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Chapter Text

Strike heard the clatter and thump of footfalls on the stairs and looked up; a second later, Robin tripped over the threshold, a rucksack over her shoulder and a cloth bag swinging in her hand. She shoved the door shut behind her, a sheepish grin on her face as she hiked the bags up on her shoulders.

"Spending the weekend?" Strike joked.

"Ha, ha," replied Robin, pushing into the room. She dumped the cloth bag on the sofa and then proceeded towards the desk that was normally Pat's, but was now occupied by Strike. An autumn glow had permeated the office; stripes of evening light flared across the room, casting half of Strike's face into a mild shadow. He closed his notebook as Robin approached, sensing the buzzing energy in her that usually meant she was plotting something.

"What's in the bags?" Strike asked mildly. Robin pulled out a fold-up chair, sat down adjacent to the desk and dropped her rucksack at her feet.

"Change of clothes. Boots. Thermals. Rug," she reeled off.

"A rug? Is that slang for something?"

"No, it's an actual rug. It's got plastic backing, for putting on the floor outside."

Strike looked bewildered.

"Why?"

Robin sighed, raised both hands above her head and stretched, knowing that the evening's work was set to be uneventful and dull. The object of their newest client's suspicions was noteworthy only for her extreme predictability: the petite, red-haired woman only ever went to the gym and the local supermarket. In five weeks of tailing her himself, the client had never seen her do anything else, but he nevertheless believed that she was planning to use her freelance accountancy service to access and poach his own clients. He was happy to pay for the agency's services for as long as it took them to prove it; all he had asked was that they find as much information about her as they could. Strike and Robin had explained gently that they believed his theory unlikely, and yet the client had insisted. After some deliberation, the detectives had accepted the situation for the gift it was, and had agreed to investigate.

But the work was tedious. Robin was to spend the evening outside a leisure club while the redhead took her regular spin class. The woman would walk out of the front doors at 9:15 on the dot, as she had done the previous week, and she would drive her Focus Estate home to Pimlico without ever exceeding the speed limit. Thankfully, Robin had found something to alleviate the monotony tonight and had planned to go out straight afterwards. 

"It's… nothing, really. It's just -"

She hesitated, wondering whether Strike would think that the Bamborough case had had a lingering effect on her. He raised his eyebrows expectantly, and Robin smiled at the familiar expression.

"There's a meteor shower tonight. I'm going to Hampstead Heath to try and see it."

Strike said nothing for a few seconds, surprised. He hadn't known that Robin held an interest in celestial events, but then again, the upcoming meteor shower had been discussed at length in the news; even he'd heard about it in the brief time between the main headlines ending and him reaching the remote to change the channel. He avoided looking directly at Robin; her overhead stretch had drawn his eyes inadvertently downwards, and he didn't want to be caught looking where he shouldn't. 

"You're going to Hampstead Heath in the dark? On your own?" he asked instead.

"Well, it has to be dark, or I won't see the meteors. But no, I'm not going on my own. I'm going with a group from the Observatory. It's all organised on Facebook."

"Strangers, then?"

Robin gave him an exasperated look.

"Yes, but there are whole families going. Women, children. First aiders. Lots of people in high-vis jackets. There'll probably be an ice cream van."

"Okay," said Strike. He finally looked at her. She looked mildly frustrated, but she was smiling. He returned it reluctantly.

"Anyway," she said, standing and heading for the kettle, "I only came to dump this stuff and have a coffee before I go out."

"Oh, right. You're on Kylie tonight."

"Kylie?" They hadn't yet assigned a nickname for the spin-class enthusiast.

"Spinning Around?"

Robin burst out laughing, and warm tingles effused down Strike's spine. He shook his head at himself and opened his notebook again. She only laughed. No need to get sentimental.

Robin put a hot cup of coffee down in front of him and Strike muttered his thanks. He thought she might retreat into the inner office to drink hers, but she sat once more on the hard plastic chair she'd dragged forth, sitting perpendicular to him across the narrow desk. He didn't roll his chair back to check, but he knew her trainered feet would be mere inches from his own, hidden underneath the table.

***

Robin tailed Kylie to the two-storey gym, but continued straight on rather than following her into the car park. Robin parked the Land Rover on the roadside in a small cul-de-sac, waited long enough for signing-in processes to be followed, and then proceeded on foot to the gym's reception, her messenger bag over her shoulder. She entered the building and approached the front desk, where a pink-shirted receptionist with a beehive was staring down at her own lap, where Robin assumed she was hiding her phone.

Robin glanced around; a pair of double doors to the left led to a corridor beyond, where she supposed classes were already in full swing. Robin greeted the receptionist gaily and asked if there were any spaces left in the spin class, knowing perfectly well that there weren't, having already tried to book online. The receptionist brought out a printed list and scanned it perfunctorily, informing Robin that sadly, the class was fully booked.

Feigning disappointment and asking rambling questions about the online booking system, Robin hurriedly scanned the names on the list. According to the client, Kylie's real name was Jade, but Robin saw no Jade on the class list. Victoria Ryland, Juliet Dean, Bryony Entwistle. Keeley Oates, Jess Fernleigh, Sasha Wood. 

"Okay, so I'll try next week, but go online first thing in the morning? The thing is, I always have a coffee in bed first thing, I could get my husband to bring my iPad, I suppose…"

The two names at the very top were partially obscured by another sheet of paper, but Robin was fairly sure that neither of them were the name she sought. She wanted evidence to feed back to the client; maybe they'd both been wrong, and Kylie didn't go to spin class at all.

"I don't know, love, just keep refreshing the app…"

Robin took her phone out of her handbag and checked that it was on silent.

"All right, just let me - this thing is ancient, but I use the calendar on it now - let me check the date next week…"

Robin succeeded in opening the camera, and she held down the shutter button so that the phone took a burst of photographs. She moved it sideways a little, still gabbling, trying to get a variety of angles but keep up the façade of checking the calendar. She shook her head and exclaimed loudly,

"For goodness' sake! It won't load. Anyway, thanks for your help, I'll try again next week!"

Robin shoved the phone away and turned, only to find her path blocked by a tall man in tracksuit bottoms and a polo neck, queueing behind her. He glanced down at her slim handbag. 

"Never mind, there's always next week," he said.

Robin laughed. "Yes, of course!"

The man's eyes swept down Robin's body, taking in her jeans and trainers, her casual blouse and sweater.

"Got your gym clothes squirreled away in there, have you?"

The back of Robin's neck prickled.

"It's like Mary Poppins' bag, this," she said with an attempt at a jovial smile. "Excuse me."

She manoeuvred around him and exited the gym, glancing back over her shoulder as the tall man walked straight through the double doors on the left without speaking to the woman at the desk.

