was left no choice. I loved my studies, I wanted to learn, but nobody wanted to teach me. In Manchester it was okay but once I began my doctorate and came to London… I went to class, and I hardly had female classmates in my field of study, because at least here it wasn’t popular amongst women, or most of them couldn’t afford to study in that Uni, and… the teachers didn’t give me turn to speak. They didn’t take my opinions and questions seriously, they laughed and mocked me… and then I realized some of them, Edgar during my doctorate and Ewan during my master’s, both in the same King’s College, looked at my body. I wasn’t proud but… they weren’t hard to look at and if I wore a bit lighter clothes, they’d let me speak, they’d listen to me… and if I invited them to my room, or a hotel… they had their pleasure and then I could take advantage of their cheerfulness post sex and get them to talk to me about psychology, about my studies, the things that interested me, homework, get them to answer the questions all my teachers would ignore during class or mock me about… and I got to learn. Learn enough to get my doctorate and my master’s. I couldn’t learn if all my teachers pretended I was just furniture. D’you think I liked having sex with any of them? No. But then I could learn. And… it was essential for my education. And it also gave me an opportunity, in the wake of my lack of friendships and colleagues that’d take me seriously, to talk for hours with someone and miss you a little less, ‘cause once they left I was back in my own lonely life, unable to make friends in my studies. Everyone just saw me as a farmer girl and a woman, Cormoran… they laughed at my face. If I hadn’t started writing and using my body to my advantage instead of letting them turn it into a disadvantage… I would be nobody. I’m as disappointed as my family, but I had to survive. Surely you understand that.”

S trike sighed in deep sadness. He knew most people couldn’t afford university, let alone doctorates and masters, he imagined she’d have to endure the mockery and knew she specifically wrote under a name that didn’t immediately gave her gender away, but he expected better from professors. And now, he just wanted to kill them both.

“Robin…”

“To answer your question, it was over after what happened with the baby. I learned my lesson, and rather stopped studying my passion than see myself in similar positions again,” said Robin. “And I’m in love with you and committed to you in heart, body and soul, marriage or not, I don’t want for anybody else to get my affections like you do. I’m not a cheater or a whore. And I don’t need anything from you aside from our friendship, our love, and everything we can be together, Cormoran, I don’t need psychology. I need you. You’re the only one who really makes me happy, not just in bed but in every part of life… your big, good, pure heart, your humour, your conversation… you cannot be compared with any doctor. You’re another league, a better one. And I know it seems ironic that a psychologist fucked up so much out of mental health shit in part but… psychologists make the worst patients, and if I was so good as a counsellor, I wouldn’t offer my services for free.”

“Jesus Robin…” Strike pulled her into his arms and hugged her tightly, burying his face in the crook of her neck. “We’re here for you. You get to complain, you get to suffer and seek help, you get you confide on us, all of us, regardless of our own baggage, my love. You’re not alone, with or without me, and you should never…” he kissed the top of her head. “Never bury stuff so much. Let alone from those who only want to help you.”

R obin buried her face in his chest and hugged him back.

“I’ve only ever known true happiness after the war in you, Cormoran. Only you.”

“Then you’ll have me. All of me. Let’s go home.”

Once at the house, Strike felt it was his absolute duty to make Robin feel good, and so he stripped her naked in what had now become their bedroom, and began kissing her unhurriedly, deep and slow, dragging his lips down her neck and shoulders, her hands, her breasts, and kneeling, attacking her warmth with his mouth, kissing her everywhere that had suffered pain. He lied her in bed, took off his prosthesis, and focused on providing her pressure, on cherishing her, of kissing every millimetre of skin, every freckle, every mole, every stretch mark, every bit of her slowly and longingly, as he’d longed to do for years. Only under her insistence did he finally strip off his clothes and prosthesis, and knelt, pulled her thighs over his hips, and pushing into her with his hands on her hips, watching her moan softly, her eyes closed and her back arching as he stared at himself disappearing between her wettest lips.

“I love you,” he murmured, moving in and out slowly. “All of you.”

“Cormoran…” she moaned, her eyelids parting to see him. “Cormoran…”

“Robin,” he kissed her belly, and up to her breasts as he picked his pace, moving his hand down to fondle her. “You feel so good.”

“Come here,” Robin dragged him up to kiss him hard. “My love…” she threw her head back, gasping as reached a particularly deep spot, kissing her neck. “Will you be with me forever?” she murmured, the bed rocking against the wall. Strike stared into her beautiful eyes, caressing her cheek.

“Forever and a day.”

H ours later, Strike found himself awake with an arm squeezed under Robin and another wrapped over her, his face against her freckled back as she slept peacefully. He was now conscious of just how much pain and suffering Robin must’ve undergone alone, and how fixing things might not be as easy as just coming home. They had to get used to who each other had become, to what their life could be like, in order to decide whether they could start a marriage together.

Chapter Text

Chapter 22: The old farm.

Sunday afternoon saw Strike and Robin packing hurriedly for the week and a half they were going to spend in Masham for the holidays. Once they returned, they had committed to opening a joint bank account and have all the household payments made with it, to really share expenses. Now, Strike was filling his brand new suitcases with brand new clothes for the winter in the north, specially jumpers, while Robin hurriedly moving around filling her suitcases too plus making sure the house was ready to be left alone for the length of time they’d be gone, the windows properly locked, the blinds halfway down, the doors in good shape and closed, nothing left outside in the backyard. Strike had called the farm in the morning so they’d know he was home and coming for Christmas, and wouldn’t freak out.

“You’ve got everything?” asked Robin, checking her agenda to make sure she’d checked all she had to do.

“Yes, you’re ready?”

“Yes,” Robin shoved her agenda in her purse and grabbed her stuff, and Strike his. “Let’s go, we’ll spend the night in Nottingham or Sheffield if it gets too late, and be at the farm before lunch.”

I t started raining like the sky was crumbling down just as they exited London in the Land Rover, the sky roaring above them. The others were also going up North on Sunday, but they might have left earlier. They couldn’t, with Robin having one patient in the morning, but they couldn’t rush it either because Strike, with his prosthesis, couldn’t share the drive. He didn’t even know how to drive, as his family had never had a vehicle and by the time he’d been old enough to perhaps learn to drive at the farm and acquire a license, he was already an amputee, but Robin, who loved driving, didn’t mind handling it alone. In the meantime, Strike drank tea from a thermos, eat biscuits, and provided guidance using the maps, although Robin had done the drive alone so many times she didn’t really need any help.

“We could move out of London,” Strike suggested suddenly, after a long period of quietness.

“Leave London?”

“I mean… when we return after the holidays we’re going to start building a life together, right? As a team. And I want you to have everything you could possibly want so… I’m just saying I’m at your disposition, Robin. If you wanted to, we could find somewhere greener, like your home-town, get a house with a big garden, get away from contamination? You could even accept the position in Oxford and we could move there.”

“But I’m happy where I am, I don’t want to go anywhere.”

“That’s good, I like it too. I just want you to know whatever you want… I’ll give it to you. Anything.”

Robin smiled warmly and moved a hand to squeeze his.

“Thanks Cormoran, but I already have everything. Now you’re here… I’ve got the world.”

Strike brought her hand to his lips and kissed it fondly.

“Speaking of having the world… what kind of engagement ring would you like?”

“What?” Robin was taken by surprise by the sudden question, as she set in route for Nottingham through the raging storm.

“I’ve always thought it was weird for men, who hardly know a thing about women’s taste, to choose in secret the engagement ring their bride’s gonna wear forever, I mean what if you choose something absolutely ugly?” Strike chuckled. “So… I want you to have something you like. I wouldn’t propose now, it’s for the future, you know. In case I’m strolling back and suddenly see the type of ring you’d love, so I can buy it and save it for the occasion.”

“Oh, Cormoran, you’re so sweet…” Robin smiled to herself, eyes on the road. “I’ve never thought about it but I imagine something light, durable, that doesn’t lose its shape easily… something that doesn’t damage easily either because I travel so much and tend to the garden, wash the dishes… I wouldn’t want it to suffer with all the hand work. I don’t want you to spend a lot of money, preferably none, but if you must… not too much. Nothing too ostentatious, something meaningful but discreet, right? That I’m not afraid to wear when I’m walking around at night, comfort above everything too, I don’t want to have to be taking it off all the time because it’s so big I can’t even type comfortably with it. Tiny it’s okay. Humble is okay. I don’t need anything fancy. Something like us, you know? Without any need for red carpet.”

“Gold, silver?”

“You’re the knowledgeable one, having worked at the factory, I don’t know anything about that sweetie. All I want is for it to last and be resistant, no need for it to shine bright. Something that when I look at it, reminds me of the best guy in the world and how sweet he is.”

“Got it,” Strike nodded. “And would that be a diamond or… an emerald, perhaps?”

“A tiny little transparent diamond?”

S trike chuckled and nodded.

“If that’s what my bride wants that’s what she gets.”

“Just out of curiosity…” Robin commented. “About how much money have you got? Because you’re discussing diamonds easily.”

“Well considering I haven’t enjoyed a day off in ten years, that I’m decorated, been a major for several days and haven’t really spent much because I was living off military accommodations… about several hundred… thousand… pounds.”

“Hundreds of thousands?”

“Yeah,” Strike nodded. “Turns out you save a lot of money when you live off a backpack. I’m not a millionaire or anything, just… very frugal.”

“Always were,” said Robin, amused and impressed. “That’s a lot of money Cormoran. You must be proud.” Strike shrugged.

“We’re paid shit Robin, it’s just that I hardly ever spend, in ten years, aside from sending Lucy money monthly until she turned twenty-five and told me it was okay to stop. How much do you have?”

“Pff not nearly as much, I’m afraid I will be the trophy partner here,” Robin joked with a chuckle. “About… eighty thousand pounds in the bank? More or less.”

“Well, you’ve got expenditures, a car and the house… when we get our join account, I’ll put a couple hundred thousands. I don’t want my girl to worry about a thing.”

“No, Cormoran, we agreed on paying equally…”

“Robin, your parents maintained me for two years,” Strike reminded her. “You guys bought my siblings and I clothes, daily food, gave us bedrooms, gifts, personal objects… for two years. You paid their education too, until Lucy turned twenty-one and I could take over. And I’m moving into the house you’ve been paying on your own for years, while you do all the hard work, even drive me around, so I also enjoy this car. If we’re going to be equals I think starting off with me putting a good chunk of money in is the fairest thing, now I have plenty of money I want to compensate for all your family gave mine.”

“But Cormoran…”

“Listen once we get married, all that’s mine will be yours, correct? So let’s start with a few hundred thousand dollars, you’ll have it all eventually anyway, it’d be silly to get picky now,” Strike squeezed her hand. “I trust you wholeheartedly, it’s okay.”

“All right… but I’m not spending a penny without consulting you first.”

“Whatever makes you comfortable.” Strike then couldn’t hold back an enormous yawn that made her jaw crack, and Robin laughed.

“Babe, why don’t you catch some sleep? I’m good to drive solo.”

“You sure?”

“Completely. Take off your leg, get comfortable. There’s a blanket in the back.”

“Thanks love,” Strike stretched to grab the blanket and removed his prosthesis, pushing the seat back a little, using one of their bags to support his stump, and tucking himself with the blanket. “Keep waking up fucking early, like my brain doesn’t get used to holidays.”

“That’s understandable, don’t you worry. You take a nap and when we stop, I’ll wake you up.”

S oon enough, his familiar snores filled the vehicle, louder than the rain, and Robin smiled to herself, the sounds relaxing her at the wheel and keeping her alert at the same time. She could get used to this.

It took her five hours, with the storm, to reach Masham. Initially she’d been planning to stop mid-way, in Nottingham or anywhere else depending on at which point she began to feel tired, but she loved driving so much, and found herself so calm and enjoying so much, that before she knew it she was already nearly in Masham, and she wasn’t going to stop now. So Robin gently moved a hand to pat Strike on the belly until he woke up.

“I’m awake,” he shoot up awake as if he was still deployed with the army, and she laughed, making him smile as he shook the sleep away. “Where are we?”

“Nearly in Masham.”

“What?” Strike checked his watch. “Love is midnight, shouldn’t we have stopped somewhere?”

“I couldn’t, I’m addicted to driving, you’ll have to rip me off this car.”

Strike laughed, shaking his head, and stretched with a groan, watching as she navigated the dark, narrow countryside roads.

“Do you have a key? I don’t want to wake them.”

“Yes, and we’re in my old room, so it’s all ready. Everybody’s back, so they had to convert your old bedroom into one for the children, so many we’re in the house.”

“That’s all right,” Strike nodded. “As long as you’re in my arms I’ll sleep like a king.”

“You’re the sweetest.”

“Can I ask something?”

“Of course, anything.”

“I have noticed you’re the only one who never, ever shortens my name, which I find amusing, but is there any particular reason?”

“Oh I love your name,” Robin confessed. “I always loved it, full sounding. Besides I grew up in a farm, so I associate Corm with corn and it’s confusing.” She smiled warmly and Strike squeezed her cheek gently.

The two arrived at the house in the dark, so Strike couldn’t see much of it from outside, only the many cars parked at the entrance, but when they went inside, it smelled, felt and looked just the same. For a moment, standing at the door of the place he’d called home, he felt twenty-one again, and had to take a moment, reminiscing. There was the corner where Robin had fainted with a viral meningitis, the corridor through which Teddy had run on Christmas morning greeting the festivity… and then appeared the old dark Labrador, Rowntree, and Strike beamed from ear to ear.

“Rowntree! You’re still alive, my old friend,” Strike knelt to hug him. At first the dog seemed not to recognized, distracted by the more familiar Robin, but then he began to wag his tail a lot and climbed on Strike’s shoulders, licking his face and making crying noises.

“Oh he missed you!”

“Hi, hi,” Strike kissed the fur. “Oh, sweet boy. How old is he now?”

“Twelve,” Robin sighed sadly. “Hopefully he last us much more, he’s still energetic. Only gets lazy at night time.”

“I’m so happy to see you again buddy, you wouldn’t believe,” Strike scratched him generously, grinning at him, and continued his way with Robin upstairs, the dog trotting to sleep by their bed.

S leep hit him so surprisingly hard, in spite of his three hour nap, that Strike barely had time to snuggle around Robin, who fell asleep soon afterwards.

And familiarly, they were both awake with the chicken’s clucking, smiling to each other sleepily before snuggling again and falling back asleep, deeming it too early for the day before Christmas Day. They both found company in bed a factor to fall asleep with ease, more comfortably and enjoying better quality sleep than they usually did alone, so they could easily sleep in a little. But at last, the smell of bacon, eggs, and sausages made Strike’s stomach grumble so violently that it woke them both.

“I swear I felt it vibrate against my back,” Robin laughed, rolling over to kiss him. “Good morning.”

“Good morning you,” Strike brought her closer for a kiss.

They were soon dressed in flannel shirts and thick jumpers, country boots on, and strolling out the bedroom. They immediately began encountering the cousins, the brothers, the nephews and nieces, and Strike had at least hugged twenty people before he arrived to the kitchen, smiling from ear to ear. Turns out with the house so full, everyone had moved to the garden to enjoy breakfast without being cramped, watching the animals and enjoying the sun. Robin’s parents immediately leaped off their seats at the sight of Strike.

“My boy!” Linda ran to him and hugged him, grinning from ear to ear.

“Linda, I missed you,” Strike hugged her tightly. Robin beamed, always heart-warmed seeing how much her boyfriend and her parents adored each other.

Once Strike had been warmly welcomed back, they sat to eat with everyone, the Herberts, Lucy and Chris, all the Ellacotts and Evans which remained alive… the children played running around with a ball, the adults talked, and laughter echoed around the garden. Strike felt happy to be back, surrounded by all the people he’d adored in his youth, as different as they might have gotten, and the offspring they had created, most notably Robin’s mini-me, her niece Annabel.

It was evident to everyone how much Strike and Robin still loved each other, in the way they looked at one another, or touched now and then, or laughed a bit harder with the other’s jokes, or shared their respective breakfasts. They shared a magnetism, an intimacy that was like the air electrifying between them, and it was palpable by anyone around them.

Strike was enjoying a moment of staying mostly quiet, wanting to hear all about the others. How the farm had progressed and the first tea plant which he’d planted with his own hands had grown and now its cousins covered miles of land, how his invented horse games happened now twice a month and were quite loved by both the town and the horses, who got to stretch their legs and jump up and down all they wanted, how the seeds of life, of laughter and of family he’d planted so long before remained right there, grown and beautiful anywhere he looked.

“So you two back together then, right?” Stephen inquired at last, holding one of his children in his lap and looking over at Strike and Robin.

“Yeah,” Robin replied. “Cormoran’s moved into my house, and when we return, we’ll do the paperwork and officially make it our house, and he’s got a position waiting working for the Royal Military Police’s Intelligence Operations Room in London whenever he feels like returning to work, right love?”

“Yes,” Strike nodded. “We want to take things a bit slow though, sharing a house is easy because we already did it when we lived here, but I’ve got to figure out what my life in London’s gonna be like and get accustomed to the ever changing city, and then we’ll see what our future can look like together.”

“There’s no rush when things are good,” Michael smiled fondly at Strike. In his mid-sixties now, Michael’s hair had become mostly white and grey, his skin a bit wrinkly, but his smile hadn’t changed at all.

“By the way Robin, how are you feeling about riding for a bit?” Strike suggested. “I’d love to explore around a little.”

“You want to ride? You?” Robin looked surprised, and Strike chuckled.

“I had no option but to learn how to manage with a horse and no half leg, considering I’ve been in many places where the state of the roads post war was absolute crap and there wasn’t even fuel available.”

“Well I want to see that,” Robin got up. “Come on, we’ll find you a big strong horse.”

Strike had, indeed, improved his confidence on a horse. Robin picked a large one for him, and one of Angus’ descendants for herself out of sentimentalism, and they set to ride, side by side, strolling. Strike smiled warmly at her as they trotted, and Robin reached out to squeeze his hand, loving to share this part of her life with him.

They surveyed the lands, the plantations, raced between the miles of apple trees, and reached the river, sharing fond memories like the place where they first touched each other sexually, or their first date, and many others of another life they’d shared together a decade before.

When they finally returned home, it was to help with all the preparations for the large Christmas Eve dinner, a dozen pairs of hands helping out in the kitchen while others entertained and watched over the children. They stopped for lunch only, and continued, because dinner was to be grand, until things were under control. Then, everyone went to get extra pretty for the night, and Strike put on a three piece suit and tie, while Robin put on a beautiful party dress that made Strike be quite close to not letting her out of the bedroom.

After dinner, the family pleaded with Strike to play piano for them, like in the old times, as nobody had heard him in ten years. The piano was the same as ever, and Michael had made sure it was kept in perfect shape and maintenance, not dusty as it had once been, so that whenever Strike returned, it was ready for him, or for Lucy, who also played it now and then. So they went to the music room, which now had more sofas and chairs to adapt to the growing family, and the children took cushions on the floor while the adults sat comfortably. Strike grinned, looking at his old friend, and removed his jacket for comfort, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows.

“Right, should we get in the Christmas vibe then?” Strike suggested. “Who knows a Christmas carol?” he asked the kids playfully.

“Jingle Bells!” requested Annabel.

“You sing it with me?” Annabel nodded enthusiastically, and Strike began to play.

The kids sang it, Strike chiming in when they forgot a part, and afterwards he moved on to White Christmas, It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas, and other old carols of their time, and soon it was like 1946 again, the family reunited around music, having fun together. Robin relaxed next to Ilsa on the sofa, contemplating Strike and feeling her heart flutter. His voice in his thirties had changed, deeper, stronger, and still as suave as ever, but for a moment Robin could blink and still see the boy he’d been, much slimmer and less healthy looking, back when his face hadn’t been healthily round and covered in thick stubble.

Once they’d sung all the carols they could think of, Strike moved on to other things.

“Okay, this one’s for all the lovers,” he said, and began singing and playing 1953’s ‘Everybody loves somebody sometimes’, bringing in the romantic vibe. Robin blushed every time Strike locked eyes with her, shamelessly serenading her, and wondered how she’d been so lucky to nail Mr Perfect all for herself.

He had sang a lot of Frank Sinatra, who was one of his favourites, but people were still asking for more, as if they wanted to accumulate ten years of missing songs in one night.

“All right, all right,” Strike said being convinced to play just one more before they went to bed. He stretched his fingers, thinking of what he could play that he hadn’t played yet, and then got an idea. “For the last one of the night, I’d like to play for the first time ever, the only piece I have ever composed, a decade ago, which back then I titled ‘For Robin’, if that’s okay?” Robin blushed to her ears, but people were too enthusiastic -and happy to tease her forever- and Strike grinned at her, patting the bench next to him. Robin shyly walked over, remembering the sheets he’d left for her the night he’d disappeared. Now, she saw he was using no sheets, playing from memory. “If you’d rather I did this in private, I can stop,” he murmured to her.

“It’s okay, I’ve been waiting to hear it for ten years,” Robin smiled shyly. “Play us a song, piano man.”

This piano piece was of quaternary rhythm, without lyric, but reminded Robin of Chopin, Schumann and Liszt, which were Strike’s favourite piano composers, and she could imagine him sitting in the cramped attic composing it while everybody worked, only to leave it as a surprise for her, as a last gift if he never made it back, before sliding out of her arms in bed and walking out into the night. It wasn’t a chirpy piece, but it was full of melody and musicality, the type that stuck in your head, that seemed to hit inside, with deeper notes, and made the hair in the arms raise. It put the children to complete silence, it was filled with nostalgia, longing and harmony, and it made Robin’s eyes water. She could almost see how Strike had wanted to put into music the way she made him feel, as something that hit in the feels, that was sad and beautiful, with parts that were danceable, and parts that were to sit in silence, close your eyes and feel them. The piece lasted for quite several minutes, with parts where his fingers moved so slowly, and parts where they flew over the keys, until it ended, leaving them in awe. But Strike only had eyes to Robin, and he turned to her with a beaming smile.

“Sounds just like I heard it inside,” he marvelled, and she realized he’d composed it but never ever played it. “Do you like it?” Robin smiled, rubbing tears off her eyes, and nodded.

“It’s the most beautiful thing no one’s ever done for me, thank you.”

Strike grinned bigger, and leaned to kiss her softly.

“My muse,” he whispered, and she beamed.

Chapter Text

Chapter 23: Finding the footing.

1 957 arrived rather quickly, and Robin spent its first few days sitting for hours and hours at the large table of the family meetings’ room, surrounded by books and mountains of students’ exams and papers which they’d brought over in boxes, correcting them, hard working as she was. She wasn’t the only one who had brought over work for the holidays, so she tended to share the room, and the children would sometimes peek at the door, curious about what had adults so transfixed for hours.

On one of said days, while it rained outside and the grandparents entertained their grandchildren with board games indoors, Strike had been immersed in a book in the music room when Michael called him over.

“Can I steal a couple minutes of your time, son?”

“You can steal all my time, Michael,” Strike smiled, closing his book and turning to give him his full attention as he joined him on the sofa.

“I wanted to have a bit of adult conversation outside all the Christmas jolly,” Michael said, “we’ve been worried with all the rumours of the world, Cormoran, with all the Cold War stuff, as they’re dubbing it, the nuclear weapons… and I know you’ve got a duty of certain secrecy, but I was wondering if you think we should worry so much, in your professional opinion.”

Strike nodded thoughtfully.

“Michael, I really don’t think we, as a country, are in any danger. Yes, the Empire seems to be smaller every year, there are more Commonwealth territories wishing to get away, which is normal considering these aren’t times for invasion and empires any more, we’re not the Romans… but the island here, our territory, is safe. I think the only worries you should be having in terms of the nation are contamination and economy really, not war and outside conflicts which won’t amount to nothing that could affect us, guaranteed.”

“You make me breathe easy, Corm,” Michael smiled, nodding. “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

“You’re going to remain in the Military Police, aren’t you?”

“I’m not sure, truth be told. I’m ah…” Strike blushed a little. “Lovesick. All I can think about is how I can make life with Robin prosper nicely, how can I contribute to our happiness as a couple… and I know for us to work I can’t be absent again. So my job will change as it needs to if and when it needs to, and adapt to our needs, so I can be home to cook for her with all she works, and be in London, and be devoted to her, without needing for her career to change. I always envisioned the military as a temporary arrangement anyway, for as long as it satisfies me, while Robin’s career… I think it should take priority. I think she’s helping a lot of people who truly need her. And if my career should need to be sacrificed for her, then I’d be happy to bury it.”

Michael stared fondly at him, and nodded.

“You don’t know what it is like for a father to see his only daughter with such a good man. We haven’t liked her previous boyfriends much. It seemed like… like they were taking advantage of her, for the things we heard, not that she ever brought them here. I’m sure you must’ve heard, by now.”

“Robin and I have talked in length about them and I think you should know, if it’d make you feel better, that Robin’s relationship with them wasn’t one of love or romance, but a means to achieve certain goals of hers that otherwise seemed unachievable. They were men who knew a lot about things she wanted to know, and men who seemed gentlemanly and nice enough, and with whom she mainly liked to talk, more than nothing else. It was more a… infatuation for knowledge, I’d say,” Strike smiled small to comfort him. “And I know she’s not proud of what happened, I know she wasn’t a happy person back then, and I know she’s been struggling in a very personal way, but it’s all in the past, nothing you or your family should be thinking about any more. Now I’m back, and she loves me and trusts me unconditionally, and so do I, and she’ll never suffer again if I’ve got any say in it.”

“That’s a great relief,” Michael nodded. “Huge, I’d say. She needs someone like you to get her. Someone who shares her uniqueness, her modernity… she was so elated when the Queen ascended the throne, hopeful a woman in charge would change things for them, but I think she’s by now realized the Queen is not nearly as powerful as she seems, and it’s politics that need to change. I’ve often wondered how alone one must feel, born ahead of their time as she seems to be, staring in horror at a world that seems far too old, antiquated, traditional, sexist, too much for her to bloom.”

“She knows she has my full support. She can be anyone she chooses to be, she’ll never have to vow to obey me, she’ll never have to kneel to me or any man, she’s got me to support her unconditionally.”

“Good, good,” Michael said. “Thank you Corm.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

“You still love her very much, like that time you sought my permission to courtship her, don’t you?”

“I love her so much more than then. In all honesty, confiding to you as the closest thing to a father I’ve got left,” said Strike. “I wanted nothing but death after Teddy. I wanted all the pain to stop, the world to stop daring to move on like nothing had happened. I think parts of me died time and time again those years, each new person that died, each person I killed, a part of me left too until there was nothing else but pain. But I remember the pain was mixed with all the love I felt for her, and it hurt more thinking I couldn’t do more than hurt her, and I remember waking up in the middle of the night and staring at her, and realizing that I just wanted to be happy with her, to save myself and live… for her. That I hated so much who I was because I wasn’t good enough. I remember how much it hurt, and even more so when I had to rip the bandage so slowly to avoid waking anybody, to disentangle myself from her, write that letter while deciding I had to go to the Military Police, dress, and kiss her not knowing if I’d ever do it again. How much I cried and how cold the night was, and how lost and alone I felt, and broken-hearted to leave her, but how convinced I was that something radical must be done to heal myself, something like the police. And Michael… I swore to myself that it had to be for me, and for her, and for Lucy, in some level. Every time I thought I couldn’t withstand being apart one day more, I kept thinking of Robin, of how much she wanted me alive and well… how much love there was in her letters, and pain mixed with support, and how I had to make it all be worth something… and I swore once I could come back, I’d fight for her with all of me. I was ready to win her back if she’d fallen for somebody else. I was ready to travel the world looking for her if she’d gone somewhere. And seeing who she’s become… I can’t help but love her all the more. So much more than I ever knew I could.”