***

Robin let herself into the office at nine thirty and threw her keys down onto the desk. Finding her rucksack exactly where she'd left it, she tried to muster the same energy she'd had a couple of nights before, when she'd agreed to go and lie on the grass and watch for a smattering of meteors that would purportedly look like shooting stars. She'd decided that she'd spent enough nights alone lately, taking long baths and reading. While she enjoyed those things, she'd almost forgotten that there was an entire world out there that she could enjoy, instead of just skulking on the outskirts and lurking in shadows, watching and documenting while other people lived their lives. 

But though she wanted new experiences, to push herself out of her comfort zone, Robin wished she had a companion to join in the pushing. She was just short of entering the realm of 'singles' events, where days out consisted of walking tours and holidays were conducted largely on coaches. There was a woman in the Facebook group who had expressed keen interest in forging a friendship; she had told Robin at length about her greenhouse, her pug and her passion for musicals. Robin stifled a groan, feeling herself ungrateful, and went to the inner office to get changed.

A few layers later, Robin headed out towards the Tube. She'd left her previous outfit in the cloth bag under her desk, and her rucksack was slung once more over her shoulder. The Northern line was busy, but not jam-packed; she found a seat without difficulty and tried not to take up too much space with her bulky bag. The car trundled and swayed as it meandered around some gentle bends, and then it pulled to a stop at Warren Street. Robin fixed her eyes on the Underground map above the opposite wall, counting the stops until she had to alight. 

A sudden sound to her right made her ears prick up; a faint step, and then a louder one. A deep voice said, "'scuse me," and Robin suddenly felt a wave of embarrassment mixed with something else that she couldn't name. She knew that voice. She turned.

"What are you doing here?"

"Wondered if you'd like some company. You know, while you look at the flying rocks."

Strike's eyes crinkled into her favourite smile, and Robin tried not to look as delighted as she felt. She made a point of appraising him critically.

"You don't look very prepared for the occasion. You'll have to share my rug," she quipped, and then she felt her face flood with colour. 

"Don't worry," he replied, "I've got my own."

Robin frowned just as Strike gestured with his eyes, down towards the slice of chest exposed by a couple of unfastened buttons. Robin laughed in surprise. Strike smiled again and sat down on the seat next to her. The Tube doors closed and they began to move; Strike turned his head and looked over at Robin, his eyes speculative.

"Did you want company? I can go back, if you want. I understand if you want to do it alone." He smiled. "Really."

Robin experienced a strange stab of emotion at the thought of him leaving. Was it fear? She told herself to get a grip. She'd been planning on going alone all along. But the night would be so different with him there, and she'd undoubtedly been happy to see him. She tried to force herself to speak normally.

"Of course not," she said quietly. "You're more than welcome."

Strike laughed. "That sounds like a reluctant yes."

"It's not," said Robin, grinning. "I'd love - I mean, that'd be great."

"Good. I need to check out this ice cream van, anyway."

Robin rolled her eyes, unable to keep the triumphant smile from her face.

Chapter Text

"What do you think of Mr. Accountant, then?"

Robin did a slight double take before she realised that Strike was talking about their client. The Tube car swayed, Strike reached out a hand to hold the pole in front of him, and Robin frowned.

"I didn't think he was an accountant."

"He's not. But I didn't understand his job, so that's what I'm going with."

"Because he's boring?" asked Robin shrewdly. A guilty expression passed over Strike's face like a fleeting shadow.

"So you think he's boring?"

"Yeah, of course I do," said Robin, raising her voice a little over the rattle and whirr of the Tube. "He's a freelance PPC marketing consultant, which basically means he's -"

"- a boring fucker," interjected Strike. "That's not a real job."

Robin laughed. "It is. It's about increasing traffic to internet advertisements. If we consulted him, he'd tell us how to get our agency to the top of Google searches for detectives, that kind of thing."

"Well, we don't need that, do we?"

"Not if the Time thing is anything to go by," agreed Robin. She glanced at him and added, "I still can't believe you did that."

"Well, anyway," said Strike, keen as ever to leave the subject of the offer he'd rejected. "I can't get a handle on him. He seemed reticent on the phone."

Robin glanced over again, and Strike was looking at her with a more serious expression than she thought the conversation warranted. He gazed at her intently, keenly interested in hearing her answer, and she realised that he was relying on her to help him figure out the strange client. She felt a little flattered.

"I think he's got some kind of hangup about Kylie," she mused, and Strike grinned at her use of the nickname, "but I don't think he really believes she's going to poach his clients. It seems extremely unlikely, given that she doesn't work in the same field. And he's a smart man. That must have occurred to him."

"I agree."

"But I don't know what his problem is. He keeps asking her to do more work for him, so she must be good at her job. Unless he's in love with her, and that's why he keeps going back."

"That's what my money's on. He's got a crush, and he's getting at her through work because that's all he can bring himself to do."

Robin looked sideways at Strike. They were on their way to a purely social engagement, but talking about work. She wondered whether the irony was all in her head.

"So why surveillance?" she asked. "Why resort to having her followed, rather than just asking her out?"

"I don't know. Maybe he's a fantasist and thinks they're already in a relationship, and that she's cheating on him."

"Well, maybe," said Robin, in a tone that demonstrated she didn't think the theory even remotely possible. Strike grinned as their arrival at Belsize Park was announced.

"But the most likely explanation?" he continued as he stood. "He's just a bit odd. And that's brilliant for us."

"Why?" 

Robin gathered up her rucksack, but Strike reached out a hand and took it from her. 

"Surveillance on someone who doesn't do anything? Easiest gig in the world."

He stepped out onto the platform and into the crowd of people. Robin followed, not entirely convinced.

***

Strike and Robin entered Hampstead Heath to find a series of neon signs attached to trees and lampposts, directing them towards the Royal Observatory Orionids Event. Strike suggested that a single upward arrow with the legend "Meteors This Way" might be more helpful, which earned him a friendly punch in the arm as they walked on.

Eventually, they came to a wide expanse of grass that was already filled with people. A trestle table had been erected at the front, and Robin accepted a pamphlet from the jovial-looking woman sitting behind it. She beckoned Strike on towards a promising gap in the field, where she stopped, took the bag back, and began to unpack its contents.

"Are you ok here?" she asked, her head whipping around to face Strike. "Would you rather find a bench somewhere?"

Strike smiled. "I'm fine." 

Robin eyed him sceptically but said nothing. She unfolded the rug and laid it out on the floor, then sat down without speaking. She didn't look at Strike as he lowered himself to the ground, his left leg taking the weight, and settled himself on the other side of the rug. He leaned back on his hands and stretched his legs out, sighing a little and raising his face to the sky. Robin gave a start as she realised she'd gone from averting her eyes to blatantly staring, and she busied herself with rifling through the bag.

"So, when does this start?" asked Strike. Robin pretended to look thoughtful.

"Hmm. I don't know, they're late. Maybe someone forgot to press play."

Strike sniggered. "Well, it's unacceptable. Whoever's in charge wants sacking."

"According to the website, they could have been visible any time from nine, but they'll be brightest at midnight."

"You're very well-informed," teased Strike. "Did you look up the history of Hampstead Heath while you were at it?"

Robin laughed and shook her head. "You don't seem to mind my research habit when I'm looking up suspects," she said, eying him archly.

"Of course not. But this isn't work. You can have a day off."

"I like looking things up. I like to know exactly what I'm dealing with." She threw another casual glance his way.

"That's fair. Although you made a big mistake with this." Robin's eyes were wide as Strike leaned slightly towards her and smiled cheekily. "No ice cream van."

She giggled softly and reached into the rucksack, pulling out a four-pack of Doom Bar. 

"Will this do instead?"

Strike froze for a second as he read the label, but he recovered himself quickly. "That's much better than ice cream. Thanks," and he took one.

Robin took a beer for herself and they popped the cans open, leaning back on their elbows and gazing up into the night sky. Strike's arm was centimetres from Robin's. She surreptitiously swapped her can into her other hand so that she could leave that arm on the ground.

She told herself she was being silly, that all her imaginings were by definition invented, and that Strike was here merely because he knew the dangers of visiting a park alone at night. But she couldn't help her eyes drifting over the shape of his brow, slightly furrowed as he looked to the sky, and the line of his jaw where his head tilted back. She considered the curve of his neck, covered at the base by the upturned collar of his sweater, and the line of his broad shoulders underneath the soft fabric. She swallowed and shifted slightly, and her skin brushed against the coarse hair on Strike's forearm.

"So these are the Orionids?" he asked, jolting Robin from her reverie.

"Yep."

"So that could be Orion," replied Strike, pointing.

Robin looked up and saw a vaguely familiar grouping of three stars. She tried to picture the rest of the constellation; some of the stars were faint, but she could just make out the image of Orion raising his weapon to the heavens.

"I can see the - is that a bow?"

"No, he's a hunter, but I don't think he was ever an archer. It's supposed to be a club and shield."

"You know about stars?" asked Robin quietly.

"I know about Greek mythology," replied Strike. 

"So tell me about Orion."

Robin turned on her elbow so that she was facing him on the woven rug. Strike did the same, and they were face to face, suddenly ignoring the sky.

"Well, in one version, he was born from a bullhide. Supposedly as the earth-born child of Poseidon, who was -"

"- God of the sea," interjected Robin, and Strike nodded.

"He was gigantic, and supernaturally strong. In the Arab mythology, he's known as Al Jabbar, meaning giant."

Strike raised his eyebrows, and Robin recalled a sweet young woman clutching a toy monkey and announcing to the room at large that Strike had been named after a giant.

"I think I like him," she joked. 

"I wouldn't be so sure," said Strike, "he was a bit of a dick." 

Robin laughed. "Really?"

"Most people in ancient mythology are dicks, on some level."

"Well, it's like most people. We can all be dicks sometimes," said Robin fairly, but Strike snorted.

"What?" 

"You've never been a dick in your life," he said baldly.

"You've only known me for - a sixth of it."

"It still couldn't be more obvious."

Robin didn't quite know what to say, so she drank more beer. She was surprised to find her can almost empty, and so she fished two more from the bag. Strike swapped his empty can for the full one she passed over. Snapping open her second beer, Robin suddenly felt remarkably happy.

"Hey, speaking of dicks -"

"I beg your pardon?"

Robin laughed. "Is that -" she said, pointing upwards once more. Strike grinned.

"That's his sword, Robin. Get your mind out of the gutter."

***

The following morning found Strike and Robin in the otherwise empty office, together for a brief interlude before Strike went out to follow a stockbroker who was almost certainly sleeping with his business partner's wife. They'd decided to try to make contact with the client Strike was now calling Marketing Man, and so Strike leaned back in his leather chair while Robin dialled the client's number on the office phone and then hit the speaker button. They waited; a few rings, and then a man answered tentatively.

"Hello?"

"Hi, George, it's Robin Ellacott here, from the Strike agency?"

"Yes, yes," replied the client, sounding harried. Robin threw a look at Strike, silent in the corner.

"I'm just calling to give you an update. I went to your accountant's gym last night. I checked the list of those attending the spin class - I sent you a photo just now - and I don't think she was there."

There was a brief silence, and then the sound of a door slamming shut.

"How - how can you be sure?"

"Well, there was nobody called Jade on the list."

"Then she's using a fake name."

The client spat this last assertion out, and Robin felt even more uneasy. 

"Well, that's certainly a possibility. In any event, we need to agree on a way forward. We decided to start with the gym as we knew that part of her schedule and it seemed less invasive, but from tomorrow I think we'll need to commence surveillance from her home."

"Fine."

"Does that sound okay to you?"

"Er - I should make it clear," he said hesitantly, "I only know her home address because she conducts her business out of her home. I don't want you to think -"

"- no, of course -"

"- I mean, we have not crossed that boundary."

Another awkward silence ensued; Robin stared at the wall to avoid looking at her partner.

"I understand."

"You understand, too, that this is of the utmost importance?" The client seemed to build himself up; when he spoke again, his voice was considerably louder. "I need your full attention on this. I am convinced she is not to be trusted, and you may need to watch her at all times. She probably is using a fake name. Yes. It would fit."

Robin swallowed down a sigh. She was used to clients demanding more than a job really needed, but it was difficult to determine exactly what this job required with a client so cagey.

"Well, as we discussed, we don't have the capacity for round-the-clock surveillance. Of course, if you wish to go elsewhere -"

"No, no. I don't wish to tell - I mean, I'd like to keep this circle small. This could embarrass me, professionally." 

"Okay. Well, if you'd like us to continue -" Robin exchanged a look with Strike, who nodded imperceptibly, "- we'll need to meet you in person again, relatively soon."

"Oh. All - all right."

"If you could outline your availability by email to our secretary, we'll arrange a meeting. In the meantime we'll continue surveillance, and we'll go from there."

"Yes. That's - yes."

"Is there anything else you want to raise now?"

"No, no, nothing else."

"Then I'll wait for your email."

"Okay."

"Goodbye, then."

"Yes. Goodbye."

The line went dead. Robin looked across the room, and Strike's mistrustful expression mirrored her own.

Chapter Text

On Friday morning, Robin took a coffee and her laptop over to the sofa, put the mug down on the coffee table, and fired up the internet. Following the client’s assertion that their target must be using a fake name, Robin was determined to rule out the names she’d seen on the list of spinning class attendees, and so she settled in to track them across social media. She found Facebook pages for half of them, and Twitter accounts for almost all. One of the women, she was amused to note, was following a Cormoran Strike fan page on Instagram.

But none of their profile pictures seemed to depict the woman she sought. The woman whom they were now calling Kylie, but had introduced herself to their client as Jade, was a short redhead with a wide face, her silky hair usually pulled up into a high ponytail while she bounced between supermarket, home, and gym. Robin searched for Jade Davenport and found a LinkedIn page for her accountancy services. She seemed to have joined no other social media sites using that name.