Michael looked at him in a mixture of awe and admiration.

“To tell you the truth, Robin’s smile never once reached her eyes again until now, seeing you two return. It’s like you’re back, but so is she. A big part of her was gone without you, and we feared it’d be forever.”

“I’m sorry about that too.”

“It’s okay, now you get to be together. You’ll marry her, yes?”

“Eventually,” Strike nodded. “That’s the plan.”

“Perfect,” Michael stood up, satisfied. “Well, enjoy the time off, son.”

“Thanks,” Strike exited the room shortly after him, right on time to see a blushed Robin rushing towards him. “Hi you.”

“Hi,” she kissed him. “Avoid upstairs corridor, Nick and Ilsa are making out against the wall like teenagers.”

“Baby number two on the works!” Strike joked, and she giggled.

“Anyway, I’ve finally finished so I was wondering if you’d like to come see Teddy’s tomb, since we leave tomorrow?”

“Yes, good,” Strike nodded, and followed her outside, grabbing their coats on the way.

They strolled uphill hand in hand, passing the old primary school where Strike had once briefly been employed, and entered the square, walking around St Mary the Virgin’s Church to the cemetery. Strike had only ever been there very few times, for the funerals in Robin’s family with her maternal grandparents dying while he lived there, and then for Teddy’s, but on the last occasion he’d been too broken to possibly remember the location. But Robin, who on the way stopped to gather some flowers, guided him to the far edge behind the church and there, between Robin’s maternal and paternal grandparents, was Teddy’s. The abundance of flowers people had brought was evident, and apparently the frequency of them over the years had caused for flowers of all types to start growing in the land, so it was the most colourful grave.

“Beautiful,” he murmured.

It had stopped raining, so Robin set the flowers and stood behind, while Strike knelt, not minding staining his trousers and being mindful of the many flowers, and stared at the tombstone in silence.

‘Edward ‘Teddy’ Richard Strike

London, 19 ^th April 1936 – Masham, 31 ^st July 1946

A star now shining for eternity over your large family, which will always love and miss you .’

Strike took a shaky breath and his eyes welled with tears. It had been Michael who had decided how to engrave the tombstone, and found someone to order it to, and Strike had never really stopped to read it before. He’d delayed coming here, afraid he wouldn’t be strong enough, until he’d mentioned to Robin maybe doing it before travelling back to London.

The grave had been kept tidy and clean, which Strike appreciated enormously, but he was surprised by his inability to cry. His chest felt heavy, his breath turned heavy, his jaw set, yet his eyes remained dry, as if ten years had done for them to be cried out. Robin’s hand placed comfortingly on his shoulder, and a long while later when his leg ached, Strike stood up, clearing his throat.

“He’s now been dead longer than he was alive,” he realized.

“Yes,” Robin nodded, her voice low. “Weird, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Strike agreed and turned around, taking her hand in his. “Let’s go.”

“You okay?” Robin looked up at him with concern. She always found it hard coming there, so she could only imagine what it was like for him and Lucy.

S trike shrugged, glancing one last time to the tomb.

“He’s gone, and I want to go home.”

Robin nodded, wrapping an arm around his waist and guiding him away. They walked back in silence and snuggled in bed, resting for a bit.

“We’ll return to London in the morning,” said Robin, hugging him from behind. “Okay? I’ve got work.”

“Okay,” Strike nodded, sleepy, and rolled over, nuzzling into her chest. Robin kissed the top of his head and closed her eyes, understanding his need to be comforted, without needing to speak.

S everal days later they were in London, and Strike, who entertained himself strolling around the city, visiting friends, and being a fixer-upper at home while Robin had to work, was hosting Nick, Ilsa and Amanda for tea, on one on the countless afternoons Robin was stuck at the university. It was raining, for a change, so the warm tea felt twice as welcomed.

“Adapting to the London life, are you?” Nick inquired as Strike lit a cigarette. He had cut his intake a lot while in the army, but he still smoke the occasional fag, opening the window and aiming the smoke towards it, away from the young child and her non-smoker parents.

S trike shrugged, not looking enthusiastic.

“Oh come on,” Ilsa said. “Surely can’t be that bad, is it? You’re with Robin.”

“It’s not bad, it’s just… difficult,” said Strike, eyeing his oldest friends. “It’s not because London’s unfamiliar and strange, which it is, it’s more… feels like trying to run at the same speed as a train, never able to catch up. Everyone I know here is either married, engaged, sometimes even with a child or two, or at least in very successful jobs with their own busy lives. My girlfriend’s a successful woman with her own busy life, that I’m adamant she doesn’t stop just ‘cause I came here. And I’m… bored. The days are completely anodyne and unexciting, and it’s not the farm, where there’s always something to do, there’s nothing here.”

“It’s London, is full of stuff to do,” argued Nick. “And you’ve got the piano, your drawing…”

“Yes but it’s not mentally challenging, which I’ve come to become addicted to. I’ve never enjoyed a day off in my entire Military Police career, it’s strange to have so much free time all of a sudden,” said Strike. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with it. Sure, reading, but… It’s not mentally absorbing enough. When Robin’s home, then she absorbs me, which I fancy, we dance, we go on dates, we hit the clubs, meet with her friends and colleagues… and the sex is extraordinary, and the minutes fly back again, but the rest of the time… I’m afraid I’ve become a boring man, when I lack investigations to lose myself into. And I was supposed to catch up with everyone, but that’s surprisingly quick of a task, and then everybody is busy studying, working, with family… I’m the only one doing nothing. I’ve even accepted early tasks to help Chris and Lucy wedding planning, out of desperation.”

“That’s normal Cormoran, it’s like moving to a new city, you’ve got to build yourself a life,” said Ilsa. “We are obsessed with our jobs too, but you need things to fill the rest of the time. Nick has taken on football with his mates, for example, and I like going dancing with my girlfriends. Or we do family outings with Amanda, take her somewhere fun. Find something you like.”

“I can’t even drive with this,” Strike glared accusatory at his fake foot. “Let alone do sports, which I used to love and would’ve been a lovely option.”

“You could join a gentlemen’s club,” Nick suggested. “I went a couple times invited by mates, everybody’s drinking and smoking, discussing politics and women. Not my thing, but maybe you enjoy.”

“Are they all snobs in bow ties?”

Nick snorted a laugh.

“Tend to be, yes,” he sipped from his tea, amused, and Strike grunted, looking out the window. “Some people like shooting birds.”

“I find that cruel,” said Strike.

“You could try sailing,” Ilsa offered.

“I don’t want anything to do with water any more,” Strike grumbled, and Ilsa frowned lightly.

“Is it because of Teddy?” Strike nodded, surly-looking. “Corm, you’re a sea man, you need to make amends just like you made it with Germany.”

“Germany’s different, Germany didn’t kill my family, a group of jerks did and they’re all dead, I checked. The ocean, on the other hand…”

“Cannot say sorry,” Nick commented. “Fine, then do intellectual things like Robin does, your leg doesn’t affect you there. Write, join an astronomy club, a book reading club, or… shit, go back to work if that’s what you love. You can do it in London, right?”

“Wouldn’t that be so pathetic?” Strike asked them, while Ilsa breastfeed Amanda. “I come here, get a year off entirely to focus on my partner and build a life here, and with her, and a month later I’m bored beyond belief and begging to return to work.”

“We all acquire an identity out of our jobs, Corm,” said Ilsa, removing her breast off the child’s mouth when she was finished. “The doctor, the lawyer, the psychologist, the teacher… you are the Major, the investigator, and just like we all miss work at times, you’ve got the same right. Robin works even on holidays, she’d understand. Matter is, you’ve got to find out what being thirty-three is going to look like for you, what your life is like when Robin’s not around, when nobody is around. Get a hobby, return to work, whatever it takes.”

Strike was considering her words when the phone rang and he got up to pick the call up.

“Dr Ellacott and Mr Strike’s house, hello?” Strike said into the call. After a moment, his eyes widened and he frowned. “Robin’s been stabbed? What? When? Where is she?” Nick and Ilsa looked up shocked, and hurried to get up and begin gathering their things, while Strike grabbed the notepad they kept by the phone and quickly scribbled down information. “All right, I’ll be right there. Thank you.” He hung up and turned to his friends. “Can you drive me to St Mary’s Hospital? Robin’s been stabbed at university.”

“Let’s go,” Ilsa urged him. “At university?” they gathered their coats and umbrellas and rushed to the car outside. Ilsa and Strike moved to the back-seat with Amanda, while Nick drove.

“They’re not sure, a student went to her office for a scheduled meeting, and found her bleeding out on the floor, unconscious. They’re running an investigation with police,” Strike replied anxiously. “A colleague knew about me and suggested they should phone here, to reach someone.”

“Fuck’s sakes, in her office?” Nick hit the pedal, moving swiftly around the streets. His Dad’s pre-war job had been that of a cabbie, and he’d taught Nick plenty about the London streets, which was why he was the ideal driver for emergencies. “Who’d even…?”

“Ewan,” said Ilsa. “Has to be that jerk. Only one who’s got a big reason.”

“Then he better run off to a remote Russian village or something because if I find him, I’ll torture him to death,” said Strike, full of anxiety and anguish. “God, let it be nothing…” Ilsa squeezed his hand. They both knew if it was nothing, Robin would’ve asked for help herself.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2 4 : Helpless.

S t Mary’s Hospital those days was an overcrowded General Hospital in North London, but one that had great fame for being one of the best in the city, and the country. Once there, Nick’s status got them easy information, and they learned Robin was having emergency surgery for a single, deep stab wound in her abdomen, which had cut her intestines. As they were at the nurses’ desk acquiring information, a white-haired older man wearing an elegant suit approached them.

“Excuse me,” he said, and Strike turned to him. “Are you here for Professor Robin Ellacott?”

“Yes,” said Strike. “I’m her partner.”

The man nodded, with a worried and anxious expression. He had blue eyes and pale skin.

“I’m Imperial College’s Dean, Professor Robert Webber,” he offered him a hand. “I came along, figured as the boss, I better be here.”

“Thanks,” Strike shook his hand. “Military Police’s Major Cormoran Strike,” he introduced himself, “and these are our friends, Dr Nick Herbert and Mrs Ilsa Herbert.” Ilsa carried the baby, but they shook hands regardless.

“I wish we’d met under better circumstances,” said Professor Webber. “The police is investigating, and Mr Radwell, the student who found her, has spoken to them already, but he didn’t see anything. The University, of course, will collaborate fully, we will find out who attacked her and bring them to justice.”

“So nobody knows anything?” Strike asked. “Nobody saw someone march away from her office with a bleeding knife? How is it even possible somebody could just walk in there with a knife and stab one of your teachers?”

“Our security guards will for sure be responding to the police for that, it’s infuriating, a very grave breach of security,” said Professor Webber. Strike couldn’t help remembering how easily he’d walked into Robin’s classroom too. “At this hour though, the University is mostly empty. Most teachers have gone home, so there aren’t many witnesses. For what I understand Professor Ellacott had a class and then a meeting with a student half an hour later, so the attack had to happen in the span of that half an hour, as I told the police.”

“Do you know how bad is it, professor?” asked Nick, looking deeply worried like the others.

Professor Webber sighed, shaking his head.

“I’m no medical doctor, but when I saw her being taken in the ambulance… she looked grey, she’d lost a lot of blood. I think if she’s got living family… they should be called. Just in case.”

“Then I’ll go call her parents, there’s a phone down the corridor,” said Nick anxiously, and squeezed Strike’s shoulder. “Don’t despair okay? I’ll get Lucy too.”

He rushed away, taking Amanda so Ilsa could focus on keeping Strike calm, and Strike puffed, full of worry.

“If she ends up dead,” Strike said, glaring at the professor. “I’ll make you pay.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your University has no security whatsoever. A month ago I was able to enter Professor Ellacott’s class during a lecture without a single problem, nobody even asked who the heck I was, and I’d never been there before. And that’s on you, so I’m telling you, if the love of my life dies because you suck at your job, you’ll be made responsible.”

“I’m sorry Sir, but I guarantee you I have done everything to… it’s a university with students of all ages, for God’s sakes, people are expected to come in and out all the time, security can’t go asking each person. I understand you’re upset—,”

“You have no idea how I feel!”

“Cormoran,” Ilsa put a hand on his chest, pushing him from the dean gently. “How about we breathe and not snap on a respectable dean?”

Strike puffed like a bull, but nodded, backing off.

“Sorry.”

They had to wait for hours, and Nick, having reached Michael in Masham and Lucy in Battersea, sat with them to wait. Lucy and Chris joined them promptly, but Michael and Linda would need more time to do the long drive south. At last, Katie arrived, and Strike realized she was a nurse there. She looked pale and tense.

“Cormoran,” Katie called, coming quickly and hugging him. “Come along, is not looking good at all.”

“What’s happening Katie?” Strike asked as the group rushed upstairs.

“The surgery went well, the surgeon’s really good, only had to remove a small portion of the small bowel, no big deal, but she’s bleed a hell of a lot, nearly lost her during the surgery, twice,” said Katie anxiously, “They did several transfusions, but now she’s septic, which as you know…”

“Is very, very, very bad.”

“It is,” Katie nodded. “Hope is antibiotics work, otherwise…”

“She’s dead.”

“Yes. Has anybody called Uncle Michael?”

“Nick has,” Strike said tensely.

T hey reached the ICU door and Katie stopped them.

“I’m sorry guys but because she’s so delicate, can’t risk bringing in bacteria so I gotta limit who comes in. Only Cormoran for now, then her parents when they arrive.”

“Sure,” Nick nodded, “we’ll wait here for news.”

Strike was made to wash his hands and get into a gown over his clothes before entering a large room full of beds. Katie guided him to one in the far end.

“I’ve got to work but… please stay until Michael and Linda come?” said Katie. “I don’t want her to be alone if…”

“She won’t be alone at all,” Strike reassured her.

“Thank you.”

Katie took one last look at her cousin, her eyes filling with tears, and rushed away. Strike flopped on a single chair set by the bed, and staring at Robin, he felt as if he’d been stabbed too. She was grey, her eyes closed and sunken, her hand overly warm.

“Robin…” he resisted the urge to sob and kissed her hand, squeezing it gently. “I’m right here darling. You just fight this and get well, please. I can’t live without you.” He stared at her frail body, connected to an oxygen mask and several IV lines, fighting for survival.

S trike sat there for hours, until he was forced to leave by the arrival of Michael and Linda, who had come running to London from Masham as soon as they’d heard.

“Should you wish to rest,” said Strike to Michael as he got up to leave, “our house is available for you, any time.”

“Thanks, Corm,” Michael nodded, pale with worry. “Where will you be?”

“Visits are limited so while you’re here, I’m going to see what I can do to find the bastard who did this, and tonight, if you and Linda would want to go to bed, I’ll stay.”

Agreements made, Strike rushed outside, jaw set, and found Nick, Ilsa, Lucy and Christopher waiting downstairs at the hospital entrance with Katie, who’d finished working for the day, and Angela, who’d come as soon as she’d heard from Katie on the phone.

“How is she Stick?” Lucy asked anxiously.

“Fighting for her life with fucking sepsis. Do we have news from the police?”

“No,” said Katie. “They’ve interviewed half Imperial College, but nothing yet.”

“So do we agree it was Professor Ewan Montgomery?”

“That’s a very serious accusation to throw without evidence, Cormoran,” said Ilsa seriously, arms crossed over her chest. Nick held a sleeping Amanda against his shoulder, next to her.

“Who else would want to kill her, Ilsa? This was a murder attempt,” Strike said with contained rage.

“Why would he want her dead?” inquired Angela. “I thought their relationship ended simply and he left London.”

“Robin got his wife to leave him,” replied Strike. And aborted his child illegally, a part he couldn’t voice in front of Katie and Angela. “We never knew where he went did we? Could’ve been Reading, Cambridge, Kent, Sussex, all of which are close. Hell, Robin’s parents just came from Yorkshire, he could’ve returned just for this and ran out again.”

“Why would he attack her now?” Katie frowned. “It’s been years. For all we know, it could be her last book, it’s quite feminist, perhaps some husband got pissed off, and decided to end her.”

S trike puffed, frustrated, and paced around.

“Corm, may I remind you not to do something stupid?” said Ilsa, lowering her voice. “You could lose your job, your reputation—,”

“I don’t care.”

“—and go to prison. Will you want to be in prison when she recovers? Listen, you were dying for like a month, and look at you now. She’s a tough girl, I wouldn’t be so negative.”

“You didn’t see her.”

“Yet I know you looked worse, and if you survived in a farm, in the 40s, with only a nurse and a doctor to look after you, Robin will, with the latest medical advances and one of the best hospitals to care for her. Besides, she was found very quickly, wasn’t she? Got top medical attention fast. That tends to be good for prognosis, if marrying a doctor taught me anything.”

“What do you think?” Strike turned to Nick. Nick sighed.

“That Robin would want us to be positive, she’d say positive thoughts create positive results, or any other psychological thing like that.”

“Fine,” Strike nodded, and released a deep breath. “Where are the phones then?”

“Over there,” Nick pointed towards a corridor.

“I’ll be right back,” Strike rushed to the phones and called Lieutenant Graham Hardacre, a colleague in the SIB. “Hello Hardy.”

“Oggy! You sound tense, everything all right mate?”

“No,” replied Strike. “My girlfriend, Robin, she’s been stabbed. She’s holding to life by a shred with sepsis.”

“What?” Hardacre turned more serious. “Mate, what’s going on?”

“I’m not sure. Somebody entered her office at the Imperial College this afternoon and got her,” Strike replied quickly. “No idea about anything, nobody saw or heard anything, there isn’t a trail of blood, nothing. Was one of the college’s less busy hours. Anyway, Hardy, I need a huge favour from you.”

“Anything mate you know that.”

“Is there any chance that you, being at the Edinburgh headquarters as you are, could acquire any information on Professor Doctor Ewan Montgomery? He was last known to be a teacher in 1952 and 1953 at the King’s College in London, he was married then and had an affair with Robin, who didn’t know he was married. She informed his wife when she found out, and ended the relationship, and Mrs Montgomery divorced him. That’s why I suspect he might be behind this.”

“After three, four years?”

“I know it’s weird, but perhaps he hasn’t seen the perfect occasion before,” said Strike. “Would you please investigate him for me? I don’t want to leave the hospital in case Robin…”

“Got it. How can I contact you back with the results?”

“You could perhaps send someone of your trust from the London Headquarters? I’d be at St Mary’s Hospital, most likely, but if I weren’t here it’s possible they’d find Robin’s parents, Dr Michael Ellacott and wife Linda, or her cousin, who is a nurse here, Catherine Ellacott, who goes by Katie. Any of them will hand whichever report you send to me.”

“Excellent,” said Hardacre. “I’ll send you whatever I can find, Oggy, but I can’t promise I’ll find much mate. If he’s been a good boy, there shouldn’t be much to see.”

“If you could find home address, or work address, that would be enough. I could pass it on to the police, tell them my suspicions, and perhaps they’ll listen. Thank you very much Hardy.”

“No problem, best of wishes, friend.”

Ending the call, Strike returned to his friends.

“I’ll stay here,” said Strike. “I can’t leave her.”

“We need to go, Amanda needs to have dinner and go to bed,” said Nick apologetic, holding his daughter. “Will you not do anything stupid, and call us if you need anything or there are any changes?”

“Tell you what, honey, why don’t you go ahead with Amanda?” Ilsa proposed instead. “I’ll stay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Ilsa nodded. “I’m the lawyer, perhaps I can remind this one of what will happen if he loses his shit and keep him in best behaviour.”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Strike murmured, rolling eyes.

“I also happen to be your oldest friend,” Ilsa reminded him.

“I think it’s a good idea, I’ll take care of this one. Call me,” Nick kissed her briefly and looked sadly at Strike. “Don’t lose your shit, will you? Robin’s going to need you. Leave this out for the police.”

“I’ll try my best,” said Strike, nodding. “Don’t worry Nick, look after your daughter. It’s worthless to have everyone here waiting.”

“Well I should head home too, I’ve just worked a forty-eight hour shift,” said Katie, who indeed looked knackered. “Call me if anything changes, okay?”

“Will do, promise. You go get some rest. Lucy, you and Chris should head out too, you’ve got class in the morning…”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” Lucy reminded him. “I’m staying. Chris, if you want to go home, it’s okay.”

“No, no, I’m staying. That way if the Ellacotts want to go have dinner and rest I can drive them,” said Christopher. “Speaking of, why don’t I head out to get you all something to eat before somebody faints?”

“Lovely, thank you,” Lucy kissed him briefly and at last everyone left and Strike, and the only two women in his life he saw as sisters, sat in an outside bench to get some fresh air, trying not to be too anxious. “So what was that phone-call for?” asked Lucy turning to Strike as he lit a cigarette into the night, the smoke floating in the air.

Strike pondered for a moment whether he could be honest or it was better not, and decided to just say it plainly, figuring it’d be known anyway, sooner or later.

“A long-time friend and now subordinate, Lieutenant Graham Hardacre,” said Strike. “He’s been sent to a prestigious posting in Edinburgh and he’s got access to a lot of information, pretty much anybody’s records. He’s going to sent me as much information as he can gather on our friend Professor Montgomery, and if there is even the most remote possibility that he grabbed a knife and stabbed Robin, then I’ll inform the police, and if the police decides to ignore it, they’ll leave me with no choice but to confront him myself.”

“You would lose your job, you do realize, don’t you?” Ilsa inquired, frowning at him behind her glasses. “Cormoran, is not Military Police’s duty to investigate an attempted murder on a professor. If your superiors get wind of this, if the police calls them…”

“I have said it a hundred times, Ilsa,” said Strike impatiently. “Robin is everything to me. I promised to protect her and here she is fighting for her life for a danger I could’ve seen coming, the very least I can do is make sure something like this doesn’t happen again, even if it costs me my career, of which I care nothing next to how I care about Robin.”

“There’s another issue with Professor Montgomery you should care about though,” said Ilsa. “If you locate him, if you bother him, if the police gets to talk to him, he might mention his affair with Robin, he might mention she was supposedly pregnant of him, and he might ask where the baby is.”

“We’ll say she miscarried it.”

“Yeah? And where in her medical record would that be?” Ilsa inquired, raising her eyebrows. Strike shrugged.

“It’s not. Her father’s a surgeon, he dealt with it at home. I’ll talk to Michael, he’ll be on board.”

“You can’t tell Michael, or you’ll have to tell him the truth, and Robin was very clear her family mustn’t know. None of them, not even Katie, let alone Michael. Imagine she wakes up and finds her father can’t look at her in the eye, she won’t be thankful precisely.”

Strike puffed impatiently.

“Then we’ll say Robin was never pregnant to begin with, that she received a false positive, turned out to be nothing. Get Nick to corroborate it. Who are they going to believe Ilsa, that son of a bitch or a woman with a doctorate and a master’s, her army Major of a boyfriend, or her doctor? The fact that the family doesn’t know will only play in our favour, they’ll astonishment will be real if police starts asking questions.”

T he women exchanged an impatient look, but then Ilsa sighed and nodded.

“That could work, but do not forget these are the things you need to be thinking of. Whatever you do, you need to foresee any possible event that your actions could provoke, and have a prepared response, a well-thought one like this,” said Ilsa. “We have to protect Robin, and that includes her good name, not just her health. One mistake, and she’ll wake up to be arrested, and there won’t be much for me to do in court.”

“Fine, fine,” Strike threw her fag to the ground and leaned forward with his face in his hands. It was a bloody cold night, in his most honest opinion. “D’you think it could be the angry husband of a reader? Someone who doesn’t like his wife consuming feminist ideas?”

“Could be,” Ilsa replied.

“Or a crazy fan,” offered Lucy. “She gets some odd fan mail sometimes. Some very creepy fan mail.”

“How creepy?”

“The kind that makes the hairs in the arms raise,” said Lucy. “She throws that one away.”

Strike eyed her, shifting awkwardly in his seat.

“I should worry about the mail she gets, shouldn’t I? I’m her bloody life partner, I should do something.”

“Let her handle it,” said Ilsa.

“But Ilsa—,”

“Robin is a strong independent woman, Oggy, she does not fancy receiving any type of control, let alone by a man. Her career is only hers, if you intervene there, she’d see it as an unwelcome intervention into her private and personal matters. It’d be like her telling you how to do your job. She’s your life partner, but she has her own personal business away from you, accept that, and move on. If she needed you to intervene, she would’ve said so.”

“Can’t I take care of my girlfriend any more like a gentleman? Is that feminism now?” Strike asked no one in particular, impatient.

“You can… just remember you were born in the 23, raised by people of the past century, who were educated by people like your grandfather, born over a century ago. You’re very old school sometimes, Cormoran,” said Ilsa softly. “But don’t offer Robin past-century manners and chivalry.”

“Ilsa’s right,” said Lucy, intervening. “Corm, you naturally always feel a need to control everything and take care of everyone, I know you’re not happy with stepping back and letting others take charge, with being powerless… but I really think if she doesn’t specifically ask for your intervention in things, you shouldn’t give it. Let police handle things, and let her handle what she wants to handle.”

S trike puffed but nodded, admitting his defeat and leaning back in his chair, looking at the looming clouds and praying Robin would survive another night.

Chapter Text

Chapter 25: Clair de lune.

Early in the morning, Robin’s parents returned to Strike’s bedside and he, who hadn’t slept all night, reunited with his friends and family in the small and humble hospital cafeteria for a coffee. As he sat there, trying to stay awake, with Nick, Ilsa, Lucy, Chris, Katie, Angela, and Robin’s other London cousin, Amelia, all of whom had Saturday off, a young soldier with a red cap appeared, holding a thin brown folder, and rushed to Strike.

“Major Strike?” he asked, and Strike turned around, seeing the insignias.

“Private…?”

“Hopkins, Sir,” the young man said. “I’ve received orders from Lieutenant Hardacre to deliver you this pronto,” he added, giving Strike the folder. “He asked for you to let me know if it’s what you wanted.”

“Thanks, Private Hopkins,” Strike opened the folder in his lap, reading over with tired eyes. “Yes, yes… Private, tell Lieutenant Hardacre I am so very thankful, and that this is precisely what I wanted. And that I look forward to repaying the favour.”

“Will do Sir,” the young man nodded, firmly standing.

“You may go, thank you.”

“Thanks, Sir, good day.” He retired and rushed away. Strike yawned, his eyes glassy from tiredness, reading over the report.

“What’s that about?” inquired Katie.

“I wanted to know where Robin’s former beau Mr Montgomery is,” said Strike. “Just making sure he couldn’t be behind this.”

“So he’s out of the question?”

“Oh no, he’s in,” Strike said, and looked up from the report. “Moved to Wales after the relationship ended, he was offered a position at a University there. But two months ago, he was fired after being caught making-our with one of his students in his office, the girl was barely adult, and he’s reportedly back in London since, unemployed, he lives in Whitechapel. Now the question remains, how angry and revengeful would he be? Because I think there’s no point on him returning to one of the most expensive cities of England, without a job offer, if it’s not for revenge.”