Robin wondered whether the prickle of intuition she felt ought to be trusted or not. She recalled her conversation with Strike the previous day, when he had expressed the opinion that their client had a crush on his accountant and the surveillance was likely to be as easy a job as they had ever had. Robin had agreed that a crush was the most likely scenario, but still she felt that prickle that told her something else was going on.

Stretching, Robin put her laptop down on the glass table and reached for her coffee. It had cooled considerably but she sipped it, unable to truly concentrate on the case, thinking instead of the time she’d spent on Hampstead Heath several nights ago. She’d been overwhelmingly happy that Strike had joined her unexpectedly, and she grinned to herself as she remembered the look on his face when he’d seen that she’d brought Doom Bar just in case. In truth, she’d had no clue that he might decide to come along, but she’d taken to drinking the ale on occasion because it reminded her of him. She didn’t feel the need to explain this to him, however, and so she was happy to let him believe that she had supernatural powers of foresight and planning.

The mood between them had been relaxed and easy, but Robin had jumped when she’d first felt Strike’s hand on her forearm, after a solid fifteen minutes of comfortable silence. He’d laid his fingers lightly on her skin and whispered to her in the dark, “that’s it, look,” and he had pointed up into the blackness.

Now, in the cool clarity of morning, Robin tried to unravel how she’d felt when she’d seen the sudden flurry of shooting stars race across the night sky. She knew she had been amazed that the rumours had been true, and that she’d been glad she’d made the trip to view the event for herself. But then she’d turned her head slightly, and Strike had been looking straight at her, smiling gently, his eyes burning with something she didn’t feel equal to defining. She’d been embarrassed, and had looked back up to the stars. But his gaze hadn’t moved, and she’d been drawn back down to it, unable to resist looking back at him, enthralled by the intensity of his stare. He’d rubbed a hand across his jawline and muttered softly,

“Make a wish, Robin.”

The deep gravel of his voice had imprinted these words on Robin’s mind; she could still hear them when she closed her eyes and conjured his face, mostly in shadow, raised a little higher than hers as they lay on the woollen rug. Why the words had had such an effect on her, she had no idea; she’d listened to his voice nearly every day for five years, and she’d never replayed a single sentence so often as she had in the last twelve hours. She supposed that the wonder of seeing a rare celestial phenomenon had made her emotional, but nevertheless, each time she replayed it, she could again feel the warm flutters that had settled in her gut.

But Strike had not leaned towards her. He hadn’t made any movement to suggest that he felt the same flutters, or that he wanted to kiss her as badly as she wanted him to. Robin had heard her own soft inhale as though she were outside herself, looking in; they had stared at each other for a long moment, quiet as the sleepy streets around them, and eventually Robin had laughed self-consciously and looked away. When she looked back, Strike had picked up his beer again, drinking its last and suggesting they start to pack up.

Robin sighed heavily and got to her feet. She had time for a shower before she had to head out to the office for their regular staff meeting, so she rinsed out her coffee cup in the kitchen sink and then headed to the bathroom. As she pulled a towel from the rack and set the water running, she told herself sternly that overthinking would get her nowhere.

*

“Shall we talk about Formby first?”

Strike settled into his office chair, the leather creaking as he leaned back, the rest of the agency’s employees gathered on assorted seats around the outer office. Pat was sitting on her own chair, while Robin and Barclay shared the farting sofa. Hutchins and Michelle utilised two of the plastic fold-up chairs that Robin had used to sit next to Strike on the night of the meteor shower. Robin was now further from him than anybody else, settled in the far corner of the sofa, but she was in his direct eyeline, exactly opposite him in their rough circle. Strike made a conscious effort to focus equally on everyone in the group.

“Cut and dried. He’s robbing them,” said Michelle bluntly. She swiped a finger across the tablet in her lap and then turned it to face the room at large. It showed a photograph of a man atop a ladder, with his head and half his torso forced through the bedroom window of a two-storey house. Michelle swiped again and again, and the series of stills combined to became a jerky movie in which the man lurched forward and swayed, then pulled back out of the house. The last pictures showed him climbing slowly back down a few rungs, taking care not to fall, with his hands full of wallets and keys.

“Bloody hell, that was fast,” commented Strike. Michelle gave a tentative smile; despite her obvious skill, she was still unused to ready and unconditional praise, having come from a difficult situation at the Met. Robin smiled encouragingly at her.

“Well, he’s pretty stupid, as thieves go. He’s only been working with the cleaning company for a month. How he thought he wouldn’t get found out, I’ve got no idea. But the boss can phone the police now.”

“Yeah, he can,” agreed Strike. “He was worried about his reputation, but now he’s got the hard evidence. When people find out he had the integrity to shop his own employee, it’ll only improve his reputation, surely.”

“Ah’ve got no idea why he didnae phone them already. Stupid bastard,” said Barclay.

“He got suckered in,” said Michelle. “Didn’t realise what the guy was up to until they were already friends. And then it was easier not to believe it.”

“Aye, well,” said Barclay, scratching his head lazily, “friend or not, he’s a thieving wee shite.”

Strike grinned. “I think that’s our warning: do anything dodgy, and Barclay’ll have no problem dobbing us in.”

Everyone laughed, and Strike caught Robin’s eye. The laughter had not yet left her face, but the blush that rose on her cheeks told him that she wasn’t only thinking of Barclay.

*

“Robin, can you stay behind? Need to speak to you.”

Strike had stood along with everyone else, but now he hovered in the doorway to the inner office while everyone else filed out. Robin threw assorted goodbyes to her colleagues, smiling at Michelle’s conspiratorial raised eyebrows and pretending not to know what they meant. She waited until everyone had left and closed the office door behind Hutchins. Strike indicated the inner office with his head, and Robin followed, her heart thudding in her chest.

“Everything ok?” she asked as she sat on the edge of her desk. Strike smiled at her, genuine and open, and she wondered again why nothing had happened on Hampstead Heath.

“Fine,” said Strike, leaning against his own desk. “I just wondered whether –”

To Robin’s surprise, Strike hesitated. He picked at a stray thread on his cuff, glancing at the window and then back at Robin.

“I wanted to say that I had a good time the other night,” he murmured.

Robin’s stomach flipped deliciously. She felt the warm flutters return, and her mind raced with itself, trying to think of the right response. She’d never been able to play this kind of thing as the game some saw it as; she didn’t know what else to do but stick to the truth. So she answered simply, “me too,” and Strike took a small step towards her.

“Do you want to do something like that again? Not meteors, obviously,” he said in a rush. “But something – you know, it was good to get out –”

“– yeah, it was – I wanted to do something that was a bit different, out of my –”

“– comfort zone, yeah,” finished Strike.

They looked at each other across the tiny office, and Robin couldn’t help but feel frustrated that Strike hadn’t actually defined what he wanted to do. Was he just looking for a way to kill time, a pleasant divergence from solitary evenings in front of the television? Did he perhaps have a sudden desire to experience more of London’s parks? Or was he asking Robin on a date? She couldn’t very well ask, and yet she needed to know what this thing was between them; it seemed to float in the air every time they looked at each other, and Robin was increasingly unable to concentrate around it.

She needed a return to the intimate atmosphere of several nights ago, when he’d touched her arm and whispered in her ear and caused every wild thought she’d ever had about him to resurface and spiral around her like dust motes in the breeze. She should have taken that opportunity; there was nothing she could do about that now, but there was a way she could try to create a new chance.

“Well, since you planned that, should I come up with somewhere for us to go?” asked Strike.

“No,” said Robin firmly, grinning up at him. “I’ve got something in mind.”

Chapter Text

Robin stood in front of the bathroom mirror and pulled her hair back into a utilitarian ponytail. She’d dressed in cargo pants and trainers, knowing that she’d be walking several miles, and she found herself feeling eager to get back out onto the streets. It had been a while since she’d actively followed someone, and this seemingly basic task represented to her the essential part of what she’d loved about detective work from the first; it spoke to that instinct within her that made her want to see things for herself.

While she navigated the Tube and made her way to Pimlico, Robin thought about the nervous suggestion Strike had made to her the previous day. He’d asked her tentatively if she wanted to spend time with him again, outside of work, and she had agreed without hesitation. Robin had enjoyed the night they’d spent watching the Orionids more than she would have admitted to anyone; she had felt a thrill of excitement when he’d joined her unexpectedly, and the sensation hadn’t abated when he’d laid down next to her and told her quietly to make a wish.

Sometimes, Robin suspected that Strike could tell what she was feeling; sometimes she felt that he actively encouraged it. Why else would he have whispered so suggestively, his breath gracing her ear, the warmth of his body just millimetres from her skin? But there were also times when a small, anxious part of her overtook her mind, and she found it impossible to have faith in the evidence before her. Perhaps his actions were entirely innocent; it wasn’t his fault that she’d become hard-wired to respond to him, hyperaware of every flex of his arms or quirk of his lips, her skin tingling at his slightest touch.

She exited the Tube station and walked on towards her target’s house, attempting to shed the memories from her mind and concentrate on the task ahead. She told herself that it didn’t matter whether her intuition was right or wrong; she needed to see it for herself. She needed Strike to make some step in her direction that would tell her unequivocally that he felt the same way she did. She felt a tiny swell of anticipation at the thought of her secret plans for their next outing, as yet unbeknownst to Strike; she hoped that it just might provide the perfect opportunity.

As she approached the white-fronted houses, Robin slowed and lingered in a small grassy area that didn’t seem to fit in with the imposing facades of the rest of the street; it looked like it had been added in a hurry. She sat down on a bench and bent over, ostensibly to tie her shoe, but really hiding her face from anyone who happened to be walking past. Looking up at intervals, she waited barely five minutes before Kylie emerged from the house three doors down, dressed head to toe in khaki, and strode purposefully down the street.

Robin knew, from the client’s initial briefing, that Kylie frequented her local supermarket reasonably often. She also knew that Kylie was a woman who worked from home, almost entirely via an internet connection, and this had struck Robin as an incongruence. Kylie had a high-flying job, a smart house in an extremely upmarket area of London, and a good working knowledge of modern technology; why hadn’t she joined the millions of people in the UK who ordered their groceries online? But perhaps she enjoyed the exercise; she was walking in the weak sunshine, leaving her bulky estate car in the allocated parking space behind her house.

Robin followed Kylie for a mile and a half until they reached the sprawling hypermarket. The car park was quiet on this weekday morning, but delivery lorries drove almost constantly in and out of a large depot to the left hand side of the main supermarket. Robin found a convenient seat inside a bus shelter at the front of the car park, and waited while Kylie walked briskly towards the main doors and disappeared inside.

Robin occupied herself on her phone, checking news sites and social media until she eventually felt she’d exhausted everything she wanted to read online, and she wished she’d brought a book. She watched the lorries, wondering how long it would take Kylie to do her shopping; an hour slipped by without any sign of her emerging, and Robin began to wonder how much Kylie was buying, and how she was going to carry it all home on her own.

Some time later, Kylie reappeared suddenly, sauntering out of the automatic double doors with an apparent spring in her step. Robin stuffed her phone back into her pocket and stood, her back to the shop’s entrance, watching Kylie’s reflection in the clear Perspex walls of the bus shelter. But something was wrong with the picture, and Robin paused; the Perspex was scratched and warped, and she couldn’t be sure of what she was seeing. She had no option but to get closer. She turned slowly and started to walk, trying not to draw attention to herself, keeping a few metres away from Kylie as the accountant set off walking in the direction she’d come. A few short minutes, and Robin’s suspicions were confirmed; Kylie had spent almost two hours in the shop, and she wasn’t carrying a single item home.

*

“I’m telling you, it’s weird,” Robin said emphatically, both hands clutching the handbag on her lap while the train lurched and swayed. Strike sat across from her, his knees spread wide, contemplating her words.

“Maybe she works there,” he suggested, resting his forearms on his thighs as he leaned towards her.

“She would have to be storing her uniform in a locker, if she is, because she didn’t have a single thing with her. And with the time it would have taken her to get changed, and then change back again at the end, her shift can only have been an hour long.”

“Yeah, I know zero hours contracts are getting more common, but single hours would be taking the piss a bit,” agreed Strike.

“Maybe she was buying something tiny, something she could have put in her pockets and I wouldn’t have seen.”

“Like what? Stamps?”

“Cigarettes, maybe? Although any more than a few packets and I would have noticed the bulge,” said Robin, her eyes flicking involuntarily towards Strike’s parted legs. She didn’t notice his amused glance.

“Could have been lottery tickets, or scratch cards,” he suggested.

“But why would it have taken two hours?”

“I don’t know. Choosing all the lottery numbers individually? Basing her choices on something she has to take her time with.”

“You’re thinking about astrology again,” accused Robin, and Strike grinned.

“Well, it would account for the strangeness.”

“Not every case is going to involve star signs and tarot, you know.”

“Thank heavens for that.”

“But you didn’t seem to mind talking about constellations last time we – you know –”

Strike looked at her with intense eyes, although his face was a picture of feigned casualness. He cleared his throat before he spoke.

“Are you going to tell me what we’re doing tonight?”

“No. But I don’t have to,” said Robin, standing, “because we’re here.”

*

The Annual British Firework Championships were held over three days, with the main event scheduled for 9pm on the final night: a culmination of a year’s worth of pyrotechnic experimentation from each team, the displays were set to be the most impressive yet. Robin had booked tickets for the final online, and as she entered the stately home with Strike and showed her tickets to a marshal on the door, she tingled with both the memory of the last time they’d stared up into the night sky together and the anticipation of what could be in store for them tonight.

A tiny smile had appeared on Strike’s face as soon as he’d seen the first banner, and it remained there throughout their journey down the long gravelled drive and into the outdoor seating area that had been set up in the grounds. Strike couldn’t help himself looking at Robin every few seconds; she was tense beside him, and when she spoke, her words were fast and high. He wondered whether she was nervous, and why that might be the case; the image of her face when he’d whispered to her on Hampstead Heath floated to the forefront of his mind, and he castigated himself yet again for being such a coward.