“You have to give that to the police,” Lucy reminded him.

“Yes, once I’ve photocopied it,” said Strike. “I am keeping this too. Just in case he’s declared innocent and I have to remind him he’s to never even look at Robin again. I’ll be right back.”

He rushed to the street, and after asking around a few times, he found a copy shop where he could get photocopies of the whole report. He folded the photocopies in his pocket and then rushed to the police station with the originals. New Scotland Yard was at the Embankment, and last time Strike had been there, he’d been a teenager going to pick up his father for dinner on a Friday after work, so that on their way home they had some men time, without all the ladies, while Lucy and Leda enjoyed their own ladies time. The building had changed little in twenty years and Strike, after needing some time to figure out the bus routes, which were mostly new to him, recognized it without a problem.

The policemen and policewomen looked like crows with their uniforms. Strike walked through them to the entry desk, and approached the one of them who sat there.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hi, how can I help you?” the lady looked up at him with a polite smile.

“I’m from the Royal Military Police Special Investigation Branch,” explained Strike, and the woman straightened, giving him more attention. “My name is Major Cormoran Strike. I’m here in relationship to an attack suffered by Professor Robin Ellacott yesterday at the Imperial College, I believe the investigating officer is Detective Inspector Eric Wardle?”

“That’s right,” the woman nodded.

“I would like to speak with him, about the case. It’s very important.”

“Major Strike, I must ask, what’s the SIB doing investigating a simple stab attack of the dozens that affect London every day?”

“It’s personal,” said Strike. “I must speak with DI Wardle.”

“Right, let me see if he can meet with you,” she grabbed the phone on her desk and called. After a short conversation explaining what was going on, she hung up and looked at Strike. “Third floor, room 019.”

“Thank you.”

Strike walked to the lift and was soon knocking on the said room’s door. He found it was a meetings room, and Wardle was already waiting there. He’d seen him briefly on one occasion, when he’d passed by the hospital the night before to check if Robin had given any clues.

“Major Strike,” DI Wardle, a tall and handsome man with brown eyes and light brown hair swept sideways, offered him a hand to shake. “How can I help you?”

“Better said how can I help you,” Strike sat at the table with him. “DI Wardle, I happen to be Professor Ellacott’s romantic partner, we live together, and we’ve known each other for twelve and a half years, so I know a lot about her life, the people who like her and the people who don’t. I thought it was my duty as her partner to come and help you figure suspects out, and my duty as a police officer, albeit in the military branch, to offer my full collaboration in any way I can.”

“I appreciate it,” said DI Wardle. “So it’s not actually the SIB that wants to meddle in my investigation?”

“No,” replied Strike. “But I’ve been in the RMP for a decade, I promoted fast because I’m one of their best Wardle, so don’t underestimate my help. Look, Robin might die, that’s the reality of the situation, and if that happens nothing will bring her back, but catching the person responsible will bring peace to her family, a family I happen to be very close to.”

“So what have you got then?”

“Names,” said Strike. “You might want to take notes.”

“Right,” Wardle pulled a notepad from his pocket and a pencil and prepared to write.

“Robin tends to be quite well-loved, but her family insist there are three main sources of trouble. One, fans. Apparently she receives creepy fan mail sometimes, mail she threw away, she found it too creepy and disturbing. I’m unaware of the contents, but I’m sure her editor or her publishers will know, their names are in all her books.”

“Okay,” Wardle wrote down ‘Editors & Publishers – Fan mail’.

“I’m my own professional opinion I don’t think it was a fan, but I still feel obliged to tell. And then there were two men.”

“The exes? Yeah,” Wardle nodded. “We investigated, Sir. Professor Edgar Jones was giving a lecture at the Royal College at the time of the attack, and Professor Ewan Montgomery was at home, lives in Wales.”

Strike frowned.

“Who told you Professor Montgomery was at home?”

“His wife, we spoke with her on the phone immediately at the time of the attack, said he was in the bathroom but would call us back immediately or see us at the house. We couldn’t send someone to Wales so fast, but he called us on the phone, his wife was with him.”

“She was lying.”

“Which you know because?”

Strike handed him the report Hardacre had given him.

“Let’s make a deal, DI Wardle,” said Strike, putting a hand over the folder before he could open it. “What’s in this folder was acquired through my job. I could get in trouble if my bosses knew I’d used our resources to intervene in an external case, which I don’t much care about, except for the fact that if I lose my job I’ll lose my resources, which are far better than yours, to resolve this case. So, you won’t tell anybody you got this information from the SIB, nor from the RMP, nor from me, you’ll say it was an anonymous tip, or else I might comment with the press how I was forced to intervene because Scotland Yard is awfully incompetent. You wouldn’t want me to do that, would you?”

Wardle clenched his jaw, but nodded.

“We have a deal then. Can I see now?”

“Yes,” Wardle opened it and Strike stared as he read. “That’s evidence Montgomery was as close to the Imperial College as Whitechapel, he had opportunity, and I’m sure it wouldn’t take him much effort to find a knife, nor to walk freely down Imperial College considering he’s been invited there to give some lectures in the past, so nobody would bat an eye or suspect from him.”

“Means and opportunity,” Wardle nodded. “This is valuable. But I fail to see the reason, I believe the relationship ended three and a half years ago, it seems like a long time to wait.”

“Revenge needs to be plotted carefully, isn’t it? Robin wasn’t aware he was married during their relationship, he had children and a wife who left him after Robin told her what was going on, he hasn’t been allowed to see his ex and their children since, she took them to the States and started over, new life. And he was recently fired from his University in Cardiff for maintaining a relationship with a student, and he’s not married, it’s not in his records. So one, he’s got no reason to be in Wales and two, what are the odds he paid a girl so young, pretty much a child, to lie for him on the phone, giving him time to run to Wales should you look for him? Cardiff is four hours from London, you should’ve sent someone, now he’s had plenty of time to run.”

W ardle leaned back in his chair and read carefully before taking a deep breath and nodding, setting his jaw.

“Can I keep this?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, Major. I will have him arrested and interrogated immediately, and ask people at Imperial College if they’ve seen this man.”

“Very well,” Strike stood up. “I ought to return to Robin. Keep me updated?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.”

When Strike returned to the hospital, he found nobody at the entrance hall not at the cafeteria, so he continued upstairs to the ICU area, and in the corridor there he found his friends looking like they were struggling to hold back tears.

“What?” he asked, panicking.

“Corm…” Lucy sighed, and took his hand. “Come here, let’s get you in one of those gowns, wash your hands…”

“What’s happening Lucy? Is Robin…?” he couldn’t say it. Lucy’s blue eyes filled with tears and Strike feared the worst. “No. No…”

“They say she’s got hours, Corm. The infection has spread, she’s gone into the early stages of sepsis shock now and nothing they’re doing it’s working… they’re doing everything but the antibiotics aren’t working fast enough. She can hardly breathe, the treatment is not working. They’ve let us all see her, in case…”

Strike gasped, his heart dropping to his feet. He was barely aware of his surroundings as he got prepared, disinfecting his hands and face and putting on a sanitary gown. Robin had been moved to a separate room for herself in a desperate attempt to keep bacteria at bay, with a large window through which the others watched her sleep. Michael and Linda hugged in a corner, Stephen and Jenny having arrived in a rush, and Katie allowed Strike into the room.

“You’ve got five minutes,” said Katie, “afterwards we’re shutting visits down, we can’t risk exposure, we’re still fighting for her.”

Strike nodded, walking to Robin, who had turned quite grey, slightly jaundiced, and coughed, connected to a ventilator with a mask. The sedatives seemed to be not that good, and she groaned, her eyes closed. Strike walked over to her and sat on the single chair by her bed, caressing her warm face, drained of its usual life and colour.

“Robin… fuck Robin…” Strike sighed deeply, taking her frail hand in his and kissing her cheek. He broke down, suddenly overcome with deep sadness and pain, sobbing like a toddler, fat tears dropping onto his lap. He intertwined his fingers with Robin’s and brought her hand to his lips. “Don’t leave me,” he gasped, breathing heavily. “I can’t lose you now… I can’t… what am I supposed to do if you leave me too, Robin? What am I supposed to do without you? Lucy’s in good hands. You’re everything I’ve got left to fight for, my love. You’re my everything…”

W hen the time came for him to go, Katie nearly had to physically pull him away, but at last he dragged his feet out.

“I’m very sorry,” said Katie, closing the door after herself. “But the least exposure she gets… she barely has immune system left, if you bring something from the street, something as little as a cold would kill her immediately.”

“I understand,” Strike took off the gown and cleaned his face in his shirt. “Michael,” he cleared his throat, putting a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Can I talk to you in private just one minute?”

Michael rubbed his glassy eyes beneath his glasses and nodded, following him to a separate corridor, where they stood close to each other in a corner.

“What is it?” Michael asked him, his voice hoarse from emotion.

“I’m pretty sure the person who did this is Ewan Montgomery,” explained Strike. “I can’t tell you how I know, I just know. I’ve been investigating crimes far too long, one develops a second sense…” he took a deep breath. “The police is going to arrest and interrogate him, I gave them plenty of evidence, but if things stall, if Robin… if she can’t give a witness statement… it’s possible that there isn’t enough evidence to prove, beyond a shade of doubt, that he did it. It’s possible the judge will consider there isn’t sufficient reason, and then, I’ll have to reveal why he had a big reason for revenge, one they don’t know yet. One I’d rather, and Robin would rather, no one, not even you, ever knew. So I’m not going to say anything, but if it comes down to it… and I say it as a last resource, Michael… if police asks you about a baby—,”

“What baby?”

“Listen,” Strike tried to be more clear. “Look. Robin thought she was pregnant. She wasn’t,” he hurried to say, even though he knew he was lying, “it was a false positive. But when she thought she was, she told Ewan thinking he was the father. He’d given her syphilis, she wrongly believed he’d given her a baby.”

“He did what?!” Michael’s eyes filled with anger. “Why didn’t she—?”

“’Cause she was afraid of disappointing people further, so nobody knows Michael, and that’s how it must stay. Nobody can know. But say the judge didn’t see enough evidence to justify Ewan attacking her, then I would be force to tell them Robin had accused Ewan of giving her syphilis and a pregnancy, and Ewan had told her to fuck off, and so she’d told about the affair to his wife of the time, who had also been given syphilis by him, so she knew Robin wasn’t lying. So she left him, and he’d be very angry, but also, it’s possible that if he thought she was pregnant, perhaps over the years he’d want to see the baby. He left London immediately after they broke up,” explained Strike, and Michael listened attentively, “so he never knew the pregnancy was false. And he was forbidden to see his children, with whom Robin told me he had a rather close relationship, which was what had made her think he’d care about their child too, when she believed she was pregnant, but he hadn’t, right? But I think it’s possible that over the years he missed his children so much he decided to seek the one he had with Robin, and that that’s why he went to see her. I think she told him she was mistaken and there was no baby, and then two things could’ve happened. One, he became furious out of disappointment and stabbed her, or two, he might have thought she aborted it, which is illegal, and stabbed her. So, like I said, I might have to tell the police this theory if it gets down to it, I might have to tell them, as a very last resource, about the supposed baby, so they understand Montgomery had quite the reasons to be angry enough to stab her, so he does go to prison, so he doesn’t get away, you understand? But if I do, he could go and tell the judge she aborted, and then because it’s illegal, the judge will seek evidence in her medical records, her body…”

“But they’ll find none,” said Michael. “Which will prove Robin truly thought she was pregnant for nothing, that it wasn’t true. There’s nothing in her records.”

“Except that she did have syphilis,” said Strike, mixing truth with lies to protect her. “And she did believe she was pregnant. And she panicked the baby would be born with problems due to syphilis, so she… she requested a dilation and curettage, I don’t know from whom, it was… backdoor. She thought if she asked a doctor to do it, they would refuse because if she was pregnant it’d mean aborting, so she went backdoor, she told me, she confessed to me in absolute secrecy, that she just wanted to get it all scrapped and clean and make sure there was no chance she could have a baby with so many issues, possibly stillborn,” Michael’s eyes widened. “There was no baby so there was no abortion, but there was a backdoor D&C, which might have left scarring, because it wasn’t done properly in a hospital…”

“Which could be found if a judge asks doctors to retrieve evidence, and would support Montgomery saying she aborted, because it’d look like it,” said Michael, and Strike nodded. “We shouldn’t tell… but if we don’t, he might get away, he could argue after three years he wasn’t going to now suddenly commit revenge for her revealing the affair. Telling them he might’ve returned for the baby, missing his children… it’s a believable story. But it’ll make him decide to take her down with him, life in prison for abortion…”

“Yes.”

“What are we going to do? We can’t send her to prison, if she lives… But if she does live, she wouldn’t testify for months yet, she wouldn’t be in shape. Montgomery would be in Argentina by then. They need enough to prosecute him now.”

“What could turn against her is evidence she had a D&C, which might not exist, it might have healed pretty nicely. So all we have to do is find a way to justify her having one which is not in her medical record, for the possibility there is proof of one. I was thinking, given you’re a surgeon… a respectable doctor, clean record… you could tell them, only if you’re asked, Michael, otherwise we really must shut up and not let even family know…”

“If I’m asked, what do I say?”

“Tell them you came to London and did the D&C at home. You couldn’t put it in her official record, you couldn’t take her to your surgery because then you could’ve gotten in serious trouble if you were accused of performing an abortion… but you’re her Dad. You came to London because she begged you, you did a D&C and perhaps not that good because you didn’t have the right equipment and environment and help of nurses as you would in your surgery, perhaps you left scarring. But you did it, aware that if she was truly pregnant it’d mean aborting, because you wanted to help your only daughter. And you discovered there was no pregnancy, but you had already scrapped her uterus.”

“I could still lose my license, Cormoran. That story still says I agreed to perform an illegal abortion, even if in the end there’s no baby. I’d do anything for Robin, Cormoran, but we’d both still go to prison, you realize? The judge would hear we were willing to perform an illegal abortion.”

“Shit you’re right…” Strike groaned, trying to think quickly of a way to save it. “Wait, wait… no. You can tell the judge by the time Robin asked you to do that, she knew she wasn’t pregnant but Montgomery was already gone. You can say Robin wanted the D&C just to make sure the syphilis hadn’t damaged her, say she was having irregular periods, make something up. So you and her both knew there was no baby when you agreed on the D&C, but it was still a necessary procedure. And you had to do it backdoor because…” Strike tapped his chin, thinking. “Because she had just published a book, and didn’t want to go to a hospital and start some rumours that’d damage the selling of the book, her reputation.”

“That’s good, that’ll work!” Michael nodded. “Okay so, you go, tell the police Montgomery thought she was pregnant and came to meet his child, missing his own children with his ex-wife. Tell them it’s possible Montgomery and Robin fought because she told him it turned out to be a false pregnancy, that he didn’t believe her and stabbed her thinking she’d aborted their child, killed his baby, right? And when the police investigates if there was an abortion, I will tell them I knew there was a belief of a pregnancy, I knew it turned out to be false, and because she suffered syphilis I agreed to clean things up, but we did it backdoor to protect her reputation as she published her book, which is why they’ll find evidence of a D&C which is not in her record. Not ‘cause she aborted.”

“Perfect, good plan,” Strike nodded. “We’ll do that. You might still lose your career, but no one should wind up in prison of the two of you, right?”

“That’s all right. I’ll lose my career if it sends that bastard to prison. But Cormoran,” said Michael, putting a hand on his shoulder and locking eyes with him. “Tell me what really happened. She thought she was having a backdoor abortion?”

S trike cursed inwardly. He could’ve given him the same story he was now making up for the police, but he’d been so distraught… what if Michael found out the truth? The lie he’d fed him was quite close. But there was no going back now.

“The truth is that Robin wrongly believed she was pregnant, she was nauseous, that type of stuff. She had Nick diagnose her with syphilis, but didn’t want him to know about the baby, he’s married to a lawyer, she didn’t want him to be in a predicament. And she did some research on her own, found how dangerous syphilis could be, found a backdoor abortion place and asked them to do a D&C. She only told me recently, she wants this completely in secret, because she knows that even though she had no baby… she did think there was one, so she went there to do something illegal. And she wants nobody, not a soul, to know, she only told me because she doesn’t know if the D&C might have affected our chances to have a baby,” Strike explained. “But we can’t mention Nick to the police, we can’t drag him to court or anything, Michael, that’s why I asked you. If you lose your career, you’re already nearly retired anyway it doesn’t change things much. But it’d ruin Nick’s career to have his name in relationship to something like this, and possibly Ilsa’s too, being a lawyer whose husband could be wrongfully accused of doing the D&C, you understand? We can’t let police build a case against them, there’s no evidence but if they’re convincing enough they won’t need it and will ruin careers of people who did nothing wrong and who have a child. And I want to protect them.”

“Understood,” Michael nodded. “I won’t say a word, to anybody, only to police if they ask. And only the lie we made up. And if it turns out Robin lied to him and instead of telling him there was no baby she invented a miscarriage… the D&C will justify it too, I’ll say I cleaned her up after she’d had it.”

“Thanks Michael.”

“Go get out girl some justice, will you?”

“Yes,” Strike looked towards the room Robin was, feeling stabbing in his heart. “If she dies while I’m gone…”

“She knows how important she’s to you. There won’t be nothing left unsaid, son.”

Strike took a deep breath and left, before he could regret it.

Chapter Text

Chapter 26: A time of lies.

The arrival of Strike at Scotland Yard came just in time, as Wardle was interrogating Montgomery, who had said exactly what Strike knew he would say, once he saw himself cornered. That he hadn’t meant to hurt Robin, that he had gone to talk to her about meeting the child he thought they had had in 1953, that he missed having a family and had wanted to be a father for their child, to apologize for his absence, to be there. And according to Montgomery, Robin had told him she had had a miscarriage and lost the baby, and he hadn’t believed her. He’d accused her of aborting ‘his’ child, and had stabbed her with her own letter-opener in a fit of rage, letting his emotions take the best from him, and then he’d called a friend in Wales to fake he was there, while in reality he remained in Whitechapel, thinking nobody would find him there. He excused himself with crocodile tears, saying he hadn’t meant to kill her, that he’d acted in a sudden fit of anger because she had illegally killed their child.

“Fantastic,” Wardle said drily, pacing around his office after telling Strike how the interview had gone. “He’ll go to prison a few years for manslaughter, but if your girlfriend makes it, she’ll go to prison for life for abortion.”

“You have no evidence she aborted anyone, nor that she was ever pregnant. Look at her medical history, ask her family, her friends,” said Strike calmly. “You’ll find nothing. It’s the word of a criminal against hers.”

“Before I came to this office to talk to you, I called a judge, who gave me permission to call the hospital and request an examination. Took them ten minutes to let me know there were signs of Robin having had a procedure called dilation and curettage, which is used…”

“I know what it’s for,” said Strike. “But I also know it can be used to treat medical issues, and that Robin had it, after miscarrying, to clean up. She had syphilis that son of a bitch gave her, and she wanted to make sure nothing could worsen her health. She didn’t have it as an abortion, she had it to solve medical issues.”

“Says you. Her medical records say nothing, and if it was the case, she could’ve had it in a normal medical centre.”

“She couldn’t,” said Strike, “she was just about to publish a book, and she knew if rumour said she’d gone to the hospital to have a D&C everyone would assume just like you, that she’d aborted. By the time an investigation would clear the truth, her book would’ve already sunk in the stores, so she did it secretly to ensure nobody could make rumours that’d ruin her reputation, she was suffering enough having lost the baby to go through more crap…”

“So you knew all of this and hid it from me?”

“I didn’t think it’d be relevant,” Strike scowled. “I didn’t see then how it’d affect the investigation, but I’m telling you everything now, aren’t I? And I’ll tell you more. The procedure was carried out by Doctor Michael Ellacott, her father. He’s a surgeon, but he works in Masham in a surgery he couldn’t bring her to, or else rumours could’ve appeared too, it’s a small town, Robin’s natal town. So he came to London and carried out the procedure at her home, he’ll tell you himself. But he’s not a specialist on that type of thing, which is why it might look like a backdoor job, not done by a professional, because it’s not his field of speciality. He wanted to protect his only daughter’s reputation and help her solve a complex medical issue, that’s all, no abortion.”

“And you’ve known since…?”

“Few weeks, when I returned,” Strike explained patiently. “Robin was worried her father might not have done the best job, considering he’s a General Surgeon, and he’s been a local doctor no longer performing many surgeries for the past few years and is out of practice, she thought perhaps if the job wasn’t so good we might struggle to have children together. Her father is the only other person in the world who knows. Ask him.”

“Oh I bloody well will!” Wardle stormed to the door but Strike stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Wardle…” Strike sighed deeply, and Wardle turned around. “She’ll be dead today,” Wardle paled, frowning.

“What?”

“She’s suffering septic shock. The doctors give her hours, the treatment is not working. Her family’s in unbelievable pain,” said Strike, “why hurt them more making questions, when they’re preparing to lose her? You can’t prosecute a dead person, anyway. Have some humanity, her father’s losing his baby girl, they are very, very close… give it some days before asking him anything, okay?”

“So you can plan a lie with him?”

“No, I have a professional integrity, Wardle, you know I couldn’t do that. I’d risk my career, which seems to be all I have left,” Strike murmured. “If you don’t trust me fine, beat him up with questions until he’s a sobbing mess, I’m sure court will consider that a reliable statement.” He said sarcastically, and Wardle puffed, nodding.

“Fine, I’ll wait until after the funeral, but then I’ll have to ask Strike, because Montgomery will say crap in trial and if she didn’t do it, there’s no need for him to drag her reputation is it?”

“Agreed,” Strike nodded. His eyes watered at the thought of Robin’s funeral and he looked down quietly, composing himself. Wardle sighed and put a hand on his shoulder.

“For the record, I’m sorry this is happening.”

Strike nodded again.

“Just make sure he pays,” Strike said, looking up at him in the eyes. “You know, I fell in love with her when we were twenty-two and twenty-one, even sooner I think, and the next year… my little brother died on my watch, he drowned, it was a tragic accident. But I couldn’t be here any more, and ran away to work for the RMP. I’ve been gone ten years, not one single break, couldn’t handle days off, so depressed I was… and not a day went past that I didn’t want to return to her, or that she didn’t want me back. And now I come… and he murders her. Just when our life was starting,” a silent tear fell down his cheek. “He has to pay, DI Wardle. She’s been a good woman. She’s helped people. She does pro bono therapy to struggling veterans, war heroes, she’s no evil, she doesn’t deserve this, and that monster takes advantage of young students. Please… protect her. Whatever’s left of her.”

Wardle stared at him for a long silent moment, and then nodded, and Strike left.

At the hospital, Strike told Michael what had happened so he knew what to expect and how to lie, and they told the family Montgomery had confessed, period. The happiness it would’ve normally given them was clouded by the fact that Robin’s doctor concluded she was only getting worse, and all the treatments had been attempted.

Strangely, the next day Robin was still alive, and the following one marked thirty-two hours stable, without worsening. She wasn’t improving an inch either, but they were all in hospital wondering what was going on. Even Wardle passed by, surprised he hadn’t received bad news yet.

“All I can tell you is in my medical experience, seeing how things are,” said the elderly doctor in charge. “She should be dead. She should’ve died by now, but… it appears that the treatment, even if not improving her condition, has started to kick in and stop her from getting worse. Might be a miracle or… well, sometimes a patient appears to suddenly be better right before they die, it’s a common phenomenon. Could be that, too.”

Whatever it was, nobody dared to leave. They convinced each other, in turns, to go for a nap, to eat, to work, whatever was necessary, and a week passed, and then two. By then, it was all over the papers how a university professor had confessed he had attempted to kill the famous professor and writer, and the papers, thanks to Wardle, spoke of how he’d taken advantage of Robin and another student in the past, as far as police knew, and how they were treating this as a crime of passion, because Montgomery had returned to Robin, they had fought about matters concerning their past relationship, and he’d gotten angry and stabbed her. No more details were revealed, and Robin’s family wasn’t bothered with questions, and so Montgomery remained in prison awaiting trial, while the world turned against him.

By the time the third week of Robin’s hospital stay came, two incredible things happened, one, the former Mrs Montgomery told the press he’d had affairs with students for a long time, and that Robin had warned her once she’d known he was married, and left him, and thanks to her she had been able to start a new life with her children, since Robin had even provided a written statement and testified so she’d be allowed to divorce on the grounds of adultery. Robin was hailed as a good person, and meanwhile she continued to fight to survive. The other incredible thing that happened was that her status began to improve so that, in late February, she finally was good enough to lie against a bunch of pillows a breathe on her own, although she was completely drained.

“You made it to every headlines, miracle recovery, they say,” Strike grinned, sitting on the edge of the bed and dropping the newspaper on the bedside cabinet. “And they’re discharging you tomorrow. You’re coming home and Nick, Katie, your parents and I will be all around to look after you.”

“Hail house arrest,” Robin joked sarcastically.

Her voice still sounded quite weak, her breath a little heavy sometimes, and she still looked very pale, but mostly white pale, not quite grey as she had. She was eating a little now too, and her fever was nearly gone, but the doctors had prognosticated she’d spend months recovering, in what they called Post Sepsis Syndrome, which apparently happened to some people after going through intense sepsis, and consisted of months, even years in rare cases, in which one continued to feel sick, weak, lethargic, insomniac, in pain, or suffer from nightmares and PTSD, amongst other things.

“I’ll make it sexy, when possible,” Strike winked, making her smile weakly, and he kissed her face all over, pecking her lips. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Robin stretched her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her chest, and he let her cuddle him contently. “I’m sorry for the scare.”

“Not your fault,” said Strike. “And now we’re even.” She snorted a laugh and kissed his forehead. He had told her everything about what he had said as lies to Michael and Wardle, and she was going to go along with it, deciding it was the best option for everyone. It provided some calmness of mind, because she’d never have to fear any more that someone would discover she actually had an abortion.

She had also told them what had truly happened, for what she could remember, which was admittedly a little foggy. Robin recalled having been busy correcting homework when someone had knocked on her door and, assuming it was her student, she had verbally called him in, and only when she’d look up, hearing the door be locked from inside, had she seen Montgomery. He had asked about the child, she had said she had miscarried it, he had accused her of an abortion and before she could ask for help o r realize she was in major danger, he’d gotten rapidly enraged, grabbed her card opener from her desk and stabbed her. The card opener was later found in his house by the police.

A knock in the door interrupted them, and Wardle appeared, but Strike didn’t move.

“Professor Ellacott, I’m DI Wardle, in charge of your attack investigation,” said Wardle formally. “I wanted to ask you a few questions? In private.”

“Sure thing,” Robin patted Strike. “Go shower, you stink.”

“I don’t stink.”

“You do,” Robin smiled warmly, pecking his lips when he looked surly at her. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Strike got up and nodded at Wardle. “Good job mate, thank you,” he patted his shoulder and left, giving them privacy. Robin seemed quite calm about it, so he wasn’t going to stress.

When Strike returned three hours later, having showered, eaten, brushed his teeth, and cleaned around the house to prepare it for Robin’s impeding return, he found Wardle gone and Robin sitting up in bed, with her dressing gown on, having a juice while chatting with Nick, Ilsa and Lucy, who occupied the only other chairs in the room.

“I take it went well with Wardle?” Strike asked, walking over to sit on the edge of the bed at the feet, massaging Robin’s feet over the covers.