They took two wrought-iron seats at a small circular table. Looking around, Strike could see food and drink vans stationed at intervals along the edge of the huge courtyard, but these were no greasy burger vans of the sort he would have found outside football stadiums in his youth. There were foods from multiple cuisines: paella, jerk chicken, tartiflette; there were mobile bars selling prosecco and cocktails, and he watched as a woman walked back to her table from the nearest van, clutching a wide goblet full of a bright orange drink, the word ‘Aperol’ emblazoned on the side of the glass.

“Drink?” Strike asked, wondering whether he’d be lucky enough to get hold of a beer at any of these stalls. Robin smiled, more shyly than normal, and nodded.

“They’re all very fancy, aren’t they,” she said wistfully. “I don’t know whether to get –”

“Get whatever you want. Let’s push the boat out,” interrupted Strike, grinning. A beat later, Robin returned his conspiratorial smile.

“You’re right. I’ll have an espresso martini, if they have any.”

“What’s your second choice, if they don’t?”

“Surprise me,” suggested Robin, her blue eyes twinkling.

Strike wandered off into the sparse crowd. Robin watched him visit several vans and read their menus, and then she lost track of him as he headed towards the far back of the courtyard. Robin craned her neck to try to see what he was doing; he was taking a long time, and she felt guilty for not asking for something simpler. But to her surprise, Strike returned fifteen minutes later with a round black tray and four glasses. Robin raised her eyebrows as he put down two coffee cocktails in front of her. He’d bought himself a pint and a lowball tumbler of something golden and sweet.

“Where did they come from, then?” asked Robin.

“Well, nobody had them on the menu. I went to the van offering the most complicated cocktails and I asked if he knew how to make them. He did, so I went to the coffee place and bought a couple of double espressos. Took ‘em to the cocktail man and he made your drinks.”

Robin didn’t say anything for a full minute; rendered speechless, she looked from the drinks to Strike, trying to think of something to say and coming up empty. She finally gathered her wits and fixed her eyes on his.

“You could have just got me a wine instead.”

“No. You said that’s what you wanted,” said Strike simply.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, and then she smirked. “You big softy.”

Strike smiled, his eyes crinkling as he looked away, shaking his head softly. “You’re welcome.”

They whiled away the next hour with idle chatter. Robin visibly relaxed, sipping her cocktail and glancing up at Strike every so often to find him equally at ease. By unspoken agreement, they didn’t talk about work. Their open cases were progressing at a steady pace, and there was no need to dissect them immediately; they could wait until Monday. But more than that, they were both enjoying each other’s company and neither wanted to drag the conversation back to mundane reality; they spoke about stars, and the nature of stories, and they debated the merits of Michelin-starred restaurants as compared to an Indian takeaway in front of the TV.

At ten to nine, several floodlights in the near distance were switched on, and a group of marshals began ushering everyone towards the gradually sloping lawns at the back of the grounds. Some people had brought camping chairs, and they were directed towards the back, while others spread blankets out on the smooth grass. Robin dragged the now-familiar woollen rug from her bag and laid it out on the floor towards the front of the marked area. People swarmed around them as Strike and Robin sat down, each clutching their second drink. Strike sipped his; the whisky coated his tongue and warmed his throat, and he settled back onto his forearms to look up once more into the blackening sky.

“Only a couple of minutes to go until the first display,” said Robin.

“How much research have you done into fireworks?” asked Strike.

“Well, the creation of the first ever firework dates back to –”

She broke off as Strike burst out laughing, and Robin joined in.

“I’m joking. I don’t know anything about fireworks,” she said, smiling. Strike’s dark eyes were warm and liquid as he gazed at her.

A loud bang echoed in the distance, and Strike and Robin turned as a smattering of bright red sparks fell into the empty space. Soft classical music issued from nearby speakers and a series of brilliant fireworks began, alternating left and right, showers of colour filling the air. Appreciative sounds emanated from the crowd, who’d otherwise fallen almost silent, their whispers indistinguishable from the hissing of the next firework.

“They’re spectacular,” murmured Robin.

“They’re nice,” agreed Strike quietly.

After a while, Robin turned her head a fraction and looked at him.

“Which one’s your favourite?”

Strike thought for a moment, watching the show, and then finally raised a finger to point as a golden firework exploded with a smaller pop. Its sparks fizzed exuberantly for several seconds before fading away.

“Those ones,” said Strike.

“Why?”

“They sneak up on you.”

“What?” Robin laughed. Her voice was breathy, and Strike turned his head towards hers.

“They’re not noisy when they’re first set off. There’s not as much fanfare as the others. But then, they’re beautiful, and they carry on being beautiful even after the initial shock’s gone…”

His face was so close. Robin could smell his skin, masculine warmth and fresh lavender combining to raise the hairs on the back of her neck. Her eyes seemed stuck to his as he took in a slow breath, and Robin swallowed hard, every part of her straining towards him, all her senses screaming. She wanted him to kiss her more than anything; her eyes dropped to his mouth and back again, his gaze burning into her all the while. Robin felt warm flutters in her belly once more as he raised one hand to her cheek; she leaned forward and closed her eyes, and his lips covered hers.

Robin felt the fireworks in her brain as he kissed her, his lips moving softly against hers, his hand trailing lightly down the side of her neck. She reached out a hand and grabbed a fistful of his shirt; he groaned quietly against her mouth, and she lost her grip on the last vestiges of self-control she’d been clinging to. She pressed herself as close as she could and kissed him harder, a tiny sound of surprise and pleasure escaping her, and she felt his other hand close around her forearm, holding her in place.

They broke apart, breathing hard, and Robin’s heart skipped as Strike rested his forehead on hers. The hand that had been holding onto her arm moved blindly down her wrist, raising goosebumps all the way, and finally he succeeded in capturing her hand. He said nothing as he twined his fingers with hers.

“Strike,” Robin murmured, and he raised his head to look at her. She was smiling serenely at him, and her little finger brushed delicately against his.

“Couldn’t resist you,” he whispered, grinning devilishly. Robin felt a swoop in her gut that settled somewhere lower.

“I knew that wishing on a shooting star would work,” joked Robin, and Strike rolled his eyes playfully.

Chapter Text

Strike sat alone at his desk, wanting a cigarette but lacking the motivation to get up and go outside. At any rate, he'd promised himself he would try to cut down, and he'd already had one that morning before starting work, sitting on the sofa in his little flat, enjoying the brief interlude of time in which he was free to devote all of his thoughts to Robin.

It had been five days since he'd kissed her. He'd known that she'd wanted him to, but he couldn't deny that part of him had been afraid; what if she'd rejected him, or pulled away, or decided that it was a bad idea after all? But she'd responded with what he could only describe as complete enthusiasm: she'd kissed him back passionately, and a tiny, sexy sound had escaped her lips even as he kissed her. The memory of that sound had lingered in his consciousness, and Strike was certain it was responsible for some of the more intimate dreams he'd had in the days since.