“Yes, and I just told Nick, Lucy and Ilsa what the new official version is, the one that’ll transcend to my family, press, judge, etc., the lie you made up. It exonerates them, and frees them from all sin,” said Robin. “And Dad’s not going to lose his job. They returned home to pack for a longer stay here, and he checked with his surgery already, nobody’s being judgemental. I found Wardle quite soft, by the way.”

“I think he sorta likes me,” Strike shrugged.

“And you showered,” Robin noticed with a small smile.

“How do you—?”

“Please Corm you stunk, nobody wanted to say anything but man…” Ilsa teased him, and Robin giggled.

“It’s true, now you don’t give me any smells.”

“And you guys call yourselves my best friends? I’d expect someone to say something,” said Strike.

“What for? You’d still refuse to leave the hospital, and be offended as a plus,” Lucy retorted.

Strike rolled eyes but half smiled.

“Well, now I have showered, brushed my teeth and cleaned the house, so all is ready for you to return. Did you walk a bit with the nurse?” Strike asked Robin, who nodded.

“Cost me every fibre of patience and energy I’ve got left, but yes. And my Dean came, they found me a substitute so I can take the rest of the school year off in medical leave of absence, which means I’m going to be bored as fuck.”

“Think of all the books you’re going to dictate me to write,” said Strike. “And all the relaxing baths and massages and home-cooked meals without moving an inch.”

“He’s just happy he won’t have to be dying of boredom again,” Nick teased him amusedly.

Robin smiled warmly at Strike, sipping her vitamin juice, and he shrugged apologetic, smiling at her. There was only them in their world.

Chapter Text

C hapter 27: The new normal.

“It’s healing nicely, sweetheart. I won’t be needed to look after it any more, just follow the guidelines I gave you and it’ll be all right.”

“Thanks Dad.”

Michael Ellacott finished carefully adjusting the new gauze over the large horizontal scar below Robin’s ribs, and lowered her pyjama t-shirt, tucked the blankets right over his daughter again, and kissed her forehead before getting back up.

“Thank you so much, Michael,” added Strike, walking over. “Are you sure you don’t want to accompany us for lunch?”

“Ah, yes, thank you son. I’m too busy with the surgery and the farm, I wouldn’t want to arrive home too late,” Michael smiled gratefully and looked down at his daughter, who gave him a small smile from her place lying on the sofa. “You take care, all right darling?”

“Yes, and you come any time, we love to have family over,” Robin said softly. “And travel safely, give kisses to everyone from us.”

“Will do,” Michael kissed her cheek. “Love you.”

“Love you too Dad.”

“And Cormoran,” Michael hugged the younger man. “A pleasure as always.”

“All mine,” Strike smiled fondly. “I’ll walk you to the door,” the two men left the sitting room of the small house in Fulham and walked towards the entrance, where Strike lowered his voice as Michael put on his coat. “So how do you think she’s doing?”

“Slow recovery, but that was expected. It’s been two months, the wound’s nearly completely closed, no signs of infection, she takes her medication diligently… We’ll be patient. How are you doing here all day?”

Strike snorted.

“A little driven up the wall, but next to what she’s going through is nothing. She keeps me well entertained, having to stop her from overdoing it every half hour,” Michael chuckled, nodding, and grabbed his suitcase. “But don’t worry, I’ll take care of her.”

“I know you will,” Michael shook his hand. “Until next time, son. Call us, will you?”

“Of course. Sure you don’t want me to accompany you to St Pancras?”

“I’m sure, it’s fine, you stay with her. Bye bye.”

“Bye,” Strike opened the door for him and locked it afterwards, walking back to Robin, who had moved to sit up on the sofa, looking out the window, wrapped in a blanket. “How are you doing love?”

“Weary as hell,” Robin sighed, shaking her head. “First I miss Amanda’s second birthday, now her baptism… and I’ve nothing to do. No books on the works, no travels, no studying, no preparing classes and exams, no correcting classwork… I’m bored. But how else could I be considering a mere stroll tires me like it does?”

Strike sat by her side, caressing her back softly. She had better colour now, the paleness coming from the lack of sunlight and not from illness.

“Give it time, you’ll be back.”

“It’s been two months, I don’t feel any closer to being back.”

“It took me a year to be fit for a prosthesis, and twelve and a half years later I’m still limping and walking funny,” Strike shrugged. “There are things in life we cannot ever be normal afterwards but… we can adapt, get used to it, maybe you’ll never be hundred percent the Robin you were but you can still improve a lot, the doctor said there was room for improvement.”

“What if I don’t improve fast enough? What if I miss Sean’s wedding? Lucy’s? God, I’m a bridesmaid in both of them…”

“You will make it,” Strike reassured her, leaning to kiss her shoulder. “Now, want to go visit Nick and Ilsa? They invited us over for tea, if you feel like it.”

“Yeah,” Robin nodded, and winced as she stood up. “Let me just get dressed.”

“Take your time all right?”

S trike waited downstairs while Robin got ready, and she slowly dressed, coming down quite a long time later.

“I’m ready.”

“That’s my pretty girl,” Strike smiled, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her softly.

Robin was still in the mood and strength for driving, which Strike considered a success. He had never in a million years imagined that returning to London would be like this, constantly bored beyond belief even with the woman he loved the most in the world, facing health issues, seeing her go through so much pain. He’s imagined things more like a honeymoon or a fairy tale, spending hours love-making, perhaps some travel, countless laughter and joy, rediscovering London together in romantic strolls, and eventually feeling annoyed he had to return to work. Now, he was dying to return to work. It didn’t mean that he felt any less about Robin, he was just experiencing some trouble getting used to the normal life of London, feeling a deep disenchantment towards the life he’d envisioned would be wonderful. And what was worst, he had a feeling Robin was going through a similar thing. There had been, after all, ten years of expectations, of hopes and dreams, of being dying to be together, and now that they were… something didn’t quite click. It was like spending ten years waiting for a book with high expectations, for it to suck. Except that it wasn’t like any of them was doing something wrong, and neither dared to voice their sensations. What could they do? They were being loving, funny, kind, good company. They had nothing to change, in their own behaviour.

T en minutes into tea, Ilsa announced she was expecting again, just twelve weeks along. It was great news, but also a reminder that their lives weren’t moving like the Herberts’ lives were. They continued chatting quite amicably, sharing some laughter, until there was a moment of comfortable silence that Robin interrupted almost without realizing, when her thoughts became too loud for herself alone.

“How can you… do life?” Robin asked surprisingly after a while, looking at Nick and Ilsa, sitting together in their modern sitting room, while Amanda played with her dolls upstairs.

“What d’you mean?” asked Ilsa, frowning at the thought that her friend might be talking about suicide.

“I mean…” Robin shrugged. She was leaning back against cushions on the sofa, still finding her belly painful most of the time. “Perhaps it’s because I was so active with the war and my family was buzzing with activity around the war and the farm back then but… I don’t know how to stay quiet. I don’t think I’d know how to… just marry, live in a pretty house, have a couple kids, and not be bored out of my mind, even keeping my job. Shit, even my job has become a routine. When September comes, after all, I’ll be expected to do the same thing, start another school year, repeat the same lessons, try once more to get little youngsters who still play soldiers to take the trauma of a war seriously for nothing, keep listening to people’s angst and drama in pro bono therapy, and my editor will be knocking on my door to be fed another best seller. Even travelling tends to be the same, and even sex stops being that exciting after a thousand times. Always the same thing for what, the next… fifty, sixty years of my life? Where’s all the excitement gone?”

N ick, Ilsa and Strike shared alarmed expressions, but Robin was busy staring at the ceiling full of boredom. Not boredom with her friends or her partner, but with her life. It was also somewhat annoying for her.

“I thought you really loved your job and were passionate about it?” Nick asked. “What’s wrong with it all of the sudden?”

“I think I was passionate about romantic ideas of it that haven’t quite amounted to nothing,” Robin shrugged indifferently. “Perhaps it’s nearly dying. If I had died, and seen the film of my life… I would’ve yawned in boredom and thought, that’s it? Thirty-two years thrown to the trash, what a boring, uninteresting person.”

“You’re not boring,” said Strike, frowning. “You’re just depressed.”

“Cormoran, I am boring. You think I’m blind?” she turned to look at him.

“What d’you mean?”

“The first day you came here, you were full of excitement and passion, shining with happiness. The second day, it had begun to wear off, but we went to Masham, and it was holiday time. And when you came back… you’ve been looking more surly and bored every single day. You’re an adventure guy who now spends his days caring for his convalescent girlfriend, cooking, and doing house chores Cormoran, I’m sure you had higher expectations of what coming back would be like. Perhaps if you joined a club, went to parties with other men, slept with a few—,”

“Don’t even say that, not even joking Robin,” Strike scowled deeply. “My boredom has absolutely nothing to do with you or your character. I’m just getting accustomed to many life changes Robin, wanted changes, I don’t want to travel the world any more, from conflict to conflict, always investigating…”

“Don’t you miss it then?”

“Sometimes,” Strike admitted, and shrugged. “Just like I miss the sun when it’s rainy and the rain when it’s sunny, Robin. Humans are people of routines, when it changes, it takes a bit getting used to. It’s been ten years, I can’t just love my new life from one month to another, it’s a long-term process. I’m reconnecting with my country, with the city where I grew up, learning public transport, underground, paying taxes… and there’s a certain charm on having dull things again, you know? I like cooking. I like taking care of you. I like helping Lucy with her wedding. It’s not all boring, and what it is, it’s absolutely unrelated to you, love.”

“Still…” Robin looked over at Nick and Ilsa. “How do you do it? You get up always at the same time, have breakfast at the same time, wait for the nanny, go to the office, come back, play with Amanda for a bit, dinner, bed, repeat. Now add baby number two to the equation. Don’t you get bored?”

“I happily welcome some boredom with all the stress of work,” said Ilsa, “not to mention of the war. Some people I suppose left it needing more adrenaline, others like us… we enjoy sitting doing nothing, actually. And raising Amanda, teaching her things, playing with her… we enjoy that too. But we also go on dates, have parties, see friends, go on family days, get hobbies to break the routine a little.”

“Haven’t you thought perhaps you’re just depressed, Robin?” Nick offered. “You know, not seeing the excitement in life any more?”

“I am depressed,” Robin admitted. “But maybe it’s a blessing, not something to erase. I’m just disappointed at the life I’ve built, always surrounded by academics… always old men, after all. Writing, at heart, about the same things. Talking about the same things, with the same people, the same elite universities… the farm seems more exciting than the life I’ve built. I wanted to be a policewoman when I was a kid, for Christ’s sakes, how did I end up like… this?”

S trike shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Tell you what love, why don’t I take you on some exciting trip, uh? We could go to the States. Do a road trip from East Coast to West Coast, you love driving. We could see New York City, I heard it’s great.”

“The doctor won’t let me go to the beach, why would he let me go to New York?” Robin replied. “Besides, it’s really just… skyscrapers put together, I’ve been there. Skyscrapers, a big park and a river, just like London, but the taxis are yellow and the fumes are horrible.”

“You really are depressed,” Ilsa frowned. “Are you taking antidepressants? Because you should.”

“I can’t,” said Robin. “My liver and kidneys aren’t good enough yet. Neither are my intestines for that matter… I’m depressing you all, aren’t I? I’m sorry…”

“No, it’s not your fault, and this is what friends are for,” Nick hurried to say.

“You could join the police,” said Strike. “I’d support you.”

“But I meet no physical requirements,” said Robin. “And with the injury I don’t even know if I ever could. Besides, you’re bored of being a soldier, wouldn’t I get bored of being a policewoman?”

“What makes you think I’m bored of being a soldier?” Strike inquired. “I love my job.”

“But you quit. You’re imminently moving to intelligence, to, as you said, put less strain on the leg, sit examining intelligence papers, sending information… you’ll get bored, just like you got in the farm, you always needed to be hands in. When the farm truly made you happy was when you got your prosthesis and could go out there and work with your bare hands. You’re not made for an office.”

“Well, if I do get bored I’m sure I’ll be able to find something else,” Strike shrugged simply. “I’m not bored right now, and the Intelligence Operations Room doesn’t strike me as a boring place. Point is Robin, I do think police could be a great place for you.”

Robin shrugged, looking down without much enthusiasm for nothing in particular. Ilsa gave her a long glance before moving over to her side and sitting next to her, on the side not occupied by Strike. She put an arm around Robin’s shoulders.

“If it’s life in general that doesn’t enthusiasm you any more sweetie, perhaps you should go to therapy,” said Ilsa. “Maybe then, you’ll start to feel better about everything.”

With a loud sigh, Robin nodded.

“Maybe.”

Returning home, Robin still seemed discouraged, unhappy, dull, unenthusiastic, and after a quick dinner, she excused herself to go to bed and Strike was left alone in the sitting room, wondering how they were going to get past this stage of their story. As he sat, the phone behind him rang, and he stretched to answer, surprised to receive calls this late.

“Hello?” he spoke into the phone, lowering his voice to avoid waking Robin up.

“Hi, I’m looking for Major Cormoran Strike, SIB, is he in the house?”

“I am,” said Strike. “Who am I talking with?”

“Hello, Sit. I’m Captain Connor Rhys, SIB. A few months ago I believe you contacted Lieutenant Hardacre about an anonymous tip you received of a Private who witnessed a Corporal murder innocents unjustifiably during World War II.”

Strike nodded for himself. During Christmas, he has spoken with Martin, just as he’d promised Robin he would do, and from their conversation Strike had gathered a strong belief that Martin had, indeed, witnessed a crime which was tormenting him to this day, and provoking severe Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The crime in question appeared to have occurred during Martin’s first year drafted and deployed abroad, in 1943. Back then, Martin had been deployed to Bari, on the Adriatic Sea, when he’d witnessed a Corporal, whose name he never found out, killing unarmed civilians and raping women. Strike had told Hardacre, who’d promised to investigate the matter.

“Yes, Captain Rhys. I see the lieutenant handed it to you.”

“Well I’ve got a higher rank, so he asked me for help and I’ve been able to find more information. It appears whoever complained to you about the matter was right. I contacted others who were deployed there at the time, and who still serve with us, and they commented that one Corporal acted suspiciously and at times, the legitimacy of his actions was dubious. Being honest with you, it seemed to me like nobody wanted to remember any more, like whatever they saw was bad enough for memory to suppress it, but I contacted the Italian Government and it does appear like there were deaths unaccounted for. After further digging, I’ve managed to figure out who did it, problem is, I don’t see how we’re going to arrest and interrogate him.”

“What do you mean?” asked Strike with a frown.

“Well, the Corporal in question was out of the army as soon as war finished, he was between the first ones to return home, and everyone he knew him thought poorly of him, but not that he was a criminal, just that he slacked, was a coward, tried to stay behind and send others in his place all he could. Problem is, he is Jonny Rokeby, the rock star,” Strike’s eyes widened in surprise, and he raised his eyebrows. “His father is a diplomat, man’s practically untouchable, probably has an army of lawyers, and we don’t have enough evidence to win over that kind of defence. If your anonymous soldier could identify him from a picture—,”

“No,” said Strike. “There’s no way. He’s receiving treatment for PTSD, has had psychotic attacks, making him get further involved with his would absolutely drive him off the edge, he’s already attempted suicide once, I’m not going to have a former soldier kill himself because we pressured him too much. What evidence have you gathered?”

“Few witness statements and the man who was his Staff Sergeant then, and is now retired, says there were always inconsistencies in his reports, that Rokeby would tell him stories that weren’t completely believable, strange ways to justify otherwise unacceptable things, but that from that to a crime like this… he hadn’t suspected.”

“I’ll get Rokeby to confess then.”

“How are you going to do that Sir?”

“I don’t know, but I’m on a leave in London, Rokeby’s in London I believe, and he’s an old acquaintance, sort of saying. Friend of a friend, perhaps I can make him talk. I’ll figure it out and call you when I’ve got something.”

After exchanging contact information and finishing the call, Strike took a deep breath. So his mother’s former lover was now an absolute prick.

He undressed quietly in a corner of the master bedroom, watching Robin’s shape illuminated by the moonlight. Once more, she seemed a bit uneasy in her sleep, but aside from a little tossing and turning, it wasn’t too bad. Still, he didn’t want to make noise looking for pyjamas, so he slid under the covers naked and put an arm around her waist, kissing her cheek softly.

“Cormoran?” she murmured sleepy.

“I’m here,” he whispered. Robin rolled over into his chest, groaning probably in pain with something, but was soon fast asleep. She always seemed to sleep better in his arms, and he didn’t mind adapting his sleeping posture to her needs.

That night, however, thoughts of Robin’s depression, Rokeby’s crime and Martin’s PTSD, with the slight deviation to the Herbert’s new baby, kept Strike awake for hours, until he finally succumbed to sleep.

Chapter Text

Chapter 28: Military expectations .

The next morning over breakfast, Strike told Robin about the phone-call. Robin, who’d barely slept, seemed grateful for the distraction, and listened to him attentively, hardly paying attention to her breakfast. Eating, specifically with the doctor’s diet, had become much less fun since having a chunk of her small intestine taken out, which had necessitated for abdominal muscles to be cut too, in order to reach there, muscles which healed painfully and slowly, and didn’t appreciate being stretched if she ate a bit too much.

“So what’s your plan?” asked Robin.

“Well, he and my Mum were lovers, perhaps he’d be interested in meeting me, sometimes when a friend dies, one might like talking with their offspring, right?” Strike shrugged. “I could bring a recorder and record everything secretly, going as Leda’s son, instead of as an SIB officer, and perhaps start sharing military anecdotes until he spills. The recording won’t do in trial, but I could later threaten with releasing it to the press and ruining his reputation if he doesn’t agree to tell everything to me again in an interrogation room during an official interrogation. Pressure him into a full confession. I don’t know, I was hoping that like Martin, he’d be a bit tormented and in need to talk about it.”

“You could also interrogate his therapist, if he was one,” said Robin.

“What about patient-client confidentiality?”

“Doesn’t apply if there’s an official murder investigation, right? It’d be obstruction of justice. If you can get close enough to him for him to tell you if he’s going to therapy or something, then you could visit the therapist as Major Strike, SIB, and they’d be forced to tell you if Rokeby has talked about that. And if he had, then… I suppose you could arrest him, right? No matter how good his lawyers are, a therapist’s statement has to be gold in a trial, right.”

“It is! Robin, that’s a brilliant idea, thank you,” Strike kissed her enthusiastically and she smiled softly.

“Did I really help you?”

“Tremendously,” Strike assured her, kissing her hand too. “I love you so much. You’re so smart, so genius, and so wickedly great.”

She blushed heavily at his compliments.

“It does feel good to help. Will you keep me updated? I know you’re supposed to be secretive but… I won’t tell anyone, and if I could help…”

“You know what, I’ll do the exception and tell you all about the progress. We make a great team, after all, and no one will ever know,” Strike smiled warmly, happy to see a hint of excitement in her eyes, of enthusiasm long missed.

“Thank you.”

They heard the familiar sound of mail being slipped into their door’s mail slot, and Strike got up to pick it up from the entrance floor. He was wearing his prosthesis, some trousers and an underwear t-shirt, but at least he wasn’t walking around naked. Picking up the mail, he opened the door to peek the mail-man walking away.

“Thank you, have a good morning!” Strike shouted. The man turned around and smiled, waving. Strike liked to have the gesture every morning, which tended to make Robin smile, and which reminded him of his own childhood, when he’d rushed happily to pick up the mail and chat with the mail lady they’d had in Bromley. He checked the letters as he walked back to Robin. “Letters to Dr Ellacott, Ms Ellacott and Professor Ellacott, you’re like Batman, growing names.”

“They have the kindness to let me know how conservative they are just by the name they choose,” Robin joked, half smiling as she took the offered letters.

“Oh, and there’s one for me!” Strike noticed, being left with a single envelope. “Shit, it’s from the Royal Military Academy of Sandhurst, what do those crows want…”

“Certainly not taxes like my crows do,” said Robin, ripping the first of her envelopes off with a finger to open it. She had been rejecting cutting sharp objects, including knives and most definitely letter openers, since being stabbed. Strike sat around the corner from her at the table and opened his own letter.

“I’m being invited, which is military for forced, to an Army Mess Ball and Dinner,” Strike announced, and Robin looked up from her taxes.

“Jesus, I’ve never even gone to one, when I was in the Royal Army Nursing Corps,” Robin commented. “You must have dozens, now you’re a Major, right?”

“I’ve only had about half a dozen in all my life,” Strike shrugged. “I’ve been excused frequently due to commitments and operations I was in, but now I’m free and available and can’t say no. Please be my plus one?” Robin half smiled at his pout.

“When is it?”

“April 1st. They’re boring as hell, I need you, if you feel okay enough. I know it’s very short notice, only two and a half weeks away, but perhaps the doctor will have some ideas to help you be okay enough for it?”

“We’ll cross fingers, I’ll do what I can,” Robin nodded. “Wouldn’t let you suffer alone.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome. Besides, I happen to recall uniforms were quite elegant for the night…”

“Robin Venetia,” Strike raised eyebrows at her, “you’ve got a uniforms kink!” he said with amusement. Robin blushed heavily, looking back at her letters. “Oh you do!”

“It’s just… you’re a very sexy and masculine man,” Robin admitted blushing. “And suits fit you very nicely. Other people with those uniforms look like monkeys in a costume, but you’re more like…”

“Prince Charming?” Strike smirked. Robin kicked him under the table, embarrassed, and he laughed.

“Fine, but don’t be so cocky, two can play this game. I’ll wear the fanciest evening dress, nobody will be able to take their eyes off me.”

“Tempting,” Strike admitted. “The Queen will be attending though.”

“The Queen?” Robin turned her full attention back to him, surprised, and Strike nodded. “You’re kidding.”

“I am not, it’s here!” Strike held up the letter for her. “She, the Duke of Edinburgh, the Prime Minister Harold Macmillan and his wife Lady Dorothy, it doesn’t happen often, but I suppose that with us having just gotten new PM, the Suez Crisis having been resolved just last November and ongoing conflicts with the Malayan Emergency, Mau Mau Revolt, and the uprising against British occupation in Cyprus by the EOKA, the PM and the Queen will want to hear everything first-hand, discuss the conflicts with those fighting them. Only Commissioned Officers and Senior Officers and their plus ones have been invited, so only the upper ranks.”

“They sell it as a night of fraternising, celebrate the beginning of the Spring, and the new political era, as well as Britain’s military successes,” Robin read from the letter. “Guess they don’t want to spill the beans too plain and simple?”

“Yeah.”

“So what’s the Royal Military Police doing here? You’re not foot soldiers.”

“We’re involved in everything Robin, we provide military police presence here and overseas, we patrol, complete security operations, investigate crimes within the armed forces, provide security to military buildings, camps, headquarters and corps all over the globe, make sure spies don’t infiltrate us… we do a lot.”

“Oh,” Robin looked surprised. “I didn’t know it was such a complex deal,” Strike smiled softly. “Okay so I don’t want to make a fool of myself talking with other military wives and military husbands and your comrades, who’s going? I need to investigate, do research…”

Strike smiled fondly at her and sipped from his morning juice before beginning explanations.

“First requirement to go is to be a commissioned officer in this case, so it’s only the upper ranks. Second requirement, to be paying the mess membership.”

“Hold up, you’re annoyed, you say these things are boring, and you pay to go?” Robin gave him an incredulous gaze, and Strike sighed.

“A year after I was appointed Major, my good friend Hardy or as you know him, Lieutenant Hardacre, convinced me to go with him, try it out, cancel membership if I didn’t like it. And as it turns out, as annoying as it can be, there’s best food, some nice music, plenty of alcohol and what’s more… connections. You never know who might your life ever depend from, who you might need a favour from one day… chatting with everyone and building strong connections like Hardy became very useful and essential, even when a lot of it is boring and full of annoying protocols. And it was also my one time to have any resemblance of fun, to not work strictly saying. I’ll probably stop paying next year though, since I’m going to be in intelligence and not in such high need any more, but I did acquire some powerful friendships through those things, people who’d do a lot for me if ever I or my family was in trouble.”

“I see… so it’s strategic,” Robin commented, and Strike nodded. “So tell me more about it,” she said, moving to the sofa to get comfortable and he followed, sitting next to her. “Who goes? What does everyone do?”

“Only about two hundred people, only paying members of the mess, people who have high ranks as I said, they’ve got to be commissioned officers at the very least, because there are different dinners depending on your rank and this one’s rank-specific, and only people who aren’t busy with missions, operations, completely unavailable for something major, medically indisposed, or working away and unable to travel just for that. So even though people of all three branches, Army, Navy, Air Force, are invited, many regiments or units might not be represented at all, or only count with one or two people. I generally see between four or five colleagues, at most.”

“What’s your regiment? I don’t remember there being a Royal Military Police regiment now that I think about it…” Robin curled in her dressing gown, thoughtful. She knew a lot about the army due to her own previous occupation as a military nurse, her family’s involvement with the military, and Matthew, and she could’ve sworn she knew all the regiments.

“That’s because the SIB is a small part of the Royal Military Police, which in turn is a portion of the Provost Branch, which is part of the regiment of Adjutant General’s Corps.”

“Oh sweetie you truly are an ant in a galaxy,” Robin half smiled, leaning into his shoulder. Strike chuckled, playing with her hair. “So what ranks are invited?”

“The higher ranks will be the Queen and Prince Philip Duke of Edinburgh,” explained Strike. “They don’t always come, I’ve never seen them in one of these things actually, but hey, first time for everything. The Prime Minister and his wife will also be considered high ranks, and it’s also the first time I see them attend these things. Next, will be the Field Marshals, of which in the British Army we currently have thirteen, but one of them is Prince Philip who’s already accounted for, another Edward VIII—,”

“Who’s forbidden in the UK since he abdicated.”

“Exactly. Others are either busy overseas or not frequently at these events, maybe don’t pay membership any more… but I’d expect Baron Ironside, Earl Alexander of Tunis, Prince Henry Duke of Gloucester and Sir Gerald Templer. Those four never miss one.”

“And of the other ranks?”

“From the top of the pyramid down…” Strike continued, stopping for a minute to think. “You’ve got Generals, then Lieutenant Generals, then Major Generals, followed by Brigadiers, Colonels, Lieutenant Colonels, Majors like yours truly, then Captains, then Lieutenants like Hardy who might come, then Second Lieutenants, and finally at the bottom, the Officer Cadets. But it could be just me from the RMP, it depends on who was willing and available.”

“I see,” Robin nodded slowly, trying to refresh her memory and keep it all saved. “How will I know who’s who and how to approach them?”

“Per general rule, don’t talk unless somebody addresses you first, then pay attention to insignias like, you know, Majors have one crown insignia. But with Sir and Ma’am you shouldn’t need nothing else, and if you make a mistake, us normal people are okay with it. Royalty is another thing.”

“I won’t even breathe near the Queen, I don’t want her security guard to reopen my wound for stealing oxygen.”

Strike laughed, and Robin smiled tenderly at him.

“It’s funny, I can still see the twenty year old super young Sergeant who came to me all dying all these years ago, when I look at you,” Robin caressed his cheek softly. “You were a tad smaller, and so squalid, famine, lanky, skin and bones, and with the boyish features still there and the saddest, surliest expressions,” Strike smirked.

“Sounds handsome,” he ironised, and she chuckled.