He'd seen her, briefly; they'd crossed paths in the office on a few occasions, but never to exchange more than a few words as they rushed out on various surveillance jobs. Robin was still following Kylie, who'd avoided the supermarket for a few days and had instead spent the last two mornings sitting outside a coffee shop, wrapped in a parka, drinking macchiatos and making phone calls. Strike was following the stockbroker, whom they'd decided to call Donald on account of his toupee. The days had been too busy for much more than fleeting hellos, but they had exchanged inconsequential text messages in the evenings. Although they revealed nothing, Strike was glad of them; he wanted to stay in contact, to maintain their closeness, and to show her, if nothing else, that she was still on his mind.

A ping from his computer pulled Strike out of his thoughts. The noise alerted him to an incoming email, and he opened it, raising his eyebrows at the subject: "Woman needed to follow wife." 

I believe my wife is having an affair and I need a woman to follow her. I have mobility issues and cannot do it myself. Please call me to discuss terms.

A phone number sat underneath this short message, but there was no name. The sender's email address read '[email protected]', and Strike pondered this for several minutes. Despite extensive Googling, he was none the wiser as to what the address signified, but for some reason, he was certain it wasn't the sender's name. He pulled out his phone and dialled, sipping his tea and wishing he had a cigarette.

"Hello," said a deep voice on the end of the line.

"Hi, I'm sorry, I don't know your name. My name's Cormoran Strike; you emailed me about a possible surveillance job."

"Ah, yes," the man replied. Strike leaned back in his chair and waited. "I would have liked to come to your office, but I'm - I can't get around as well as I used to. It's degenerative," he explained.

"I'm sorry," said Strike formally.

"Not at all. It's been the case for - well, anyway," he caught himself with a slight laugh, "that's not why I contacted you, of course. I believe my wife is - the kids call it stepping out, these days, don't they? That's what my daughter would say." The man gave another nervous laugh, and Strike felt the familiarity of yet another betrayed spouse seeking truth and retribution via his services; he wondered, not for the first time, whether there were any happy marriages left any more.

"Ok. Can you give me a rundown of what you think is happening and why, and your wife's rough schedule. I'll need to set up a meeting with you -"

"Oh, well, would it be okay to meet via Zoom? I'm terrible with technology, but my wife showed me how to use it. It would help, because of my -"

"Yes, I understand. That's not a problem. Let me know when -"

"Can it be now?" 

Strike paused. He looked down at his shirt, checking for creases, and then swept an armful of notes and general debris from the front of the desk. He gave his agreement and waited while the man created a link and read the password out over the phone. A minute later, he hung up as a new ringtone came through his computer, and he introduced himself to the grainy image that appeared on his screen.

*

"Yeh bloody never," said Barclay, laughing.

"What's so funny about -"

"An' Robin weren' here to help? Ah dinnae believe it."

From the other side of the room, Robin and Hutchins began to laugh, and a reluctant smile appeared on Strike's face as he looked over at his partner.

"I'm capable of setting up a bloody Zoom call," insisted Strike. He rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help grinning at Barclay's open amusement.

"Who called who?" asked Hutchins.

"You mean whom," joked Strike.

"Avoiding the question, eh," said Barclay, aside to Robin. Robin caught Strike's eye as he spoke.

"All right, technically he called me," he admitted, and laughter filled the room again. 

"Anyway, his name's Mark, he's an insurance salesman and his wife's cheating on him. She's an artist and she works all over London, driving to workshops and sales exhibitions and such, so following her would be a nightmare. But she has a hobby that's fairly regular, so we're going to try and befriend her. Michelle, how d'you feel about crochet?"

Michelle jumped slightly at being addressed directly, and she dropped her hand from her mouth, where she'd been chewing her nail.

"I actually - I needed to talk to you, after," she said. "I need a bit of time off."

"All right, we'll talk later," said Strike. He paused, stumped. Michelle had wrapped up her case, and he'd been counting on her to take the new one. She'd never asked for time off at short notice before, and he knew she wouldn't ask unless it was important, but the job needed to be taken on by a woman, and that meant -

"I can do it," ventured Robin. Strike looked at her. She was fully booked already. Would she have any free time left over? Strike willed himself to think as her boss, and not her… what was he, anyway?

"Ah can give crochet a bash," said Barclay. "How hard can it be?"

"Thanks, but the class is all women. A bloke there would stick out, and we need to blend in." He nodded reluctantly at Robin. "Fine. You can start going to crochet in the evenings. Barclay, you can do some surveillance of Kylie when Robin needs a break."

"Nae problem," replied Barclay.

"Hutchins, you're on Donald with me. Michelle, let's have a chat and then we'll sort out the rest of the rota. Unless anyone's got anything else, I think that's it for today."

*

"Is Michelle okay?" asked Robin from her position on the sofa. She'd been worrying about their newest colleague ever since the morning meeting, and she hadn't had chance to speak to Strike all day. Now, in the dim lamplight, listening to his voice, she admittedly wanted to get the work talk over with, so that they could chat about other things.

"She's all right. Wrist injury. She's been lifting weights and her PT didn't spot her properly. She's booked physio in the evenings and she wasn't going to say anything, but then I asked her to do crochet," he finished, laughing. Robin joined in; it was, possibly, the worst type of job he could have asked her to do in the circumstances.

"Well, I'm glad it's nothing serious. I was worried," said Robin.

"I thought you would be."

Robin wondered whether he was laughing at her, but his voice was warm. She leaned back against the cushions and took a sip of tea.

"Anything new with you?" asked Strike.

"A tiny bit of news about Kylie," replied Robin. "I went back to the spinning class, and honestly, we need a new nickname for her. She wasn't there."

"Again? I thought Marketing Man was adamant that she went every week?" 

"He was. Maybe she's bored of it, or she's doing a different class. I asked a couple of people there whether they knew a Jade who usually attended, and they said they didn't. I tried to keep it casual, so I didn't ask much more, but she definitely wasn't there."

"All right. We know where she lives, and where she shops -"

"- except that she doesn't actually shop there," interjected Robin.

"True. But my point is that we can still follow her. We'll get Barclay on it."

"Okay," agreed Robin.

"Okay."

Robin could hear Strike shifting around on his creaky sofa, and she suspected he was fidgeting because he wanted to take his prosthesis off but hadn't yet done so. She should let him go, but she didn't want to.

"How are you?" she asked lamely, frowning at herself.

"I'm fine. I'm a bit annoyed you're taking the new case, if I'm honest."

"Why?"

"Well… I was hoping to use up some of your spare time." 

Butterflies swooped in Robin's stomach. She put down her mug with a shaky hand.

"You still can," she said softly.

"Yeah?"

"Definitely."

"It was good, last week, wasn't it?" he asked. Robin could hear the uncertainty in his voice and suddenly felt even warmer towards him.