“You were handsome, in a strange way,” Robin shrugged. “But now… I can’t believe what you’ve become suddenly, it seems so long ago and yet so little ago… and I don’t mean Major, which is cool, but whatever. I mean… you’re hunky, burly, well-built, with the right weight for your large height and frame, all muscle, and your face’s even gotten rounder. It’s like going from cute little baby lion to… the king of the savannah.”

“Aw, you flatter me,” Strike pecked her lips. “You’ve grown nicely too, though. You’re like good wine, the longer you let it be, the better it gets.”

“So I shouldn’t worry about you seeking younger ladies when I get wrinkly and white-haired?” Robin teased jokingly, raising an eyebrow.

“My love, if you become half the elderly woman your mum is, or your grandmothers were, you’ll hear no complaints from me,” Strike said, pecking her lips again. “Besides, between the two of us, I’ll grow old worse. Stick leg, fat and wrinkly.”

“Fat?”

“At some point I’ll give in to my one true love; steak, biscuits and beer.” Robin laughed.

“That’s three!”

“I’m polyamorous,” he joked, and they laughed together, enjoyed the rare moment of pure amusement and joy, and still being capable of making each other laugh. “Right so… I should write to Jonny Rokeby then. How do I not end up in a large pile of fan mail he’ll never read?”

“Can’t you call?”

“Don’t know how to get a number,” said Strike. “But I do know where he lives. Charlotte, my ex, her father was good friends with Rokeby, she told me the Rokebys have a manor in Oxfordshire. And Captain Rhys gave me an exact address according to his military records, which coincides in Oxfordshire so chances are is the same, right?”

“Hopefully,” Robin nodded. “Right, get writing, I’ll tidy the table up, since you cooked.”

“I can do it, you rest.”

“Cormoran I love you, but if you tell me to rest once more—,”

“Horrible things will happen,” Robin snorted a laugh.

“Yes,” she leaned to kiss him. “Get working.”

“Yes ma’am,” Strike smirked at her, seeing her walking to the kitchen giggling between her teeth, and got up himself to go to the small office Robin had already adjusted for him to use too, making space for his things.

Strike sat down with paper and his fountain pen and after a long moment of thought, began to write.

‘Dear Mr Rokeby,

I am Cormoran Strike, son of Captain Cormoran Strike (senior) and Royal Army Nursing Corps’ Matron Leda Strike, who I believe you used to be close friends with. Now, I am writing to you in hopes that we could meet, face to face, sometime soon.

Back in the day, my mother informed me of your friendship and that she had an on-and-off relationship as lovers with you during World War I and even though I believe, it all ended with the war, before I was born neary thirty-four years ago, I understan d it was a meaningful one, and I was hoping it would be meaningful enough for you to agree on having a chat with her son.

You see, they are all dead now. My father died on the 25 ^th of December 1939, killed by the Nazis, and my mother passed away from tuberculosis at home, on the 28 ^th of February 1942, and I was left with my younger sister and brother. We don’t need your help or anything, we are perfectly fine now, but I simply realized with them dying so young I hardly got to know them, and I was hoping you and I could talk about my mother just for a bit, perhaps an hour of your precious time whenever it’s best for your schedule, because I would love to know better who she was, the woman you knew.

I hope you won’t consider me too daring for approaching you, I am aware you’ve become quite a celebrity and you’re likely incredibly busy, but hopefully you’ll spare an hour for me, at your earliest convenience. I have recently moved to Fulham in London and I’m quite available, so when/if it works for you, just let me know at this address.

Thank you so much. Kind regards and best wishes,

Cormoran ’

“Arse licker,” Strike murmured to himself, rereading his words. He knew Rokeby’s type; like Charlotte, they required frequent strokes to their ego. And he hoped not revealing his military status would also be convenient. “Babe,” he raised his voice from the corridor, having walked downstairs holding the letter, and continued to walk towards the kitchen, “d’you think this is good? You’re the family’s writer, after all.”

Robin closed the dishwasher, which she’d just filled, and put it to work before turning around to face Strike, looking at the letter while she dryed her hands on a cloth. Her blue-grey pupils moved quickly as she read, and then she nodded.

“Should work, he’s got a strong ego, I see,” she commented with amusement.

“One can only imagine,” said Strike. “I heard he’s married twice and got what, five children? Man probably finds himself someone else to stroke his ego if his wife gets tired of it.”

“Celebrities,” Robin sighed, caressing her belly. “You send that, I’m going to lie down for a bit.”

“Does it hurt again?” asked Strike with a bit of concern.

“Comes and goes.”

“Right…” Strike followed her to the sofa and watched her lie down. “I’m going to get dressed then, and head to the post office. D’you need something from the street? I could go shopping.”

Robin groaned as she moved to lie down, holding her belly, and then stared at him in thought for a moment.

“Actually… your sister’s coming for dinner, so if you could buy something, that’d be good.”

“Luce’s coming for dinner? How come?”

“She called before, I think you were in the bathroom. Chris has gone with his students on a school trip to Devon, won’t be back until tomorrow, and she asked if she could hang with us for dinner, doesn’t like eating alone. She used to come often, and I like her so I said yes.”

“That’s good,” Strike nodded. “Yeah, I’ll cook. You lie there and look pretty,” he joked, leaning to kiss her. “I love you.”

“I love you more.”

“Not possible,” Strike walked upstairs to finish getting dressed, grabbed the letter and left. “See you soon!”

“Bye bye!” Robin shouted from the sitting room.

Chapter Text

Chapter 29: Genealogy.

Strike first got rid of the letter at the post office, always preferring to see her letters safely into the hands of a mail man, and then rushed to Tesco’s, out of which he came an hour later with plenty of things for the week. When he arrived back home, he was surprised to hear laughter, and found Lucy and Robin already chatting on the sofa. There was a carton box on the coffee table which wasn’t there before, and Lucy had made tea, judging by how comfortable Robin still looked lying down. His little sister had become a beautiful woman, not thirty yet, still looking young, with her long light brown hair falling in waves, her make-up soft, and dark blue eyes.

“Hi Stick!” she got up to kiss his cheek. “Oh, let me help you with that.”

“Thanks Luce, d’you need something love?”

“Nah I’m good, thanks.”

The siblings walked over to the kitchen and began putting things away.

“Y’know how we lost everything of Mum and Dad when house after house was crashed by the bombs?” Lucy commented casually as they packed.

“Yeah.”

“Well turns out we didn’t. I mean, the sentimental stuff yes, but turns out Mum and Dad saved all the important documents like, birth certificates, bank papers, health records… y’know, papers. They gave them to Ted when the raids began, in case, you know, a bomb took down their house, feeling it’d be safer in St Mawes. And Ted stored them in the basement, which survived the bombs, mostly.”

“But Ilsa said it was just an empty field now,” said Strike as he put things again.

“Yes, but not before her parents recovered everything from the basement and stored it in boxes in their basement, so that whenever you or myself got to St Mawes, we could have access. They told Ilsa to tell me while you were in the Army the first time, but then I completely forgot about it with everything that was going on, and it wasn’t until last summer, that Chris and I finally went to St Mawes, that I remembered and Ilsa’s parents handed me over a few boxes, also with papers from Ted and Joan… it’s not much, but the documentation is important to keep safe, right? ‘cause you never know when we might need a paper, and also with that I could finally access the family’s old bank account and now we can split our inheritance at last, Ilsa’s family’s kept it all very safely for us.”

“That’s great news, why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Strike turned to her, having finished.

“To be honest Chris and I were moving houses at the time so I just stacked the boxes in our attic then and forgot about it, didn’t want to touch it without you anyway. But recently, we started cleaning the attic and they reapeared, so we’ve been photocopying everything so you can have it too, and that way it’ll be safer, with the both of us keeping it. I brought the first box, it’s Mum and Dad’s documents, I’ve yet to do Ted and Joan’s, but likely next week I’ll be able to hand it to you then. And we could go to the bank on Monday, now we have all the papers, and reclaim our money. Ilsa’s gonna come too, she already told me, just in case they try to make our lives difficult.”

“Great!” Strike nodded, satisfied. “Thank you Lucy, that’s very, very good news. Did you find anything interesting?”

“Some photographs, which is great ‘cause I thought we’d lost them all. I got copies of those too, so we can both have them, they weren’t many,” Lucy said with a small smile. “And it’s great to have my birth certificate, I don’t have that many proofs of identity if ever asked.”

“Yeah that’s good. What d’you think if I make lasagna?”

“Lovely, I’ll help!”

The two siblings set to work while doing small talk and catching up, and once they put it in the oven, they returned to the sitting room, where Robin was waking up.

“Smells great,” said Robin, stretching while the others took the available other sofa. “What’s cooking?”

“Lasagna,” replied Strike, grabbing the box Lucy had brought.

“Oh, yummy,” Robin looked over. “So what’s there?”

“Oh, Mum and Dad’s birth records!” Strike smiled to himself, digging papers out. Lucy had neatly organised them in folders. “Luce, this is so well done, how much do I owe you?”

“Oh nothing! Don’t worry about it, I knew you’d be excited,” Lucy smiled softly, staring as he looked over like a child in Christmas. “Funny how much mere papers mean when it’s all we’ve got left, right?”

“Papers and memories, but memories do fade,” Strike nodded in agreement. “Funny, Mum was O negative, isn’t that universal donor?”

“Yes,” Robin nodded.

“Teddy was as well,” commented Lucy. “His papers are there too. I’m A positive, like Dad.”

“A positive?” Strike frowned in thought. “But that can’t be right.”

“It is, why not?”

“Well… I’m B negative, and if Mum was O and Dad was A, then I’d have to be either of those, not B. Right Robin, isn’t that how it works?”

Robin frowned slightly and nodded.

“Yeah, there must be a mistake. For you to be B, one of them would have to be B or AB,” explained Robin. “You sure you’re B Cormoran?”

“Of course, I get annual medical check-ups with the army, they look at everything,” said Strike.

“Well both Mum and Dad were blood donors, so I doubt they got it wrong,” said Lucy. “Perhaps you’re a scientific abnormality, uh?”

S trike frowned, getting a bad feeling, and turned to Robin.

“You’re absolutely sure I can’t be B, right?”

Robin sat up, and nodded.

“I was a Staff Nurse, that’s the type of thing I’d have to know by heart babe.”

“Lucy,” said Strike, “since we have to go to the bank on Monday, would you mind also coming with me to the hospital? I’d like to request uhm… a DNA test.”

“A DNA test?” Lucy stared at him, frowning lightly in confusion. “What for?”

“To know how related we are exactly.”

“What? We are siblings, Cormoran. Mum and Dad had you, then me, then Teddy.”

“I think that might not be true.”

“You’re out of your mind. I’ll do it, just to prove you wrong.”

Strike’s heart was racing. He had never looked like his father, but he’d always felt like their alikeness was in character. Both were gentlemanly, protective, musicians, liked investigative and police work, had similar morals, work ethic, values and beliefs, even similar taste in women, both were artsy, liked similar types of music, had common favourite foods… And both were tall, brunettes, strong and fit. Lucy had remarked their similarities now Strike was grown, and had only a decade and a half of difference with the age their father had died with.

He now dug in the boxes for the few photographs Lucy had managed to recover, thanks to their friends. There was one of Cormoran Strike Senior, when he was younger, smiling at the camera from ear to ear, a police portrait. He’d had a goatee then, and even black and white, the darkness of his hair and lightness of his eyes were evident. His face wasn’t round like Strike’s, but rather longer, like Lucy and Teddy’s, his earlobes were detached, like Teddy’s and Lucy’s, but Strike’s were attached, his nose was a little perky, while Strike’s was Roman.

“When you say I look like Dad, Luce, what do you mean? We’re miles different.”

Lucy frowned deeper, and looked at the photograph.

“You’re both dark haired, and you’re big and broad and fit and strong like he was, right?” she said matter-of-fact.

“Yes, but that isn’t… that describes half the men of the world, at least,” said Strike. “You and Teddy, however, got the eyes, the waves in the hair, the face shape, the earlobes being detached, the body type… Dad was less broad than me, I’m more like Ted.”

“Well yes you’re Ted’s twin, but… you don’t think he’s… that’d be incest, Stick!”

“I don’t think he’s my father!” Strike hurried to say, alarmed. “Ew, that’s disgusting, no. Besides, Ted couldn’t have children, remember? The First War left him sterile, and I was born five years later.”

“I’m sure there’s a logical, reasonable and perfectly innocent explanation for you to have a B blood type, love,” said Robin softly. “And some kids look nothing like their parents. Look at my family, only Martin got Dad’s looks. I think you and your father probably got similar personalities and skills.”

“That’s right,” supported Lucy. “Musicians.”

“Mum was a musician too,” said Strike. “She sang beautifully, and she played piano, she just did it less because she was always taking care of us and the house, and ‘cause she liked dancing more, so Dad was the one who got the fame. Just like I’ve gotten it even though you play too, and Teddy could play bits and pieces as well.”

“Well…” Lucy sat thoughtful. “But you’re both smart, intelligent, brave, tough…”

“Ted was a lot like Dad and I’m a lot like Ted. Doesn’t mean I got the traits from Dad, only that the Nancarrow DNA was fully given to me and you and Teddy hardly got any.”

“What are you saying?”

Strike shrugged, not wanting to say it. Then sighed deeply, and just said it at last.

“I think Mum named me after Dad so I’d have something his, because she knew he wasn’t my biological father.”

“What?” Lucy fully scowled. “Mum would never cheat on Dad.”

“But she did, she told me herself, don’t get indignant,” Lucy’s eyes widened.

“That Mum… what? Did Dad know?”

“No, he was a policeman, he could’ve shot the guy and gotten in trouble. Mum told me that grandpa introduced her to Dad in 1914, right before they both went to the war, and back then Mum had been informally seeing Jonny Rokeby, who back then lived not far from St Mawes, they’d met because Mum used to work in the music industry, remember?”

“Jonny Rokeby? The superstar?”

“Yeah, only that back then he wasn’t famous at all,” explained Strike. “Mum told me their relationship was only sexual, and that when she met Dad she fell in love with him, but he left and their relationship was only by post during the war, infrequently, not serious, so she continued to sleep with Rokeby every now and then, when Rokeby wasn’t deployed as well.”

“When did she tell you all this?” Lucy asked, stunned.

“She used to tell me everything. Came with being the eldest, I suppose, or maybe I reminded her of Ted so much, it felt comfortable. So after Dad died I saw how badly she was doing and went to talk to her and she seemed to be feeling very guilty, so she told me. And she told me that when the war ended and Dad returned, in 1918, that’s when she and Dad got serious for real, but both of their fathers had died, Ted was seriously wounded, so they weren’t going to marry then. In the meantime, Rokeby had married to this woman, what was the name… Erica Harper,” he remembered. “So the affair ended. Mum was grieving, Dad was grieving, and technically she hadn’t cheated, because they weren’t in a committed relationship before, but she still felt she’d done wrong.”

“Right, well, but you think she cheated later and had you?” Lucy inquired. Robin listened quietly, leaning back on the other sofa.

“All she told me was that she was crazy in love with Dad, so that two years after the war they were engaged and shortly after married, in a matter of months only, and she’d forgotten about Rokeby and any other man. She continued working in the music industry, Dad became a cop, they came to London… happy life. But then Mum said that…” Strike shrugged. “She met Rokeby again, and they were good friends. She never said she cheated, she never said… but what if she did? Think about it, I don’t resemble Dad, my blood type makes no sense, and… I’m called Cormoran.”

“Mum loved the story of the Cornish giant called Cormoran, so she gave it to you.”

“But Mum hated repeating family names. She always mocked those who did it,” said Strike. “She’d only consent repetitions as middle names, so she named you Lucy, which no one else has, and Eleonor, after her Mum, but she named me Cormoran Blue, after a music band she liked. She could’ve named me Blue Cormoran, or given me three names or whatever, but she deliberatedly chose to name me after Dad, so people were always so confused I ended up being Oggy to tell us apart on conversation.”

“Didn’t she ever tell you why you were Cormoran?” Robin asked casually. “I mean if she hated repetition of first names…”

“No, she said I was the exception,” he shrugged. “Never said why. Maybe she felt guilty she’d cheated on Dad and knew he’d be happy to have his firstborn named after him, he was like that.”

“She complained as a hobby Stick, don’t you see she also named Teddy after someone? Ted, Teddy… it’s the same.”

“Yes and no, Teddy wasn’t named after Uncle Ted, but after Grandpa Ted. Edward,” explained Strike. “You were too little to remember, but Mum and Dad weren’t planning for more children after you, they thought two was enough, boy and girl, and neither of us was requesting a sibling so it was fine. And Mum never, ever got over her father’s death, they were very close and losing him in the war killed her somewhat. Dad said she was never the same, and neither was him, losing his own Dad. So they called Teddy miracle baby, for being such a surprise, and when thinking of a name for him, they were going to name him either Richard or Edward, after our grandfathers. But Dad thought if it was Richard they’d name him Dick, which he obviously disliked, so they named him Edward Richard Strike, or Teddy, for short, to distinguish from Ted. So technically, I was the only naming exception, because you and Teddy were named after people who meant an awful lot to them, and as a given name only if the first person was dead. With me, Mum skipped it completely.”

“Well fine but assuming she cheated just for some odd facts…” Lucy looked uneasy. “Mum was faithful. I truly don’t think she’d ever… she was devoted to Dad.”

“One mistake, it’s all it takes, Lucy. One time she fucked up,” Strike sighed. “Anyway, the DNA test will tell. At least I know for sure she was our mother, because she told me everything about giving birth to me, there are photos of her pregnant before I was born, and I still remember her giving birth to you and Teddy. So any incoherences… means Dad’s not my Dad.”

“No, it means is not your biological Dad. Cormoran, a father is that who raises you and for all Dad knew, you were his firstborn and he loved you as such, took care of you, and deserves to be considered your Dad, regardless. Not some unknown guy Mum might’ve committed a drunk mistake with… just like whatever the test says, we’re siblings, full siblings, not half nothing,” argued Lucy.

“Right,” Strike nodded. “Anyway, useful papers in any case,” he closed the box. “I’ll put this in the office.”

He walked upstairs, clenching his jaw in silent indignation towards their mother. Why tell him half the story? Why leave him wondering who the heck was his father then, if not the man who’d given him his name?

Chapter Text

Chapter 30: Rumour has it.

For the next few days, Strike tried not to think of the fact that his entire origins might have been half a lie, and focused on the day to day. Organizing papers with Lucy, helping her with the wedding, doing the blood tests, waiting for Jonny Rokeby to write him back, taking care of Robin, preparing for the mess ball and dinner by making sure his mess uniform was still fitting and teaching Robin all about those events. A week before the ball, Robin called him into their bedroom.

“I went shopping with Ilsa, but now I’m thinking, does this maybe have too much cleavage for a military event?” asked Robin, and turned around to face him. Strike’s mouth gaped and his eyes widened, stunned.

He knew his girlfriend was stunningly beautiful and he was by all means a very lucky man indeed, there was no novelty there. But often, he’d found that when she tidied up nicely it was like polishing jewellery, she shun even brighter, to unsuspected levels. And now, she’d raised the bar. She had bought a floor length dress, royal blue matching parts of his uniform and bringing out her eyes, with an open V-neck, illusion long sleeves tight around her arms, with side draping, built-in bra, and it was made of chiffon. The dress tightened over her curves in the torso, breasts and arms, and then fell loose like a princess’ dress. Robin was only standing barefoot, without make-up or anything, but still he needed a moment to make his brain work again.

“What cleavage?” replied Strike. “You look… woah. I uh…” he blinked many times, looking at her up and down, and she grinned.

“That good?”

“You’re a princess,” he said in awe, and she giggled. “Ah, I’m such a lucky bastard.”

“You are,” Robin cupped his cheek and kissed him. “But then again, so am I. I was gonna go for red, because your uniform is so red, but then I figured, my hair is strawberry blonde, so too much red colours… I’d be calling too much attention, right?”

“Blue is good, blue’s perfect,” Strike nodded, kissing her neck. “Blue’s absolutely marvellous,” he continued kissing her shoulder.

“Aw, you’re too sweet. But keep it in your pants and help me take off the zip, then you can fuck me. I don’t want nothing happening to this dress”

“Lucy me, lucky me,” Strike giggled like an excited boy, helping her with the zip. A few minutes later, she was ridding him to the finest orgasm, and he just felt so proud of himself, for not having ripped the dress off her unceremoniously.

F or the past few days, Robin had been seeing a therapist, who was recommended by a colleague and friend of hers, but who didn’t have any previous relationship with Robin, which she preferred, and it had improved her mood and sexual drive quite a lot, but what was better, she was sleeping better. She couldn’t take medication for at least a year until her liver had fully recovered, nor drink more than a glass of alcohol a day, but they’d been doing CBT exercises, and it had proven to be quite effective even without complementary medical treatment. It probably helped that she was a psychologist and wasn’t a stranger to mental health.

Still, she wasn’t hundred percent fine, not so fast anyway. She still suffered nightmares now and then, she was still in pain, she was still going through a lot, physically, and it was still possible that she wouldn’t feel up for the ball, but Strike appreciated how hard she was trying.

Waking up an hour later, Strike rolled over, yawning, and saw Robin was massaging her abdominal scar with a cream she’d been given to improve the scar healing.

“Hi you,” he stretched to kiss her shoulder. “In pain?”

“Not much,” said Robin. “It’s ugly as hell though. I had such pretty belly…”

“Scars are survival stories Robin, to carry loud and proud, not something ugly,” said Strike, and leaned to kiss her belly. “I personally think a scar is not enough to make you anything but stunning.”

“Well it still affects my self esteem.”

“Then I’ll have to double my compliments,” said Strike,kissing her chest. “Or rip off my eyes and give them to you so you see yourself through me, then you’d never have self esteem issues.”

Robin smiled at him lovingly.

“Gore, but sweet,” she conceded with a giggle. “Speaking of scars, what are your stories?”

“You know about my leg.”

“I don’t mean your leg. Your false cleft lip that is not a cleft lip, the couple scars I’ve spotted under your manes of hair… you had them when we met, all of them, but I never really asked. I guess I didn’t feel so confident then.”

“Oh, you’re right,” Strike nodded. “Well this one,” he pointed at his upper lip, right side, the long scar that nearly reached his nose, and that his moustache tended to nearly cover, although his mouth permanently looked crooked. “Was in Normandy. I guess the explosion, like the leg, but I don’t know. Something probably cut me in the air.”

“Probably,” Robin put the cream aside and rolled over to face him. “And this one?” she touched the left side of his chest, under his arm, where there was a small scar.

“Bullet, Italy, autumn 1943. Grazed me during battle, was the first one I got. And then there’s this one,” he added, pointing at his right biceps. “Lucky me, another bullet graze, Christmas 1943, Bernhardt Line in Italy, Allies win. Two scars, two stories that could’ve easily been the last one.”

“You’re right,” Robin caressed his hair. “None from these ten years?”

“No, I was mostly out of trouble,” he replied. “What’s your knee scar? Left knee, outer part, a diagonal line?”

“Oh, fell off Angus when I was little,” Robin snorted a laugh. “That good boy…”

Strike smiled warmly at her, pecking her shoulder.

“Off topic but…” he commented, wrapping an arm around her and caressing her hip bone. “What do you think if I return to work come September?”

“It’s a good idea, if you feel ready.”

“You won’t mind?”

“No,” Robin shook her head. “Your job is your identity. You’ll be happier working, so will I, we’re workaholics, happily so.”

“You want to go back to work? What happened with it being dull and boring?” he asked surprised.

“It still helps a ton of people,” said Robin. “I’m actually thinking I’ll cut back from classes for a bit, and focus on giving psychology. I know I felt like I was no one to give it but… talking with my own therapist I concluded that my pro bono sessions aren’t very demanded for being free but for being helpful, so… I’ll continue those, and make the others pay. Rich people who can afford it, now my boyfriend can investigate them for me.”

“Oh he will, gotta make sure only the best people get your services,” he joked. “I’m happy you’re finding your footing, Robin.”

“Me too,” Robin nodded. “Might write another book too. Been playing with some ideas.”

“About what will it be?”

“Something that might get me in a lot of trouble, and that probably I won’t be able to publish here,” said Robin with a snort. “I don’t know… a part of me wants to write about the abortion, about all of those women dying for needing to abort and getting desperate. But abortions aren’t legal at all, nowhere in the world, only very few places allow it in exceptional circumstances and before week twelfth so I guess I wouldn’t be able to publish it at all.”

Strike looked thoughtful.

“You can’t write about abortions then but… you can write about the damaging effects some laws have on mental health. If you do it very discreetly and elegantly without naming names… it could even speak for Katie.”

“You’re a very smart guy,” said Robin, stunned at his idea. “It’s actually a very good suggestion. Will have to be terribly smart about it though.”

“Ilsa can proof read it to make sure it won’t get you in trouble. I think better say something even if it is through gritted teeth and in a whisper, than not to say anything at all.”

“I agree,” Robin kissed him, a hand grasping his hair as she smiled against his lips. She then playfully rubbed his nose with her own. “Thank you for supporting my liberal mind so much. I know it’s me against the world but… having a partner like you in a world like this means the whole world.”

“It’s us against the world, love,” said Strike. “I will always be on your team.”

“Even if you swore loyalty to the Queen and all of that?”

“You come before the Queen, before the Constitution, before any Law, and before God itself,” he said simply. “The laws, the scriptures, all written by men who decided that’s what sat well with their hearts. But if it doesn’t sit well with mine… I think I’ve got a right to break oaths made to those, to follow what’s right here.” He patted his own chest and Robin beamed at him.

“That’s the sweetest sentiment.”

“Well, Mum told me during the war how love and music are our most powerful weapons,” he said simply. “So perhaps if something doesn’t make your heart sing, it’s time to discard it, no matter which promises and oaths you made.”

“I couldn’t have said it any better,” Robin agreed. “You know, I think we’re going to build a great life together, ‘cause we agree on the important things to build a strong foundation here.”

“That’s right,” he pecked her lips and sat up, stretching with a groan. “I’m going to check the mail. Maybe Rokeby replied at last.”

“I’ll cross fingers.”

S trike grabbed boxers and put on his leg, and after a quick bathroom detour, he walked downstairs. Robin had picked the mail in the morning, but had been too tired to sort it, so it just sat on the entry table. Strike went through the letters, mostly taxes, ‘Get Well’ letters to Robin from colleagues and friends, and then at last, he found a letter from Rokeby.

“He replied!” he rushed upstairs and sat with Robin to read it. “Dear Cormoran, it is so great to receive news from you, even though you bear the saddest of news. I did, indeed, value your mother a great deal, and consider her one of the most beautiful people, inside and out, that I’ve ever been so privileged to meet. I look forward to meeting you face to face very soon, how would you feel about April 30^th in the morning? We could meet at my place in Oxfordshire, we’d have all the privacy in the world to talk all you want. I would really love to get to know you properly. I’m adding a phone number below, so just call me and we’ll confirm details. Kind regards, Jonny.”

“He was so nice,” said Robin with surprise.

“He was,” said Strike, nodding. “So this is it. I’m going to meet him.”

“And then you better get close to him, so we can get him to confess or to provide therapist details to acquire information for your case.”

“Damn right.”

There were still quite the few days to the meeting, so after securing it on the phone with Rokeby’s secretary, Strike passed the days preparing how it was going to go. But only a couple of days later, something happened that threw him off balance, when the results of the DNA test arrived to the house while they were having dinner with Nick, Ilsa, Lucy and Chris one night. The mail had arrived in the morning, but they’d been busy cleaning up for dinner, and forgot to grab it, then Robin pushed it aside to open the door for their guests, and then Strike went back to check it just as the friends settled on the sofa for desert.

Strike was trying to understand the results, but it was confusing, so he walked over to Nick.

“Nick, what the hell does this say?” he passed them to him.

“It’s the DNA results?” Lucy asked anxiously. They had already talked about it with everyone.

“Yeah.”

Nick moved closer to the light and read attentively.

“Well uhm… you’re not going to like this.”

“What?” Lucy inquired nervously.

“According to this, you two share less than twenty percent of DNA.”

“Meaning?” Strike asked.

“Meaning if you had the exact same parents you’d share about fifty percent give or take, but less than twenty… it makes you half siblings. You don’t have the same biological father, as you suspected. And because of the blood type thing… this confirms you’re indeed B negative and A positive, Lucy’s results do make sense considering your parents blood types but… Cormoran, your biological father can’t possibly be a man with A positive blood type. Your father would have to be B negative or positive or AB negative or positive. I’m very sorry…”

They’d all frozen in place. Lucy brought her hand to her mouth, stunned, and Strike stood in astonishment.

“She cheated on Dad,” Lucy muttered. “She fucking cheated. That’s why she felt so guilty.”

“She could’ve told me right then,” said Strike. “And she shut up. Unbelievable,” he shook his head, and flopped on the sofa. Robin had taken the paper from Nick, needing to read it herself to believe it.

“Maybe it was a one night stand,” Robin said. “A mistake she always felt bad about.”

“So bad she told absolutely no one, I’d imagine,” commented Ilsa, frowning. “But if Mr Strike isn’t your biological father then… who is it?”

“I don’t care,” Lucy reached out for her brother, taking his hand. “Stick, let’s just forget about the whole thing. You are my brother, Dad’s your Dad, we’re chosen family, that’s all that matters. Nothing has to change just ‘cause Mum made a bloody stupid mistake.”

“That’s easy to say, you know exactly where you come from, you haven’t been lied to your face for years,” said Strike getting pissed at his mother. “Mum used to tell me everything, or so I thought! Fucking talking me about rights and wrongs, morals, doing the right thing, not fucking Charlotte ‘cause she wasn’t right… bloody hypocrite! She was telling me to my fucking face what happened with Rokeby, it was the time to tell me if she’d cheated, if she suspected I wasn’t Dad’s, and she never—!”

“Maybe she didn’t know!” said Lucy in a desperate attempt to think a bit less bad of the mother who’d raised them. “Perhaps it was so meaningless, perhaps it was even a broken condom. Maybe she was so drunk she even forgot doing it, or maybe she just… she never imagined you were the result of one mistake.”

“She knew, Lucy. You didn’t see her, she looked bloody guilty, and she named me after Dad…” he seethed, shaking his head. “I know she knew. I’m not even sure it was just one time. As a matter of fact… perhaps it was Jonny. They still worked together in the 20s, in London, she was his groupie, they were close. And they’d slept together during the war, so… perhaps it happened again, during Dad’s long hours in the office. Broken condom or not, it’s not often that one fucks once and gets the jackpot, specially not after years with Dad and no kids, if I happened she was careless. And then she was lucky enough I looked like Ted and didn’t raise suspicions, name me after Dad to keep him happy and clueless… bloody whore.”

“Don’t talk like that about Mum,” Lucy hissed. “She fucked up, she’s still our mother. She was a human being, made mistakes…”

“Oh ‘cause you’d be so forgiving if Chris went and knocked someone up would you?”

“Mum’s dead! You should be ashamed of yourself for attacking someone who can’t even defend herself!” Lucy lashed out at him and Strike glared angrily at her. They hadn’t fought like that since they were teens.

“It’s not my fault this has come out when she can’t defend herself, she had plenty of chances to say it when she lived, and then we’d made a whole debate!” he shouted back. “Now I don’t know half my family! I don’t know what health issues I could be genetically prone to in one side! I don’t know any other half siblings I might have! I don’t know half of where I come from!”

“You’re making a big deal of nothing, adopted children don’t fucking care who gave them away, they care who took them in! That’s their family, they don’t spend life worrying about their actual bloodline! For all you care, you have me, Teddy, Dad, period! Cornwall, our dead family, those are the only ones you should be caring about not going out to find anybody else! Have some respect for the man who raised you as his son and forget about that who fucking left.”

“Left? For all we know he never even knew he had a child,” Strike grumbled. “Very easy for you to say, very fucking easy, you’ve got it all sorted out, don’t you?”

“Sod off, Cormoran,” Lucy glared at him.

“Guys, let’s just take a deep breath and—,” tried Robin, but she was interrupted by Strike.

“Don’t go psychologist on us!” he was seeing red towards his mother, and paying it with everybody else. Robin was taken aback, but she didn’t shout, although she looked offended.

“I’m not going psychologist on nobody, Cormoran it’s just having manners,” said Robin. “You ought to shut up and calm down and so does Lucy, before either of you says something unforgivable you regret for the rest of your lives.”

“That’s right,” Chris wrapped an arm around Lucy’s shoulders. “You’re shouting at each other like it’s the other’s fault, and throwing blames fixes nothing now. You’re family, and you’re gonna hurt each other over what, a parental mistake you weren’t even alive when it happened?”

“Besides,” added Robin, looking sternly at Strike, “think about it Cormoran. If you forget about this, just throw a heavy veil under this, it’ll be fucking hard, but it’ll be miles easier and focusing on it and confronting the shit you might discover then. As things stand, you get to have a mother you loved, and a father who was by all means wonderful to you. Parents you can feel proud of, after all. You can work to forgive your mother and move on… or you can go dig to find your biological father and then what? Say it was Jonny Rokeby, would that make you happier? He’s a prick who cheated on his wife with your mother while he had a baby girl at home, he has five known children, two wives, he’s an egocentric celebrity who only cares, for what magazines say, about drugs, alcohol and women, and now we know he’s also been a murderer of civilians during World War II. So decide, is finding the truth so important you’ll risk the possibility of finding out you’re the son of someone like that? Or isn’t it better to work to forgive and forget, as hard as it is, and keep the father you can feel proud of? Because I think sometimes… a happy lie is way better than a very harsh truth, and as hard as this is, you don’t know how much harder the truth could be.”

S trike shook his head and got up, storming out.

“Cormoran!” Robin called, but he was out of the house slamming the door after himself, and Robin sighed.

“I’ll go with him,” said Nick, getting up. “He’s probably just going to get drunk as fuck, so I’ll make sure he comes back home safely.”

“Thanks Nick,” said Robin.

“Take care,” Ilsa kissed him and Nick ran out to reach Strike outside. “Lucy, don’t worry, he just needs to clear his head a little, it’s too much going on at once.”

L ucy released a deep sigh and shook her head, clenching her jaw and supporting her head on her hand.

“This is just great. We’re all we’ve got left, and we’re not even what we thought we were. And we want it to not mean anything but… it does. A couple weeks ago our mother was a saint, a faithful, caring, loving wife and mother, embodiment of all that’s good. Now…” she shook her head. “Dad would’ve had a stroke if he’d known. He wouldn’t have forgiven her, not in a million years. That man never let go. Ted would know what to do, Ted would know.”

“You’re going to have to forgive and forget,” said Christopher. “Only other option is to stay mad at someone who can’t say sorry.”

“Besides, if she felt bad about it…” Ilsa shrugged. “Means she wasn’t proud, right? She wasn’t a bad person Lucy, human beings fuck up big time sometimes, that’s all. She carried the shame her whole life, isn’t that punishment enough?”

“Depends,” replied Lucy. “If she fucks up my brother big time, then nothing’s gonna be punishment enough.”

“On the other hand, your mother’s what makes you and Cormoran family for real,” Robin pointed out. “You’ve got to give her that. And besides… she did her very best to bury it, and it appears like it was her last mistake, right? Meant nothing, or she’d have left your Dad. So you might as well bury it too.”

“That’s going to take a load of effort,” Lucy murmured.

“I’m sure your Mum didn’t mean to hurt anybody,” said Christopher softly, rubbing circles on her back. “Perhaps she thought if nobody ever knew and she took the secret to the grave, nobody would ever be hurt about it.”

Lucy sighed, nodding. Robin felt sorry for her and Strike, and worried, too, how he might be taking it. She briefly considering grabbing her coat and purse and going out checking pubs in the area until she found Strike and Nick, but seeing how Lucy was, decided against it. One fire at the time, now Lucy needed her, and Strike was probably with the best company in his state, his best mate in the world, of his same gender at least. Nick would, hopefully, know what to do. She hadn’t even known Leda.

Chapter Text

Chapter 31: Search of you.

“Had a few beers, a couple tequilas and like three glasses of whiskey,” Nick murmured at past two in the morning, when he arrived in a taxi back to Robin and Strike’s house in Fulham, and was passing the larger man to her. “You sure you don’t need help to get him upstairs?”

“No, it’s okay,” Robin wrapped an arm around Strike’s waist tightly, as he stumbled into the house stinking of alcohol. “Thank you so much Nick, can I pay your taxi?”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Nick with a small smile, perfectly sober. “I’m going home, I’m knackered. Hopefully he’ll feel better tomorrow, poor thing cried like a baby once the angry stage passed.”

Once Nick left, Robin helped Strike up the stairs.

“Hold onto the bannister love, there you go,” Robin kept strong arms around him, and he stumbled, eyes half closed, grabbing onto the offending object.

“Wres Nick?” he slurred drunkenly, suddenly realizing his friend had left him.

“He went home to his wife and child, it’s two in the morning,” Robin kept a slightly chastising tone, just to make it clear she wasn’t happy, this wasn’t a healthy copying mechanism, and she was going to look the other way but just for this one time. “Come on, slowly, let’s get you to bed.”

“Need t’piss,” he groaned. “Wres t’toilet?”

“Upstairs.”

Strike groaned and when they got to the bathroom, Robin moved aside so he could pee in peace but then, seeing him struggling with his zip and looking at it like it was an alien obstructing his need to urinate, and then make an attempt to just rip a hole in his trousers, she hurried inside, slapping his hand away and dealing with his zip, lowering his trousers and underwear. Strike took a hold of his member to aim and again Robin had to intervene to gently redirect him, seeing otherwise he’d urinate all over the bathroom. Her boyfriend seemed confused by the gesture, his appearance surlier than usual.

“Why d’I’ve two righ’ hands?” he questioned in a slurred grumble.

Robin looked at him with scorn mixed with incredulity.

“I know right? Weird.”

“Hmm…”

Once she managed to help him out of his clothes and remove his prosthesis, Robin helped Strike into bed and after putting a bucket by his side of the bed, and a glass of water with medicine for the hangover on his bedside cabinet, Robin took off her dressing gown, sliding into bed next to him with a deep sigh. She watched him in the penumbra while he gave the ceiling the surliest and grumpiest of all expressions, and kissed his cheek.

“Try to get some sleep baby, just close your eyes for a bit uh? Things will look better in the morning.”

She had only just closed her eyes against her pillow when Robin heard and felt Strike bursting in sobs all of the sudden, so she rolled back to face him and pulled him into her chest, soothing him until they both feel asleep.

In the morning, Strike woke up early with a headache that was just enormous, and still a little drunk. He grabbed the medication Robin had left for him while she continued to sleep peacefully, put on his leg, and went to the bathroom. After provoking himself vomit to make sure he’d gotten as much out of his system as possible, he took the medication, showered, brushed his teeth, and quietly got dressed in their bedroom.

Walking into the street felt nice, with the late March breeze, the day a little rainy, and after having breakfast at a café, Strike walked into the train station to go to Battersea, and then strolled to Lucy and Christopher’s house, a small Victorian place in a residential area. He rang the doorbell a couple times and waited patiently, and then Christopher opened the door in his pyjama and dressing gown, looking sleepy.

“Cormoran, hi. We were just getting ready for work…”

“It’ll just be a minute, I want to apologize to Lucy.”

“Okay,” Chris moved aside and let Strike into the long corridor to the kitchen, where Lucy was making tea. Lucy looked up hearing the steps.

“Cormoran,” she said with a hint of surprise. “Sorry, can you come later? We really need to get ready for work.”

“Just one minute,” Strike murmured, his voice hoarse from the night before. He had deep bags under his eyes and looked pale, sad, troubled, so Lucy stopped what she was doing to give him her full attention, standing in her pyjamas and dressing gown with her hair in a messy braid.

“Very well…”

“I’m sorry I got aggressive with you and I shouted and I was unnecessarily harsh,” he murmured, looking down. “But I want you to know I will not bury this because I can’t. I know for you nothing’s changed, and I appreciate it, but for me, everything has changed. Because it means the person I trusted the most in the world lied to my face not in a small thing, but in a huge one that concerned me mainly, it means I am a mistake, an accident product of a drunken error instead of the result of love, it means I am the shameful evidence of something as repugnant, disgusting and horrible as it is to lie to your partner, cheat on them and sleep with someone else, it means I have a different family out there I know nothing of and that was stolen from me, that I wasn’t even given the right to know,it means… it changes my identity in ways I don’t expect you to understand. And if you can go on with your life like nothing, perfect. But I can’t. I can’t stop feeling manipulated, I can’t stop resenting Mum for what she’s done to me but also to Dad, I can’t stop feeling sorry for Dad, and for the man I never got to call Dad and who for all we know could be a perfectly good person… I can’t stop thinking if Charlotte had gone and had my child with someone else and hid it for me, and never even told me, or given me a chance to be a father… I’d be furious and broken-hearted, I’d be stolen of a child, and so I’m going to be empathetic with the man. And you’re always going to be my sister. Teddy’s always going to be my brother. Dad will always be my Dad too, no matter what. And I love you all for it. I know what makes a father. But I also can’t stop thinking that out there, I might have a half-sibling just like you, who could have been left absolutely alone just like us, and who difference from you and me has absolutely no one else, because my biological parents didn’t make sure I could be with him or her, so I will dig. I will get to the bottom of things and whichever family I happen to have, I will meet them, and maybe they’ll be absolutely crap, maybe they’ll be lovely like the Ellacotts, but I have to know. It doesn’t mean I’m going to turn my back on you, it doesn’t make our relationship any less special, it doesn’t affect you… and it doesn’t mean I’m going to run with a bunch of strangers because they’re family and suddenly have a whole other family I like more. It doesn’t work like that. I can’t repair the relationships that I was stolen of, I can’t take them back. But I need to just know what there is, because if there is a Teddy out there, completely alone in the world, I need to be there, even if it makes no sense, even if he’s a total stranger… ‘Cause I was taught to be a responsible, loving big brother, to take care of my family, and doesn’t matter if I like it or not, if I’ve got family who need me… I ought to show up.”

He turned around to leave and Lucy stopped him, grabbing his arm and pulling him into a hug.

“I’m sorry I was harsh too,” she murmured against his ear. “And if this is something you need to do… then I’ll support you. Just know you’re not alone, Stick. Whoever they are… you’ll always have me, and I’ll help you in any way I can.”

“Thanks Luce. I love you.”

“I love you too,” she kissed his cheek and cupped his sad face. “Why don’t you sit here and I’ll drive you home when I get dressed?”

“No I…” he sighed. “I’m fine with the train. I want to write Ilsa’s parents and ask if they know who was Mum close with before I was born, if she had any close friends… perhaps one of them has lost a son. I don’t know, if he’s alive, if he’s found out Mum had his child and doesn’t know who I am or if I’m even alive… I want to let him know I’m okay. I can’t imagine what it must be like doing life not knowing what happened to your own son.”

“Go to the police station in Bromley, where Dad worked. It’s still standing and perhaps you’ll find his friends, maybe one of them was also Mum’s friend.”

“Good idea,” Strike nodded. “Anyway, don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I just want to clear things out and know the truth and then I’ll move on.”

Walking around Bromley was incredibly weird for Strike. The streets had changed since, many had been rebuilt, or changed names, the trees were different, and he found himself lost on a few occasions. He had no idea where he’d lived, where the factory he’d worked at had been, or where the Herberts had lived. After much walking around and making questions to passer-by people, he found out the police station had changed address, was given indications to how to get there, and at least got to the newer building, which was full of activity so early in the morning, but there were no lines yet to be attended.

“Hi,” he said to a cop in the entrance. “I was looking for anybody who might have worked here in the 1920s?”

The cop, a middle-aged man, blinked in surprise.

“What for?”

“My father worked here back then, he was Captain Cormoran Strike, he died in World War II,” Strike explained. “And I need to find his friends or colleagues… I was too little so I don’t know any names but if I could see a record of employees or something…”

“What for?” the other cop asked again.

“Well, because I’ve got information of interest for them, personal stuff,” said Strike, frowning. “Listen is there any way record of employees? Any oldest employee here who might be able to help? Anything at all?”

“I can’t help you, confidentiality, sir.”

“I see. Can you help a,” he pulled out his ID badge from his pocket, “SIB Major?”

The policeman grabbed it, reading it with incredulity, but then cleared his throat, returning it.

“Apologizes Sir, our employee of most antiquity is the boss, Captain Alan Andrews, upstairs.”

“Thank you.”

Strike climbed up the stairs and reached an unfamiliar hall with only one door, which was clearly the boss’ office, judging by the nameplate on it. He knocked and once let in, he walked inside.

“Good morning Captain,” said Strike, looking at the officer who was getting up from his desk.

“I’m sorry did I miss an appointment…?”

“No, it’s Major Cormoran Strike, SIB,” Strike introduced himself, and the man looked surprised. He was elderly, with white hair and a thick moustache, and something about him was familiar. “I’m here on personal business actually, because my father used to work here in the 20s.”

“Captain Strike,” the man nodded, and walked to Strike like he’d seen a ghost. “Oh my God… you’re his boy. I remember you used to come here sometimes, don’t you remember me? I’d sit you to make drawings at my desk while you waited for your Dad, and sometimes I’d have sweets for you and little Lucy!”

“Jesus Christ, Alan!” realization suddenly struck Strike, along with the sudden memory, and he grinned. “You’ve gone white!”

Alan laughed and hugged him, patting his back.

“My old young friend, lucky the eyes that see you!”

“How’s your wife?”

“Oh, Chloe is fine, she’s going to be so happy when I tell her you came,” they separated, beaming at each other. “You’ve grown huge man, and how are your parents? Haven’t seen them in forever, I saw the house was blown-up when I came from war, thought you’d gone back to Cornwall.”

“Unfortunately they passed away,” said Strike, and Alan got sombre, his smile disappearing. “Dad was killed in a Concentration Camp the first Christmas of the war, Mum died from tuberculosis two years later. The rest of the family also died shortly after with the raids so… it’s only been Teddy, Lucy and I. And Teddy drowned when we were little, shortly after the war… so it’s only Lucy and I now.”

“Fuck…” Alan sighed deeply, shaking his head. “I’d feared it but… fuck… such good people. Terrific people, in fact, I’m so, so sorry Cormoran. You know, you’ve got your mother’s eyes, and your father’s manliness.”

Strike managed a small smile and nodded slowly.

“Thanks Alan. How’s your family then?”

“Luckily, okay. We were fortunate, I know it wasn’t the case for most people. Now I’m the only one here of back then, everybody else who worked here with your Dad and I either died at war, or from illnesses due to the famine and lack of hygiene that came with the poverty, or moved far away. But I think of the old days all the time,” he nodded. “So a SIB Major, uh? God, your parents would be so bloody proud, well done,” he passed his shoulder proudly, smiling again. “And Lucy’s okay too?”

“She’s a teacher in Battersea, getting married next year in the summer.”

“Married! Good man I hope?”

“I truly think so,” Strike nodded in agreement. “Alan… you and my Dad were best friends, right? And colleagues.”

“Of course. We met during the first war, we fought side by side, that bounds people together forever,” he smiled fondly, and gestured for Strike to sit with him by his desk. “Best of friends since, loved Leda too, wonderful woman she was. Where are they buried, Cormoran? I’d love to pay my respects.”

“Mum and Dad are in the cemetery here, by the church of St Mary’s, East side. With my Aunt Catherine, and my Uncle Peter and my paternal grandparents.”

“Christ, Catherine and Peter died too?”

“London raids,” Strike nodded, and Alan puffed, shaking his head.

“We used to go to the pub together, all six of us,” Alan lamented. “Fuck…”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, no, boy, I’m happy to see you. And where’s Teddy? I’ll bring him flowers too.”

“I’m afraid that’s gonna be more complicated. He’s buried in Masham, Yorkshire,” Strike explained. “It’s a bit of a long story, but I lost half a leg in Normandy,” he pointed to his fake foot, “would up meeting an army nurse, in a hospital in Yorkshire. She took me to her house, she has a large family, farmers. And they took care of me through my recovery, and Lucy and Teddy, we all lived together there for a couple years, they paid Lucy’s education and well, Teddy drowned nearby, it was a tragic accident but after that I couldn’t deal with it and joined the Royal Military Police. I’ve actually been gone for years, coping, just returned last December after ten years. So Teddy’s buried in Masham, we used to live there, the family who kind of adopted us, the Ellacotts, they’re there, leave him flowers all the time.”

“So kind of them.”

“We were extremely lucky with them,” said Strike, then side smiled. “And fun fact is, now that nurse is my girlfriend, Robin. We live together in Fulham, she’s a psychologist now, and writer.”

“Robin Ellacott? Oh, but Chloe reads her books!” Alan laughed, amused. “She seems like a good one!”

“She’s a dream,” Strike smiled fondly. “We’re very much in love actually. We dated back then but then I left and… we recently rekindled things. Anyway, as much as I love catching up, I actually came here to ask for your help.”

“Of course Cormoran, anything for my best friend’s boy.”

“I’m uh… it’s actually very complicated…” Strike struggled to find the best way to approach things. “I think I might not be my father’s biological son, Alan.”

Alan’s eyes widened and he looked absolutely stunned.

“What?”

“I have medical tests regularly in the Army,” Strike explained. “And my sister pointed out some inconsistencies in my blood type. Apparently my parents’ blood types wouldn’t allow for them to have a child with mine, and my best friend is a doctor, he confirmed something was odd. So we took a DNA test, Lucy and I and… it does appear we’re not full siblings. We’re terribly shocked as you can imagine.”

“Oh dear, that’s horrible! Did Leda… cheat?”

“I don’t know,” Strike shrugged. “Perhaps my parents had a break I’m not aware of and she went with someone else, I’ve no idea.”

“Well, your father never told me anything about that, Cormoran.”

“I suspect he never knew,” explained Strike. “Anyway, I am trying to find out who could be my biological father, not to have a relationship, it’s just… I need the truth, I need to know where I come from, you know? I’m not going to ask anything of him, I only seek truth, and also… well, due to my amputation I am at bigger risk for some medical issues so I’m always interested to know what I could be genetically prone to, just to foresee, be prepared, so I’d also like to ask him about medical history, anything important it might be convenient for me to know and if he’s alone or something, and needs anything I’d… love to support him like a son should, right? Elderly houses, medical treatments or whatever a man his age might need. I mean he could be… sixty, seventy, even older, I don’t know. And I want to make sure that, if he knows he had a child and has been looking for me and being tormented, I want to bring him peace of mind of knowing I am all right. And he doesn’t have to be involved with me in any way he doesn’t want to.”

“I don’t know how to help you Corm. For all I know, nobody here would’ve ever dared to approach Leda like that, your father would’ve shot them, so… I don’t think it was no one from his side. Perhaps some mate she met at work at the record label?”

S trike sighed, shrugging. He had no idea.

“I’ll have to check there next I suppose. Anyway, thank you so much Alan. Could you keep this… between us? Be discreet?”

“Of course,” Alan nodded, and shook his hand. “Pass by anytime.”

“Thanks, and…” Strike patted his pockets and grabbed a small notepad and a pen he frequently brought alone. “I’ll write you my address and number. You and Chloe should come for lunch one day.”

The record label where Leda had spent a decade of her life was no longer operative, so Strike found himself not knowing where else to look. Then, imagining Robin might be worried he was gone for hours without explanation, he decided to accept his defeat and come home, not without paying a quick visit tot he cemetery first.

Opening the door back in Fulham, he was suddenly surprised seeing no other than Jonny Rokeby standing in the entrance talking with Robin, who was in her pyjamas and dressing gown. They both turned to him with surprise.

“Cormoran, there you are,” said Robin. “Look, Mr Rokeby paid you a visit. Where were you?”

“Went to Bromley,” said Strike, and turned to Rokeby. “Mr Rokeby, hi, I’m sorry I…”

“I do apologize for coming by surprise,” Rokeby shook his hand. “I know we were supposed to meet in a few days in my place, but something came up and I can’t make it then so… I decided I’d come and meet you in advance, and your lovely partner has been so kind to let me in.”

“Of course, no problem, thank you so much for coming. Please lets sit down, can I offer you some tea? Coffee?”

“Coffee is good, thank you.”

Rokeby was guided to the sitting room and Strike and Robin rushed to the kitchen.

“Are you okay?” Robin asked him while he hurried preparing everything.

“I’m fine,” said Strike. “Did you see…?”

“The similarities? Yes.”

Jonny Rokeby was a very tall man, apparently they were Leda’s type. He was in his mid-sixties now, but Strike could see he must have been a handsome youth, with a long Greek nose just like Strike’s, attached ears like his, not too big and not too small, and a largeness to all of him. He must’ve had dark hair, judging by photographs Strike had seen, but now it was grey and white, and he was clean shaved, showing a strong jaw, squared, slightly resembling Strike’s. In photographs, Strike had never seen similarities between them, but standing face to face, he saw it and Robin saw it. There was a general look of him, like when Robin stood by her Dad, who didn’t share hair colour or eye colours, and yet there was a shadow of similarity.

He must be his father.

Chapter Text

Chapter 32: Business .

At last, Strike and Jonny sat together on the sofas with coffee and biscuits, and Robin meanwhile went to get dressed and leave the house, giving them total privacy.

“So, you’re Leda’s son,” said Jonny, staring at Strike with dark brown eyes framed by countless eyelashes. His eyes were slightly divergent, and the eyebrows on top were quite thick, and his voice was deep and strong like Strike’s. Come to think about it, the few times Strike had heard a song of his, their voices sounded somewhat alike. He couldn’t stop staring at the similarities, feeling a strange closeness with the stranger. They hands were both large, they both had round nails, hairy arms, and sat similarly, and they both seemed to adore biscuits.

“I’m the eldest of them,” Strike nodded. “There was another, Teddy, who died as a boy, drowned, he was much younger than us… and Lucy’s my little sister.”

“Tragic,” Jonny frowned slightly. “D’you miss Leda much, I reckon?”

“Every day,” replied Strike, and then he had a sudden idea. He was supposed to prioritise the investigation but… what better way to earn his trust and get close enough to talk about the war than as father and son? “Jonny… did you love her?” he’d been told to call him Jonny, so he did so, even if it felt weird.

Rokeby took a large sip of his coffee and looked thoughtful for a moment.

“I was infatuated, I’m not sure I’d call it love.”

“What happened between you? I mean, if I can ask… obviously I’m not telling anyone. Even Robin left.”

The musician seemed to need a moment to decide if he’d trust, but then he replied. After all, he was egocentric and liked talking about himself.

“We originally met in… must have been 1911 or 1912 or so. She was seventeen, I remember, and I was a year older and back then I was part of a small band that travelled around giving concerts in pubs. I had given one in Truro when she came around, she was absolutely breathtaking, and I was immediately infatuated. We had some drinks, hit it off, both music lovers, and we sang together, I’d play my guitar… but I was to leave shortly for Devon, so we had sex, and then I left,” Jonny explained. “I didn’t think I’d see her again but then I heard rumours about the war, my band got dissolved with all the drafting for conscription, and I knew it was a matter of time before I was called to war too. By then, I was twenty-one. I didn’t have a girlfriend, I’d been fucking around, nothing serious, but I was living in Essex, and St Mawes wasn’t too far. Your mother had gone to Essex to begin her training as a nurse for the war, and we met by chance in the street, she was just as gorgeous and I told her I was going to be drafted. She told me someone she loved was also drafted, and she didn’t think she’d see him again. We had sex, the next day I was drafted.”

“1914 then?”

“Yes,” Rokeby nodded, and Strike took mental note. “The war was absolute shit, but I was one of the lucky ones, didn’t have to be gone all the time. I got to return home twice briefly, before the war ended, to carry out communication missions here, and both times I sneaked a visit to Leda. I was just infatuated by her, I adored her, we had been sending letters. But in those years I also fell for a different army nurse I met, so when the war ended, your mother wrote to me that our relationship was finished, that she was going to get married. So I married the nurse too, and we had a daughter, just four years after the war, Prudence.”

“Did you ever see my Mum again or anything?”

“Yeah. We both coincided in London in those days, at the record label in Bromley. She was a secretary, I was becoming a star. But she was adamant on faithfulness, and I was supposed to be too. Still… we did slip. One night, I don’t remember when, we just did it in my car. She felt terribly guilty, shouted at me, but… she wanted me too. It was only sexual, Cormoran, she did love your father, if I’m honest, and I didn’t love her, but we had chemistry, and the hots for one another, and for the bits she told me, her husband worked a lot, wasn’t home much and your Mum was grieving a lot, her father had died at war, I suppose you know,” Strike nodded. “She had started drinking and doing drugs… behind your father’s back. And being so high all the time, the both of us, we were doomed to make mistakes and become cheaters. Happened a few times, but eventually she got her shit together and forbid me from ever contacting her again, said she was in love and that she wasn’t going to ruin her marriage for me. And I didn’t even want to leave my wife, so it worked out fine. I’m sorry to disappoint you Cormoran, but we weren’t really the best of friends, just sex buddies.”

“She got pregnant,” Strike blurted out, and Rokeby looked at him, surprised. “She got pregnant with me in 1923. I was born the 23^rd of November at 42 weeks.”

“Oh, I never knew her pregnant,” said Rokeby. “Are you insinuating something? Is this some trap?”

“No,” Strike shook his head. “Jonny… I’m sorry, it’s just that yesterday uh… I had some medical results that were quite shocking. Apparently my blood type is weird, and it means I’m not my parents’ child, at least for one of them. I do think my mother is my mother because well, I look just like her brother but… I’m not sure my Dad’s my Dad. I swear I only found out yesterday, I assure you I didn’t mean to talk to you about this it’s just… it’s in my mind a lot now. I don’t want money or fame or anything, I don’t care who fucked my Mum and got her pregnant with me, but… I am tormented by the thought that there’s a man out there who knows he had a child and wonders every day what happened to him, to me, and I want to tell him he has no need to worry any more.”

Rokeby scowled deeply and for a moment Strike feared he was going to go.

“When your Mum ended things… it was April 1923,” Rokeby said suddenly. I suppose… perhaps she’d just found out she was pregnant.”

Strike gulped, looking at the older man in his hippie American dressing style. He was forced to remind himself what he’d done in the army.

“Jonny I swear I want nothing yours. I don’t want to abuse your kindness, and you’ve got your family and I’ve got mine. I don’t have any interest in disturbing my life, I’m SIB, I can’t do my job if I’m on the papers or anything so… I don’t want your fame, your money, I’m not going to go and speak with paparazzi or journalists, and I’m not going to hurt my sister either by making her feel left aside for a new, exciting family,” Strike assured in all seriousness. “I’m just a military policeman seeking the truth about my own origins. So I beg you, please, come with me to get our DNAs compared, just so I can rest easy knowing the truth, and then I won’t bug you again with anything, ever.”

R okeby seemed to consider it for a long moment, and nearly finished his coffee before he answered.

“All right,” said Rokeby at last. “Here’s the deal. I’m reaching a certain age in which health is not the best all the time, and I need to be in good shape to continue with my career. Now the doctors say I should have a kidney transplant, but they’re struggling to find somebody compatible, and no one in my family is.”

“Sorry to hear.”

“If you were my son, there would be a chance you were compatible. So, I will have the DNA tests done for you to have the truth, but in exchange, you’ve got to compromise right here right now that if you are my son, you’ll check if you’re compatible, and if you are, you will give me a kidney. And,” Rokeby added, like a businessman, “I also forbid you from releasing our biological relationship, if it existed, to the press, the fans or my family. I won’t officially nor publicly recognize you as my son, we’ll do the tests under pseudonym, you won’t inherit from me, and you won’t expect me to do fatherly things. I’ve got three daughters and two sons, I’m fine as I am. I will have my lawyer elaborate a legally binding contract before we get tested, so if you don’t do your part, I’ll sue you and skin your pockets. Are we clear then?”

Strike was surprised and taken aback by his sudden coldness, borderline harshness, and the way in which Rokeby saw him as a mere thing he could get something from without having to bother much. He was asking for a high price, and Strike knew he shouldn’t be letting a man he was beginning to dislike as much as Rokeby bargain with him, even less when it could affect Strike’s own health. But regardless, he nodded, all warmth towards him gone, feeling somewhat humiliated. This, at least, would make arresting him all the more pleasurable.

“Clear as water,” Strike replied, nodding. “When can you have that contract?”

“In a couple days. We’ll get tested then, I’ve got private medicine, quick and easy.”

“And what if the tests say we’re not related?”

“Then it’ll be the end of our communications,” said Rokeby, straightening in his seat.

“That’s why you came, isn’t it? You already suspected Leda had your kid, and that it could be me. You suspected she was pregnant,” Strike noticed. “And when you received my letter, you saw it as an opportunity to maybe get your kidney.”

“As it turns out, Cormoran, everything in life is business, nobody does anything if it isn’t to get something in exchange, isn’t it? After all, you didn’t contact me to ask for my well being,” Rokeby stood up. “I’ll send you the contract in two days, with an hour and place where I’ll pick you up for the DNA testing. Start thinking a good pseudonym.”

“Very well,” Strike stood up and walked him to the door. “I want to add something else to that contract, Rokeby.”

“You can’t add anything.”

“If not, I won’t do it.”

“If you don’t do it, you won’t know who your father is.”

“I can live with that,” said Strike, glancing coldly at him, and Rokeby squinted at him, as if he’d suddenly realized the kitten was a venomous spider. “You need a kidney, that surgery’s only been done since what, 1954 or so? That wasn’t long ago. I don’t think there’ll be a lot of people willing to give you a kidney, not a lot of dead people who were donors and who’ll be able to offer a healthy kidney. Delicate things, kidneys, if both of yours start failing, could mean seizures, coma, ugly death, my girlfriend was a nurse, I know things. But I’m a strong, fit man, healthy, on a good diet, of about your same size so my kidneys won’t be too small or too big… could be perfect, in fact, if I was compatible, that is, unless you’d rather risk it trying to find someone else. I heard the most successful donations come within the family, otherwise the risk of complications and sepsis and death is kinda huge.”

Rokeby tensed up, but snorted a laugh.

“Learning fast, aren’t you? Fine. What do you want?”

“The contract will state that I will only get tested to check if I’m compatible to be a good kidney donor for you, if you make an official formal statement to the Royal Military Police, in their interrogation room, under formal interrogation, admitting and explaining exactly why several dozen civilians were killed by you in Bari, the Adriatic Sea, in 1943. You will have your new kidney, but you will have to answer for your war crimes in court, Rokeby. That’s my deal.”

Rokeby suddenly tensed with fury and walked menacingly to Strike.

“This is why you actually wrote to me, do you even really not know who your father is?”

“I am a man of my word,” said Strike, “I’ve got honour and a good name to represent. So believe me when I tell you I honestly have no idea who my father is, but I think it could be you. And the only reason I know about Bari is because I was at war too, I heard the rumours, but I’m not investigating you. Ask anybody, I’m on leave this year, I was owed time off. So I couldn’t possibly have contacted you to ask about Bari when I have no knowledge of any investigations about the matter, since I haven’t worked in four months, nearly. But I am interested on clarifying the rumours, and I am interested on my squad in the SIB taking the merit for it. It’s all business, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t do anything wrong in Bari.”

“Rumour says otherwise. You get your liver, but you have to talk to the SIB in our interrogation room and answer every question with detail, without making things difficult, and tell them exactly what happened. That is my deal.”

After a moment of thought, Rokeby glared at him, but nodded.

“Fine. Goodbye.” He slammed the door after himself and Strike released a deep breath of relief.

“Honesty is for those who deserve it, you prick.”

When Robin returned, Strike told her everything with all sorts of detail, and Robin was left stunned on the sofa, her mouth gaping open.

“I know it’s a change of plans, but if it fails, I can always befriend his sons, manage for them to talk, or tell me about any family therapists and go back to the original plans,” Strike explained. “I will catch the bastard, one way or another.”

“A kidney donation is a major, risky surgery, Cormoran,” Robin pointed out.

“I know.”

“How could you bargain with your organs? With your life?”

“How could I? Because it’s my damn job. I made an oath to protect my country, and he’s a son of a bitch who killed innocent people, so I’m happy living with one kidney for the rest of my life and the other in prison with Rokeby, if that’s what it takes to make justice.”

“There are simpler ways. Other ways.”

“I can’t seem to find them with such big good odds as this one has,” said Strike. “Robin, I might not even be a suitable donor, I had sepsis, remember? But he doesn’t know. And I smoke and drink. But our agreement doesn’t say I’ll have to be a suitable donor, it says I’ll only even test myself if he does his part. I’ve got him gripped by the balls.”

“A powerful man like him is not just going to let you do this to him like nothing!”

“Robin,” Strike sighed, sitting with her, and took her hand in his. “I don’t like this any more than you do. I am pretty sure that son of a bitch is my biological father, how do you think I’m doing? But Martin nearly killed himself over this. I’m doing this for him too, Robin… he’s family. And I’d do anything for my family. Anything at all.”

Robin sighed, but softened, nodding slowly. She raised a hand to gently caress his cheek, and their eyes locked warmly.

“This is what I get for loving a bloody good man.” Strike smiled.

“It’s all going to be just fine love. I’ll be fine,” he kissed her softly, wrapping his arms around her. “Don’t you be afraid darling.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 33: The Ball.

A/ N: I researched a lot to try and get the information right. For example, you can find Strike’s uniform here: www.cetomilitaria.co.uk/ourshop/prod_6656956-RMP-Captain-Mess-3940C-32W.html . Still, I’ve never gone to a mess dress and I’ve taken a lot of creative freedom for the fun of it, so don’t be picky, specially considering the hardship of finding information related to the 1950s, which forced me to use information of nowadays in some cases instead.

“Bugger… I swear you get bigger each time…”

Strike loved many things in life. The taste of dark creosote tea during a strong rainfall, the sunset in the beach, love letters, biscuits with chocolate chips, the smell of wet grass, a good cold Doom Bar in a hot summer day, and the sight of the woman he loved the most in the world, naked, manoeuvring his manhood into her wet channel.

It was late at night, and Strike had had a dirty dream, which had made him unconsciously harden in his sleep against Robin’s arse, their pyjamas forbidding closer touch, and he’d begun unconsciously pressing herself against her, humping her, until she’d woken up and, realizing what was happening and hearing her name be whispered by Strike in his sleep, had felt so flattered and horny all of a sudden that she’d woken Strike up with his member deep in her throat, a rare sight, because Robin didn’t really like sucking members, and Strike was just as happy without that happening. Yet for some reason she’d wanted to do it in the moment, and when he’d woken up and seen her, with Robin having turned the lamp on to see herself, he’d nearly released right there, as her tongue caressed the mushroom of his tip and her hand fondled her sack.

They had managed to find condoms, get naked, and now Strike was releasing soft sighs of pleasure as he saw Robin’s body take him in, lying on the bed. He could release just by the sight. Robin had her head thrown back, her beautiful hair cascading backwards and her eyes closed in concentration with a slight frown and biting her lip softly and sensually, and her back arched, making her generous breasts direct engorged pink-red buds to the ceiling. Freckles decorated the space between her breasts, vanishing towards the scar red groove in her belly, and the dark blonde hairs of her pubis intertwined with his dark black ones, her wetness covering his nether areas as she coaxed his length inside with one hand, gently pushing herself up and down his length with her free hand on his strong, hairy, broad chest. Strike placed a hand over hers on his chest and stretched to massage her wetness with his free hand, making her moan deeply.

“Come here,” Strike grabbed her breast and pulled her closed so he could suck it, and Robin sank in him, moaning as she bounced, picking up speed while her breasts slapped Strike’s mouth.

It didn’t take them long, excited as they were, and later, Strike enjoyed the warmth of Robin naked in his arms, falling asleep against his soft and warm chest. And as he did so, he had to admit, at least for himself, that this was his favourite part of making love. When afterwards, he was satisfied and sleepy, wrapped in Robin’s perfume, her soft skin and her warmth, and felt her sleep in his arms, following suit shortly after.

Robin had been at the hair salon the day before to get the tips trimmed and look refreshed, and in the morning, Strike’s turn came in the kitchen, where he sat in one of the chairs around the small kitchen table, a mirror on the table and a towel around his neck, his hair soaked, as Robin prepared to tidy his hair up nicely with a pair of scissors.

“Don’t cut too much, or it’ll look more like pubic hair, just… trim it a little,” Strike said anxiously.

“Love, relax, I’ve got three brothers, I’ve cut more men’s hair at the farm than the average hairdresser. When I’m done with you, you’ll look like a businessman or a banker, but handsomer. I’ve got product to make your curls the envy of the ball as well.”

In the end, Strike had to admit she knew what she was doing. He was left his his hair short, no longer military-looking, with a gentle soft fade towards the end, and elegantly messy short waves on the top which he could easily sweep sideways, which Robin did for him, smoothing it with a bit of hair product so that in the end his hair looked perfectly tidy and business-like, but with the decoration of gentle ripples in the top, from his left hairline towards the right, and sideburns kept short and tidy. He’d already clean-shaved, because it was more accepted for military events, and the end result with Robin’s help was incredible.

“And your lip scar adds sexiness, makes you look more adventurous and less snob,” Robin commented graciously, kissing the top of his head. “My handsome man.”

“You’ve just become my hairdresser for life, just saying.”

Robin laughed, shaking her head, and Strike got up, smiling softly.

“Lunch and we get ready?” Robin asked, and Strike nodded in agreement.

They had to tidy up early because the drive to Sandhurst would be a little long. Robin was feeling well enough to drive, to go, to dance a little, and mingle with his mates, so she’d drive them in her Land Rover, they would spend the night at a motel they’d booked in the area, and return home in the morning.

Once they’d eaten, and were clean and ready to start getting dressed, Robin began putting on her dress and in the meantime, Strike had to put on his complex mess dress uniform, a process that began when he put on high black socks, black boxers, and a pristine white tunic shirt, all the buttons neatly closed. He was lucky he didn’t have to wear ties or bow ties, being a RMP. Next, Strike put on high-backed black trousers with a scarlet stripe in each side, adjusting them with scarlet braces, tucking his shirt below the high trousers. That was the part he hated, when the trousers were so high eating was partially made uncomfortable.

Even from the bedroom Strike could hear the girls fussing in the bathroom. Lucy, Ilsa and Katie had come to help Robin with the hair and make-up, although Strike was fairly sure that Robin didn’t need so many hands, but her friends probably wanted to see him in uniform, and gossip with Robin. Lucy had basically called them a real life prince and princess.

While Strike put on his black shoes and buttoned his cuffs, strapping his father’s watch in place, he was glad he’d been resting his leg and being diligent with the creams and massages, because it felt quite okay now, and the night was still young, and he wanted to dance with Robin. He hadn’t learned waltz for nothing, after all. Now Strike proceeded to put on his bl ack wool waistcoat, which was fully backed and had gilt detailing and high collar, and lastly, he put on his scarlet wool jacket, which had black facings, black high collar, gilt edging, embroidered RMP collar badges, and black epaulettes with gilt embroidery, and an embroidered crown on each to symbolise his rank as Major. He straightened his jacket, which was worn open, not having buttons or anything, and checked himself in the closet mirror while putting his medals on . Giving himself the okay, Strike tucked his keys, wallet and RMP ID badge in his pockets, and put on some cologne before walking out of the bedroom, adjusting his scarlet hat on his head.

“Robin darling any chance you’re ready?”

T he bathroom door opened and Robin’s head pecked out.

“Just five minutes, be a sweetie and wait downstairs with the boys? Also,” she looked at him up and down, “God help me not to ravish you in the car. Those trousers make your arse—,”

“My sister’s listening,” Strike laughed. “I’ll wait dear, don’t forget your driver’s license as ID proof, okay? They’ll ask for one.”

Strike was vaguely surprised by the way in which the familiar weight of his thousands-of-pounds expensive uniform immediately changed the way he moved, making him walk more like a soldier in parade, his limping softened. The moment he entered his sitting room, he was immediately teased by Nick and Christopher, who sat having tea.

“Jesus Christ you look like a doll!” Nick laughed. “Mate, girls dig this?”

“The Army does, and I’ll have you know this uniform costs half your monthly salary.”

“I personally think it’d be cool, if it had just a tad less embroidery,” Christopher commented with amusement. “You tidy up very nicely dude.”

“Thank you,” Strike sat on the sofa, stretching his legs. “Ugh, I’m not looking forward to having to control the way I eat.”

Nick chuckled, patting his arm, and offered him a cup of tea. They’d engaged in a conversation around football -Strike supported Arsenal, Nick Tottenham, and Christopher anything but Chelsea- when Lucy and Ilsa arrived, the latter cradling Amanda asleep in her arms, and complimented him nicely, specially for his hair, and shortly after Strike was regaling them with the World War II version of ‘Colonel Bogey’ march, making them laugh at the tone of:

“Hitler, has only got one ball… Goering, has two but very small; Himmler, is very sim'lar, and Goebbels has no balls at all…”

Right then, Robin arrived and Strike stopped in his tracks.

“Sweet mother of…” he stood up, his eyes wide. Robin had paired her royal blue dress with hidden high heels, a luxurious necklace and bracelet he’d given her for Valentine’s Day, shiny fringe drop earrings with rhinestones, and then she’d done her make-up soft with popping crimson lips, a dark eyeshadow bringing out her eyes, and her beautiful hair was in a tidy braided up-do.

“Is it too much for a mess dinner?” she asked unsure. Strike struggled to remember to think and form words.

“You look absolutely breathtaking, my love,” he said, and pecked her lips gently, swirling her with a smile. “Woah. Everybody’s going to be jealous of me!”

“Damn right, I hope outshining the queen isn’t treason,” Nick commented.

“Beautiful, Robin,” Chris added. “So, shall we go?”

“Not without a photo, I bought to do it in colour!” said Lucy excitedly, holding up a camera. “You two stand there where there’s better light.”

“Oh Jesus…” Strike muttered, but did as he was told.

When at last they were on the car on their way to Sandhurst, Robin’s little purse and beige coat on the back, Strike couldn’t stop staring at Robin, his lips parted in astonishment.

“Baby, you can’t be like that all night,” said Robin blushing, flattered.

“Which is why I’ve got to do it now,” said Strike. “Gosh, you’re unreal. I just can’t… are your eyes always so shiny? And your cheeks so round? How’s your nose even… it looks sculpted!”

Robin giggled, blushing hard.

“You’re exaggerating, I didn’t even put much make-up.”

“You didn’t, that’s right, but… I don’t know, you polish so good,” Strike stared in awe. “You’re also so beautiful in sweats but like… all of that,” he gestured with her hand towards her. “Stunning. Sorry for the Queen but my eyes won’t be in her at all. I doubt anybody’s eyes will be on her, as a matter of fact.”

“Gosh, imagine now I get accused of treason for outshining Your Majesty.”

Strike snorted a laugh.

“It’d be grand!”

When they arrived at Sandhurst’s Royal Military Academy, the sun had set. They found a parking spot in the Old College Car Park next to the large white building of the academy, which had tall and impressive columns at its entry, like a Greek temple, and then they followed the waves of elegantly-dressed strangers accompanied by military in all sorts of uniforms; the dark blues and golden from the Royal Navy, the red jackets with black bow ties of the Royal Marines or the General Staff, the paler blues of the Air Force, the Life Guards’ and Blues and Royals nearly identical to Strike’s uniforms, and just a great selection of all sorts of combinations of blues, reds and golden, with the most common being slight variations of a red jacket, black bow tie and low waistcoat, which most people seemed to wear, varying very slightly. And the Irish, Strike pointed out as they walked, Robin’s hand on his arm, were the easiest to distinguish, because green had managed to combine with red, giving Robin the impression that they certainly didn’t care much about tasteful fashion in the military.

“There are chaplains too!” Robin noticed, whispering loudly into Strike’s ear.

“Military chaplains, yes. Makes you wonder about the whole humility Jesus talked about, does it?” Strike side smiled, his medals sparkling in his chest. Robin’s eyes were drawn to the sparkle.

“You’ve got more medals than most of these people. Will you tell me their stories one day?”

“Of course.” Then Robin gasped and smiled, pointing ahead with her head.

“Queen Alexandra’s Royal Army Nursing Corps. I had that one, bright red and soft blue, similar to yours but uglier?”

“I see,” Strike looked up. “You’d look beautiful in anything though. D’you still keep your uniforms?”

“In the attic, in case I ever go hungry and need to get easy money. How many have you got?”

“Ugh, hard to remember,” Strike said thoughtfully while they walked at a slow pace. “Three plus the camouflage ones, which could be two or three more… and then the ones of training, the suits…”

“Thousands of pounds,” Robin sighed. “See? Better keep them just in case.”

They waited between the multitude as people entered the building slowly and when their turn came they showed their identification, Strike’s invitation, and went through the process of leaving Robin’s coat and purse safely stored in the cloakroom, before entering a large, luxurious hall.

“Oggy!” they turned to a voice and saw a man dressed identically to Strike, but instead of crowns on his shoulders he wore what looked like two diamonds. He was tall and broad and about Strike’s age, with mouse-like light brown hair swept back, clean-shaven, and with brown eyes. He wore glasses, and with a large hand, he held that of who could only be his wife, a beautiful, beaming brown-haired female with her hair cut similarly to the queen’s.

“Hardy!” Strike grinned, rushing to hug him. “Didn’t think I’d see you so far, here! And Louise, you look beautiful.”

“Thank you darling,” Louise Hardacre gave him two kisses, grinning. “It’s so lovely to see you! And you look so handsome.”

“We tidy up nicely,” said Hardacre, beaming warmly. “We left the kids in Edinburgh with their aunt and uncle and their cousins, and popped down here to party. And you,” he turned to Robin, “must be Dr Robin Ellacott,” he offered her a hand, “you’ve no idea how much I’ve heard about you, it’s like meeting a celebrity! I’m Graham.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Robin with a smile, happy to meet a friend, shaking his hand. “So you’re the guy Cormoran calls when he’s in trouble?”

“Hopefully!” he laughed.

“How do you do, Robin?” Louise gave her two kisses as well. “What a stunning dress!”

“Lieutenant Graham Hardacre and his wife Louise,” Strike murmured into Robin’s ear. “Good old friends from Germany, now living in Edinburg.”

While the ladies chatted away and the men put each other up to date, the four walked into the reception area, were waiters were walking around holding trays with a variety of white and red wine, and each grabbed a glass, standing around and talking. Robin soon learned that Hardy and Strike had met years before, when Strike had first arrived to Germany, where Hardy had been stationed for three months already, and where he had moved with his wife, and their then baby daughter and toddler daughter, both of which had grown up in the subsequent years calling Strike their Uncle Corm, for that’s how close the two men had quickly gotten. Hardy had returned to their country of birth just a month ahead of Strike, and had moved to Edinburgh with his family, as that’s where he’d been stationed next, while Strike returned to London.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a steward announced after a while, calling everyone’s attention, “The Prime Minister Mr Harold Macmillan and his wife, Lady Dorothy Macmillan.”

The announce was followed by the doors opening and the country leaders entering. The big military bosses and the President and Vice President of the Mess Committee quickly went to make conversation with them.

“His moustache is even more prominent in person,” Robin noted after a quick evaluation, sipping from her wine, and Strike and Hardy sniggered.

“You were in Queen Alexandra’s Corps, is that right Robin?” asked Hardy.

“Yes, but never went to these things before. I was always working at the military hospitals in Yorkshire.”

“That’s right, I never understood why the country spends so much money in so many of these events every single year,” commented Louise, her blue eyes directed to Robin. “As if there wasn’t so much work to do, and when not, better give them a free day to be with their family, isn’t it?”

“That’s right,” Robin nodded in agreement. “Does it get fun at some point or are they all going to do some…” and she lowered her voice. “Arse licking all night?”

Louise giggled, and Hardy gave it a hearty laugh, while Strike smiled broadly.

“At some point they’ll all be drunk and do limerick competitions and nonsense like that,” Louise reassured her. “And there’s the dancing, of course.”

“Too bad your partner has a wooden stick of a leg,” Hardacre joked, teasing Strike.

“My wooden stick dances better than your uncoordinated feet, though,” Strike retorted teasingly, making Hardy chuckle.

When the Queen Elizabeth II and her husband Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh were announced, everyone turned to look at them. Robin was once more reminded that she was slightly older than the Queen, and was a little jealous that so young the other woman had already procured herself a lifetime of luxury and commodities, on top of quite the beauty. Then, her brain seemed to point out she was only a queen so young because her father, King George VI, had died very young, and she felt less envious and more lucky right away, for she still had a healthy father back home in Masham.

Their small group soon received additions of people who knew either Strike or Hardacre, and who in turn introduced them to their own acquaintances, and between drinks, friendly conversation was flowing with total ease. To Robin’s surprise, they were more interested on talking about family, travelling, sports and latest curious things they’d read on the newspapers or watched on the telly, than they were on talking about their work, their missions, or the army. She also discovered Strike had made some higher-ranked soldiers of other regiments read her books, and so she was met with a few admirers as well.

“Ugh, look at that,” a Colonel of their group suddenly commented, looking up over Strike and Robin’s shoulders. “The Ross. They got their ranks mostly based on who they’re related to, not on merit. Pathetic. Though the youngest Mrs Ross is admittedly quite a sight.”

Strike and Robin turned at once, and Strike’s heart nearly stopped. Chatting in a group of colonels, brigadiers, and generals, high ranked officers who chatted with the Queen herself, was an old man in a Captain’s Navy uniform, who Strike recognised as the Viscount of Croy. The younger lad in a similar uniform, but ranked of Lieutenant, around whose shoulders the Captain kept an arm had to be his son, Jago. Strike had only seen the Viscount in photographs, and had never seen his son, but if he had any doubts of his identity they were resolved when a brunette next to him turned around and locked eyes with Strike. Charlotte had her hand on Jago’s, a wedding band in it, and she looked just like she had in her youth, only taller, more curvaceous, and with more make-up and a more mature expression. She was stunning in her night dress, with her elegant up-do and luxurious jewellery, and when her grey eyes found Strike’s, they widened in recognition.

“Charlotte,” Strike muttered. Robin looked from him to her and Strike turned to her, panicked. “Shit, she’s the Viscount’s daughter in law.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Robin squeezed his upper arm gently, and smiled warmly at her.

But to her horror, Charlotte had dragged her husband over, a brunette man with brown eyes and a dark and thin moustache.

“Bluey! Oh my God, can’t believe it, it’s been forever,” she took Strike by the shoulders and before he could react she had planted two loud and salivated kisses full on his cheeks, which she left lipstick stained. “My love, this is Cormoran Strike, we used to be classmates and the best of friends, when I lived in Bromley, his aunt tutored us both. Oh dear, you’re a soldier now! A major, like your father?”

“My father was a captain,” Strike managed to say, looking surly and cornered, but Charlotte didn’t bug, ignoring him completely.

“Well nice to meet you, Cormoran,” said Jago Ross, shaking his hand. “I’m Lieutenant Jago Ross, Navy.”

“Royal Military Police,” Strike shook his hand with a tense expression. “I regret to say your wife’s exaggerated our relationship, we were never friends, but fuck buddies, as I’d say people call it nowadays, ain’t it right, Charlotte?” he glared at Charlotte, whose smile quivered as Jago filled with tension, frowning.

Fortunately, right then the steward announced dinner was ready.

“Excuse us,” said Robin forcing a smile, took Strike’s hand and dragged him away as fast as she could. After quickly checking where they were seated on a board and that their companions would be Hardy and Louise, she dragged him to their seats.

“We’ve got to stand until the Queen sits,” said Strike, stopping her from sitting down.

“Are you okay?” Robin asked anxiously, standing with him behind their chairs as the room began to fill up. There were about six long, very long tables with seats at both sides, and then at the head of the room a smaller horizontal table for the royalty, politicians, and military leaders.

“I’ll be fine,” said Strike, although his expression remained surly.

Louise was seated by Robin, which was comforting, and also next to her husband, while a white-haired man in another red uniform stood on the other side of Strike. When they could finally sit down, the men pulled back their ladies’ chairs, following prehistoric traditions, and Strike sat tensely by Robin’s side. There were three different spoons and three different forks and knives, and so Robin made a conscious effort to remember everything she’d been taught about elegant dinners, while the first speeches and saying grace were all done, before the first of four courses was served.

Robin, seeing Strike’s tension and the way in which he was barely touching his plate, took his hand over the table and gave him a concerned expression.

“Honey, what is it?” she murmured. Strike sighed and shook his head, but she squeezed his hand, insistent.

“She left me for him,” he whispered at last. “She said I don’t fuck that well to help me, that I was nothing important, called me a peasant, said I had nothing to offer next to Jago, that she was gonna marry him, nice house, money, become a viscountess… that she wasn’t charity to help me, my siblings. And now she fucking comes acting like…” he was nearly shaking with anger, containing himself, eyes trained on his plate, doing his best to keep his manners and composure.

Robin could sense his fury emanating like the warmth of a fire, and rubbed soothing circles on the back of her hand with her thumb. She was worried about dragging attention. These things had strong enforced protocol, and you could even be fined and expelled for breaking it. She didn’t want for Strike’s career to suffer any blows due to Charlotte, but the fact that Strike remembered events so clearly over a decade later told her that she still held great power over him, in a negative way.

“Look at me,” Robin whispered, and Strike fixed his eyes on her. “Deep breaths. Think of the farm. Deep breaths,” she instructed, and he nodded, doing so, “think of Amanda’s little giggles when you pull faces. Breathe, keep going. Your mother’s eyes. Yorkshire pudding. Morning tea,” she gifted him pleasant thoughts to let his mind drift to as he relaxed, swimming in her blue-grey orbs. Then she discreetly moved her lips to his ear. “The way I fucked you this morning.”

“Oh dear,” Strike murmured under his breath, his voice getting hoarse. Robin pecked his lips lightly.

“Try to settle down, and we can talk while we dance, okay?” she murmured. “Pleasant thoughts. Don’t let yesterday’s stomachache ruin today’s meal.”

S trike nodded, and smiled small, looking more relaxed.

“Thank you.”

After a very pleasant dinner, it was soon turn for the ball, and Robin made sure that while everybody’s attention was on the queen, who’d already given a speech, hers was on Charlotte, making sure she stayed at a certain distance. To nobody’s surprise, Charlotte kept turning to her too, the wheels in her brain figuring out who she was to Strike, and how much should she dislike her.

Chapter Text

Chapter 34: Noble.

Soon enough, they were slow-dancing. Most eyes were on the Queen, so when Strike’s chin softly sat on her shoulder, Robin turned her attention fully to him, moving slowly with the music, her arms around his neck. She was sure they weren’t dancing the right way or following the right tempo, but she couldn’t possibly care less.

“I love you so much Robin,” Strike murmured suddenly with a contented sigh. “So bloody much. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Robin knew so far he’d had at least a couple glasses of wine and a beer, but he withstood alcohol much better than her, who felt a little tipsy, so she knew he wasn’t drunk-talking. And so, she was immediately warmed and tenderised by his sweet, loving words, enjoying the way he held her like a little boy held his favourite teddy bear at bed time, content and sweet and tenderly, like her sole presence was the utmost comfort, and moved to kiss his cheek longingly. She’d already made sure to erase all traces of Charlotte’s lipstick.

“And you can bet your richness I love you at least as much as you love me,” said Robin, moving to kiss his lips, smiling at him as they swayed slowly. “I shouldn’t feel grateful for a bomb so we could meet, but… I will always feel grateful I was the nurse sent to you, and I was the one lucky enough to be loved by you.”

S trike chuckled and kissed her again.

“Are you having fun? Not too boring?”

“Are you kidding? The limericks after a few glasses were pretty good, these stiff guys need to loosen up. And the prospect of seeing the Queen drunk is certainly making me want to stay forever.”

He grinned from ear to ear, so happy and pleased with the way Robin had proven to fit seamlessly into absolutely every corner of his life, including, now, the military life. She was his perfect match, and time with her passed at a hundred miles per hour from how sweet and good it always was.

“But we couldn’t even eat with our hands,” he pointed out. “I’ll get us some good greasy hamburgers later at the motel.” Robin snorted a laugh, shaking her head, and he looked at her completely whipped.

But then something caught his attention. While everybody was distracted dancing and being drunk or nearly drunk, as the song changed into a swing dance, which was much more animated, a waiter in the shadows, with eyes glued on the queen, had slid a large knife discreetly into his jacket and began to walk slowly between the multitude towards her.

“Excuse me,” said Strike, separating from the confused Robin, and began to hurry between the busy multitude, trying to reach the waiter before he could reach the Queen, while Robin tried to push her way through to follow him. “Sir, waiter!” Strike finally got close enough and pulled the waiter back from the elbow right when he was less than six feet from the Queen, who danced with a Field Marshall, Prince Henry, her uncle, unbeknownst to the danger ahead.

The young waiter, with short blonde hair and light blue eyes and pink cheeks, turned around and Strike saw panic flash momentarily before his eyes before he recovered forming a nervous smile, pushing his other hand further into his jacket.

“Yes Sir, can I help you with something?” he tried to muffle it, but Strike caught a Southern Irish accent.

“Royal Military Police,” said Strike coldly. “Show me what you’ve got in your other hand under your jacket, it’s an order.”

“Nothing sir, my ribs hurt, I’m holding them to feel better,” the waiter replied nervously.

“Don’t make me hurt you,” Strike murmured threateningly, glaring at him. Then, the waiter turned around and attempted to run for it, but Strike still had a grip of his elbow, so he pulled him hard towards himself, and then threw his elbow back and slammed his fist so hard against the man’s cheek that the cheekbone cracked loudly and the waiter stumbled backwards, hit Prince Henry with his back, and dropped to the floor, his face bleeding. His big knife was now visible on his chest, having slid from his hand. The music stopped and everyone turned around to the commotion.

“What the hell?” growled Prince Henry angrily.

“Sorry sir,” Strike told him, and knelt as the waiter tried to scramble to his feet, pushing him down and grabbing both his hands with one large of him, the other moving the waiter’s jacket so that the knife fell to the floor with a clatter. Prince Henry and the Queen stared at the knife with wide eyes. “You’re under arrest for attempting to kill Queen Elizabeth, that’s treason mate. Guards! Guards!” he bellowed.

“What is going on?” asked the Queen, confused, and Prince Henry knelt, examining the long knife and then turning to the waiter, who groaned, squashed on the floor as Strike held his hands behind his back, pressing his chest to the floor with his knee. Robin rushed behind Strike and her eyes widened at the sight, stopping on her tracks.

“Good catch, Major,” said Prince Henry. “What’s your name?”

“Cormoran Strike Your Highness, SIB,” replied Strike, and then turned to the waiter, growling into his ear. “Are you IRA, uh?”

“I… won’t say nothing!” the waiter spat out angrily.

“Oh you’ll say it all soon, I assure you,” said Prince Henry, and turned to the Queen. Prince Phillip had rushed over, scowling as he put a hand on his wife’s shoulder, looking at the knife. “Your Majesty, I believe Major Strike just saved your life.”

. . .

T en minutes later, SIB had taken the waiter handcuffed into one of their vehicles and marched away with him, and Strike owed a few explanations. Robin managed to stick with him as Prince Henry and the President of the Mess Committee asked Strike to come along to a separate room to talk in private, with the Queen, Prince Phillip, and the Prime Minister tagging along. Hardacre managed to squeeze himself into the room too, discreetly standing back with Robin.

“I just saw the waiter had his eyes fixed on the Queen very tensely, and noticed he was holding a knife and pushing it into his jacket,” Strike was explaining. “Then he began walking towards Your Majesty and I rushed after him. I didn’t want to shout and cause major distress that would give him the perfect opportunity to run away, so I grabbed him by the arm, identified myself, and requested to see what he had under his jacket. He refused, so I insisted, and then he attempted to run away, moment in which I punched him so he wouldn’t run. You see, I’ve got a leg prosthesis, so he would’ve probably ran faster than me otherwise. And when I punched him he stumbled backwards, accidentally colliding with Your Highness Prince Henry, and dropping to the ground, with the knife dropping from his jacket. I noticed his Southern Irish accent and asked him whether he was IRA as well, and he’s refused to answer any questions, so I suppose it’s likely he is, but my colleagues at the SIB offices will interrogate him and squeeze the truth out of him, I am sure, so you shouldn’t worry, Your Majesty. A full investigation will clarify exactly how this happened and they’ll make sure it never happens again.”

“I see,” the Queen nodded slowly. “Well, if the situation is all handled out, I say we return to the ball. This is an important event, after all, and it shouldn’t be disturbed. However, Major Strike… I want to thank you for your courage and loyalty to the Crown, this act will not be forgotten.”

“I was only doing my job, Your Majesty, but thank you,” Strike did the appropriate bows and the royals left, leaving Strike with Hardacre and Robin.

“Mate, that’s calling for a medal,” said Hardy with a chuckle. “Well bloody done.”

“I only did it because nobody should be stabbed in a ball,” said Strike in a murmur. “Let alone by IRA, the bastards have done enough.”

“We should celebrate,” said Hardy, “grab a few drinks.”

“Actually…” Strike sighed and looked at Robin. “Would you mind if we head home, love? I don’t want to drag more attention, and my leg’s a bit tired at this point.”

“No problem, I’ve had sufficient drinks for the entire week,” said Robin, who’d been limiting her alcohol intake since her sepsis, and who should’ve cut it hours before.

“What a pity. Are you returning to London tonight Oggy? We’re catching the train from there in two days, we could have lunch before,” said Hardacre.

“We will do that,” Strike nodded, and shook his hand. “Great to see you mate.”

After exchanging all the necessary pleasantries, Strike and Robin recovered her belongings and marched out of the academy into the cold night, and she noticed he indeed limped heavily. He’d been trying his best to conceal the limp during the event, surrounded by such important and powerful people, and it seemed to have tired him out more than usual.

“I’m sorry love, perhaps you would’ve liked to stay longer,” said Strike as they slowly walked ahead. Robin had put his arm around her shoulders and her own arm around his waist to help him walk.

“Not at all, it was a good moment to go. What did you do with the cane you used to have, the one we bought you?”

“It’s home, I haven’t really needed it much in years, but after this… probably should go back to it.”

“Bluey!” Charlotte had ran out of the academy towards them and Strike had enough, turning in the spot. It was just them now, and he didn’t need to contain his rage any more.

“Look, I get I was just a nice cock for you, but I loved you and you played me very dirty, you took advantage, you humiliated me, ridiculed me, and offended me gravely,” Strike growled menacingly, glaring at Charlotte so hard she stopped in her tracks, six feet from him. “But I know now all you care about is money, high ranks, fancy clothes, shiny medals, and I have a higher rank, more medals and much better fame than your husband, who’s taking far too long to make you viscountess, isn’t it? So I am going to make this very clear to you right here right now,” he pushed a hard finger into her upper sternum, clenching his jaw. “I despise you. I don’t give a shit if you’re happy or not, nor whatever your feelings, hopes and dreams might be, I have made you to me what I was to you, nothing, unimportant, a mere fuck toy, and that’s who you’ll always be. You might fly to me for the rank and the medals like a mosquito rushing for blood, but you will not suck my blood any more, you’re scam, you’re despicable, you’re a dishonour, and a dirty whore, and I won’t fall for your lies any more, so go find your husband and leave me the fuck alone, or I will make you regret every setting eyes on me.”

“Bluey, come on,” Charlotte smiled nervously. “That’s no way to speak to a lady. I am sorry okay? Very sorry. I was young and stupid, and I wanted to make it look like you didn’t matter to me just to keep my cool but I truly did love—,”

“I don’t fucking care,” said Strike, shaking his head. “I have met someone a billion centuries better than you, why would I ever want to denigrate myself by having any sort of relationship with you? No, you belong to my past, not my present, and certainly not my future.”

Charlotte’s eyes narrowed in anger and Robin stood close ly.

“Don’t be a fucking child Corm. I’m coming to you as a grown up adult to stablish grown up contact, so grow up, mature, and stop being so childish. You ought to shake my hand, you ought to respect me—,”

Strike laughed dryly.

“Sorry I didn’t realise you were royalty now. Sod off, will you? The only person I ought to respect, love and cherish for the rest of my life is a woman whose ankles you’ll never even be close to reaching.”

He took Robin’s hand and marched away with her towards the parking lot. Charlotte didn’t follow them this time.

“Sorry about that,” said Strike as they got into the Land Rover. “The night shouldn’t have been so eventful.”

“It’s fine,” Robin reassured him, beginning to drive. “Where’s the motel then?”

“Just on the direction to London, straight ahead down that road,” said Strike casually. “It’s called Coworth Park.”

“Coworth Park…” Robin looked thoughtful for a moment. “That doesn’t sound like a motel to me. Are you sure you booked all right?”

“Yes, pretty sure. I’ve been there before, a colleague married in the academy a few years back and I stayed in Coworth Park.”

“All right.”

Strike didn’t like lying to Robin, but how else was he going to surprise her otherwise? Ilsa had helped him prepare it. Truth was when he’d insisted he’d take care of booking them a motel or a bed and breakfast for the night before returning to London, he’d booked them a weekend stay in Ascot, because Coworth Park was indeed no motel, but a luxury five stars hotel and spa, with horses and everything. And while Ilsa took Robin dress shopping, he’d packed a back with clothes for the weekend and their bathing suits and discreetly tucked it in a corner of the Land Rover, just behind Robin’s seat, where she was more unlikely to see it.

When they arrived at Coworth Park it was a bit late, and Robin looked more and more confused until Strike told her that this was their destination. Robin blinked several times, looking at the large white building and the luxurious gardens, and looked between it and Strike.

“What?” she blurted out simply. Strike smiled.

“Welcome to our romantic weekend stay at Coworth Park, Hotel and Spa. Five stars, all luxury.”

Strike passed her her coat and purse and got out of the vehicle, inhaling the fresh air of the countryside as he grabbed their bag from the back and closed the backdoor. Robin exited the car, locked it, and put on her coat and purse, looking at Strike like he was an alien.

“You’ve… what?” she asked again, astonished, and looked at the bag he’d grabbed. “You’ve booked us a spa trip? You’ve packed us a bag and everything?”

“Yes,” said Strike. “Sorry I lied before but what’s the point of a surprise if you tell it in advance?”

“Cormoran! This must’ve cost a fortune, we can’t stay here!”

“My love,” Strike wrapped an arm around her, guiding her towards the hotel, “would you please relax? This is a gift. It’s romantic. Give me a thank you kiss, and just enjoy it.”

R obin rolled eyes, but smiled and kissed him.

“Thank you, you’re very, very sweet. What did you pack?”

“Bathing suits, a summer dress, your sandals, and clothes for myself. And no pyjamas because you’re not going to need them,” he added, nuzzling against her cheek. She giggled, blushing.

“You’re wonderful, you know? But what’s the special occasion?”

“Life with you is a special occasion in itself.”

Touched, Robin grinned and held onto his arm, letting him guide her inside the luxurious hotel.

The following morning, after a trip to the spa to get massages and bathe in hot pools, Strike encouraged Robin to put on the summer dress he’d packed for her, and he put on a suit, because he had a special picnic lunch prepared for her in the surrounding gardens, near a lake. He went ahead to sort it all out and then had a member of the staff guide Robin to the romantic spot he’d picked. It was just below high robust trees, at the shore of a long lake and next to a garden of roses. Strike had extended a picnic blanket on the grass and had paid for the hotel to prepare them a picnic lunch in a basket, and waited for Robin with a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine, under the sunlight.

“Cormoran!” Robin gasped, impressed. “This is so beautiful and romantic!”

“That was the hope,” Strike kissed her. “You’ve long deserved a break, and this is for you.”

“You are the best boyfriend in the world, I’ll have you know,” Robin kissed him, smiling at him so big it reached her eyes, and took the flowers, sitting with him and smelling them. “These are beautiful, and smell wonderfully, and this place is incredible. You’ve really outdone yourself, can’t believe we’re not celebrating anything.”

“How about,” said Strike, putting glasses from the basket and pouring wine into them, “we celebrate a successful relationship, a good ongoing sepsis recovery, not having witnessed the Queen’s murder, and a long-deserved break?” He handed her one glass and he took the other.

“Never did a man speak wiser words,” Robin grinned, toasting with him. “To us.”

“To us,” Strike smirked, sipping from the wine before kissing her again.

After enjoying lunch and wine, the two lied down watching the birds dancing between the trees. Strike felt more than happy right there, with Robin in his arms, her perfume invading his nostrils, and the warmth of the rare moment of sun, the privacy of the place, the beauty surrounding them. To Robin, it was a reminder of the happy days they’d spent in the farm, and a symbolism of the ones yet to come. She knew that their relationship had been rather pushed into a fast pace because of the war, that living together from the beginning, and being like family from the beginning, had made deep feelings appear before the time it usually occurred for most successful couples, but then again, she had no regrets, and doubted Strike had them. They simply made it work, their worlds didn’t just collide, they melted into each other and solidified again forming a universe that was only theirs.

“You know,” said Strike suddenly after a long moment of enjoying their quiet company, “during the war I only dreamed of a day in which we’d all made it out alive, and didn’t have to live in fear of being drafted back. That day seemed so far away already that imagining a future beyond that seemed pointless and ridiculous.”

“And yet here we are.”

“And yet here we are,” Strike agreed, nodding. “We can imagine things now. Lucy and Christopher are trying to plan their wedding fast enough to have it this August instead of next year’s, your cousin’s getting married, Ilsa and Nick are welcoming another child into the group, we’re building a better future… and you and I remain together through thick and thin, hopelessly in love, making a reality of dreams we only dared to confess in love letters ten years ago.”

“We’ve come so far,” Robin sat up and looked at him over her shoulder with a broad smile, patting his belly. “The future could only possibly get better, could it? Or maybe not,” she reflected on a second thought, “but I feel like whatever comes, we could face it. We’ve always managed together.”

“I agree,” Strike nodded, and sat up again, leaning to kiss her softly. “In fact, I’ve been daring to dream again.”

“Have you?” Robin asked amusedly, looking at him.

“I’ve imagined… serving for two to five years more in the Intelligence Operations Room, then retiring and perhaps writing my memoirs so that hopefully the kids of tomorrow never forget what a war was like, even when they never lived it, and don’t bring us into another,” she smiled at the thought, listening to him. “I could teach, I could devote to our garden, I could get into the police… I could even play piano every single day.”

“That’d be wonderful,” said Robin excitedly.

“Yeah?” she nodded eagerly. “And you could write a million books, travel the world, perhaps we’d do it together, and teach more or help more patients. And I know you think you’re nobody to help people but… you are. After all, you didn’t save my life because you were a nurse, you did it because of the stuff you told me. And while we’re happy on our own with our own individual lives and dreams and achievements… we could still be us, a team, like always.”

“That’s the only option I’d ever accept.”

“That’s what I thought,” Strike caressed her cheek lovingly. “Look uhm… I know what we’re supposed to do. People who love each other and are good Christian Anglicans get married in a good Anglican Church just like Nick and Ilsa did and Lucy and Christopher will do, and they have a few children to be the future of England, and perhaps a dog and live happily ever after. It’s the expectation. And then we’d have joyful lives together and grow old and all of that. But it sounds kinda boring, to do what everybody else does.”

Robin snorted a laugh, nodding slowly.

“Traditions can get a bit boring I suppose. Then again Christmas is a tradition, birthdays happen yearly… and we still enjoy them. The family, the company, the friendship, the good food and the music…”

“Exactly,” said Strike in agreement. “So I thought, what if we did all of that… our way?” he slid a small box from his pocket and Robin’s eyes widened. “What if we were always in love, and perhaps had children and perhaps had a dog and a nice garden and family meals and Christmases at our place? And what if in addition to that, we never lost our wild side? If we kept riding horses and teaching our children to ride horses, if we kept trying to change the world, and travel as a family while you give talks and lectures here and there, and we never lost the spark that make us, us, and not every other Anglican family? We could be happy. We could start the flame that spreads and burns all that’s old and non-functioning and too conservative and traditional, and give birth to a tomorrow that’s more full of freedom and laughter and happiness… we could set the first bricks of our new nation. And we don’t have to give up who we are. We don’t have to push ourselves to fit some preconceived moulds. It’ll be you and me against the world, forever,” he opened the box, showing her a diamond ring exactly like the one she’d described for him on Christmas. “What do you say? Will you marry me?”

Robin’s eyes went from the ring to Strike’s eyes, becoming glassy, and she got very serious before she smiled softly.

“Yes,” said Robin, nodding. “With you, to the end of the world.”

“I was hoping you’d say so,” Strike grinned from ear to ear, and leaned to kiss her, their lips meeting like they were thirsty for one another, and then they separated, sniggering, and Strike put the ring in her finger. “You like it?”

She looked at it closely and nodded, grinning from ear to ear.

“I love you so much,” she put her arms around his neck. “Kiss me forever.”

“I can manage that...”

Chapter Text

Chapter 35: What’s just ours.

During the weekend spent together in Ascot, Strike and Robin spent a generous amount of time planning extravagances to make their wedding theirs. Sure, they’d celebrate a traditional Anglican ceremony in the church, so that their more conservative relatives wouldn’t have a panic attack, and Strike would wear his military dress no.1 for special occasions, and they’d have pretty pictures taken, but then they’d organise a huge banquet at the farm, where everything started, with family and friends and they’d be wild, get drunk, dance until the wee hours of the morning, eat all they could, ride horses, and Robin would not vow to obey him. And for a honeymoon, they would travel together, and visit France, Italy, Germany and Greece, and they wouldn’t give their children too serious-sounding names, and they wouldn’t baptise them, they wouldn’t go to church on Sundays, they would do life in a fun way, and not forget their roots, their identities, and their more liberal minds.

“And what if there are no children?” Robin asked their first morning back home, lying naked over Strike on the sofa while they discussed plans for the future.

“Then,” Strike pecked her lips, “it’ll be just us. Either way it’ll be perfect.”

T he doorbell rang, catching them by surprise, and both of them rushed to their feet.

“Run, run!” Strike rushed Robin, who laughed, running upstairs butt naked. Strike grabbed the sofa blanket and put it around himself, checked they hadn’t left stains anywhere, and went to open the door. To his surprise, Rokeby stood there with an unfriendly face, holding a large envelope. “Mr Rokeby, how can I help you today?”

“We got the test results. I am your father,” he grumbled. “So I’m here to be interrogated so that you’ll agree to test and donate me your kidney, as the contract we signed said.”

Strike moved aside to let him in.

“Please, wait in the sitting room. I’ll run to get ready, I was having a lazy morning.”

Upstairs, Strike explained Robin the situation while he got dressed and they kissed goodbye before he returned to Rokeby, to take him in Rokeby’s car to the RMP Headquarters of London. There, Strike took Rokeby to Captain Connor Rhys, who began interrogating Rokeby. Strike was allowed to see, so he stood in the adjoined room watching through a large glass with other officers, and in a few minutes, Rokeby was under arrest, having confessed only when the evidence against him was too big.

“I did my part,” Rokeby growled, glaring at Strike furiously as he was handcuffed, moment in which Strike came over. “No you do yours.”

“I’ll go to the doctor immediately,” Strike nodded, and looked at Rhys. “What happens with him now?”

“He’ll be in prison awaiting trial,” explained the Captain. “Afterwards he’s likely to do life in prison.”

“My lawyer won’t allow it,” grumbled Rokeby. “I will get out, and you’ll give me your kidney Strike, and I will live happily forever!”

“Never lose hope, as they say,” Strike turned around and left, feeling conflicted.

After entertaining himself at the doctor for a couple hours, Strike called Robin from a phone cabin in the street and they met in Hyde Park. Robin waited for him on a bench with a beer to share between them.

“So how did it go?” asked Robin, handing him the beer.

“My father’s a war criminal, a despicable monster, a murderer,” Strike grumbled, shaking his head. “And I’m supposed to give him my kidney and save his life.”

Robin frowned and sighed deeply, moving a hand to squeeze his.

“That’s absolute bollocks…”

“Yeah,” Strike nodded, frowning deeply, and gave his drink a long sip. “I went to the doctor. I can’t donate him my kidney.”

“How come?” asked Robin, getting concerned.

“Well apparently they’re not in the best shape either. It’s not too bad, but when I lost my leg and had sepsis they got damaged and it’s not life-threatening for me, but there are strict rules on organ donation and the organs have to be in better shape than that, so they won’t allow me to be a donor. They’ll send the Rokebys a letter explaining the situation so that it is understood I went with my part of the contract, but this is beyond my own control.”

“Wow,” Robin took the beer from him and gave it a long sip. “Will you be all right then?”

“Yeah,” Strike nodded. “I know the truth now, Robin. Is not pretty, but it’s all that I needed. And the war’s finished. And the world’s changing for the better, hopefully.”

“So what now?”

“We help Lucy with her wedding. We dance. We have fun. We enjoy life. We plan our own wedding. You don’t take my surname,” he side smiled, looking lovingly at her. “And we tell our story while we grow old together.”

Robin kissed him gently and smiled, squeezing his hand.

“So we get to be together and happily ever after.”

“Happily ever after.”

THE END.