"It was great," she agreed. "I'd like - I want to see you again, if you want to. I know we saw each other this morning, but I mean -"

"I know what you mean. I do, too."

"Good," said Robin. She knew the words were mild, but they were all she could muster; at least they were on the same page. She couldn't help her gleeful smile, and she was glad he couldn't see her face.

"Robin?"

"Yes?"

"You know when I see you again…" he paused, and Robin could almost hear the mischief float through the phone line towards her. "Do you think I could kiss you again?"

Robin grinned and clutched the phone tighter, feeling for all the world like an excited schoolgirl. 

"We'll see, Strike," she said playfully, and she waited for him to laugh before she ended the call.

Chapter Text

“Hi, George, thanks for coming in,” said Strike, ushering the client through the glass door and into the inner office. Though Robin stood as the nervous man approached, she didn’t offer her hand. Something about his manner told her that he would be uncomfortable with anything more friendly than a perfunctory smile. As the client settled himself into the chair facing Strike’s, Robin glanced over at her partner, who was still standing. Strike’s swift nod told her to begin the conversation without him, and he walked away to the outer office to make tea.

“It’s nice to see you again, George,” said Robin politely. She sat down in her office chair, across the desk from the client, and tried to look as non-threatening as possible.

“What can I do for you both?” George straightened both his cuffs and visibly squared his shoulders, but to Robin, all he succeeded in doing was making himself look more uncomfortable. “Do you have – information for me?”

Robin cleared her throat and looked down at the notebook in front of her. She’d hoped to put the client at ease before jumping straight into the case, but she couldn’t think of a way to do it that didn’t seem transparent. She took a deep breath and plumped for straightforward honesty.

“Well, if you believe in the saying ‘no news is good news’,” she began, “then yes. You asked us to find out as much as we can about your accountant, but so far we’ve been unable to find her doing anything remarkable. She’s visited the supermarket you mentioned on a number of occasions, and she’s had coffee at various places, mostly sitting outdoors and always on her own.”

“That’s – I mean, she is a single woman. She’s at liberty to do that,” murmured George.

“Yes,” agreed Robin. As she pondered how best to proceed, Strike’s hand pushed open the door, and he entered with a plastic tea tray and three mugs. The process of serving tea served to thaw the ice a little more, and Robin waited until Strike had sat down before continuing.

“The incongruence, George, is that she doesn’t seem to be going to the gym. You said that she was a fan of the spin class –”

“Yes, she told me – and I saw her going in –”

“– but she hasn’t attended that class at all since we’ve been watching her. She also hasn’t actually bought anything at the supermarket.”

George looked from Robin to Strike. Although the supermarket visits had puzzled Robin a great deal over the last week, the client was looking far more serious than she thought the situation warranted. She again wondered whether there was something strange going on that nobody had quite put their finger on yet.

“So what are you telling me?”

“George, we’re telling you that so far, there’s nothing to tell,” said Strike brusquely. Robin flashed him a look, but he didn’t catch her eye. “It would help if you could give us some more background information here, because we’re flying blind. We don’t know what kind of information you’re after, or why you need it. We could be here for months and get no results at this rate. You need to help us out, here.”

Silence followed these words, and Strike drank his tea nonchalantly, looking out of the window. Robin picked up her mug for something to do with her hands, and she’d nearly finished it when George finally spoke.

“All right, if you must know,” he said, his words clipped and a little annoyed. Robin smiled encouragingly, and Strike picked up his pen. “I believe that Jade may be infatuated with me.”

George gave a little smile, as though he knew that the detectives wouldn’t believe him. Strike and Robin avoided each other’s gaze.

“I know what you’re thinking. Why me? She is a beautiful woman. But she – she is very insistent on continuing to see me. She calls me. Sometimes at the weekend.”

“Okay,” said Strike slowly. He was still refusing to look at Robin, whose chair seemed to have moved marginally closer to his own behind the big wooden desk. “How long have you known her?”

“Six years.”

“Who made the first contact?”

“I contacted her. Her details had been provided to me.”

“By whom?”

“A work contact who had used her services.” He looked up and made direct eye contact with Strike for what Robin suspected was the first time. “There was nothing strange in that. Freelance consultants network all the time. We all have need of accountancy services.”

Strike nodded and wrote a few words, but he registered the client’s tone, and glanced at Robin, urging her to take over.

“How is her work, compared to other accountants you’ve used?” she asked breezily. The client looked almost tempted to smile.

“Exemplary. She works fast. She stays in touch. I have no complaints.”

“And what about documentation? Do you keep receipts from her? Itemised invoices?”

“Yes. All hard copies, stored in my home office, along with the work they pertain to.”

“Do you have anything more personal? Letters? Text messages?”

“Of course. Apart from some phone calls, we communicate mostly by email. I can show you,” said George, and he picked up his briefcase from the floor and took out a miniature tablet.

A moment passed while he brought up his emails, and as he navigated his inbox, Robin saw, from her upside-down vantage point, that he had created a subfolder simply entitled ‘Jade’. He talked as he searched, telling Robin the amounts of money he habitually paid for the accountant’s services, as though to impress upon her that his behaviour had been entirely professional. He finally clicked on an email and passed over the tablet, and Robin held it out in front of her so that she and Strike could both see the screen.

As they scanned through the emails with their client’s permission, they were able to trace the outline of a client relationship that seemed to have begun innocently but had become one-sidedly flirtatious. Every conversation seemed to have been initiated by Jade; she had tentatively asked about her client’s work, hobbies, and then marital status, seemingly in hopes of getting closer to him. But he was either unwilling or unable to engage; he had given neutral answers and changed subjects so often that Robin was surprised that the accountant had continued to try.

Robin passed the tablet back with thanks, and looked at Strike. His expression mirrored her own, she was sure: disbelief tinged with confusion. She looked back at the client, who’d replaced the tablet and seemed to have turned a deep shade of red.

“Well, it definitely looks as though you could be right,” Robin ventured, and George acknowledged her words with a slight nod.

“So – do you want her to leave you alone? Can you just block her and find a new accountant?”

“I – I don’t –” He broke off with a small, empty smile. “I’m happy with the arrangement. I just feel that she might be manipulating me. I’m suspicious of her intentions, and I’d like you to keep trying to find out more about her, if you can.”

“What do you mean about her intentions?”

“Well, it doesn’t make much s–”

He caught himself once more, gave the same hollow smile, and shook his head lightly. Robin waited, but he didn’t seem inclined to continue.

“George,” said Robin, weighing her words carefully. “Are you – interested in pursuing a romantic relationship with her?”

A moment passed; then the client clawed his briefcase from the floor and got to his feet. Robin looked at Strike, a little alarmed. “As I said,” George replied briskly, fiddling with the straps, “I’d like you to continue, please, and let me know what you find.”

Strike and Robin stood, and this time the departing client shook hands with both detectives. As he walked out of the office, Strike turned to Robin, his eyebrows raised so high she thought they might disappear into his hairline.

*

The crisp, early evening and the long day had eventually transformed lingering glances into an actual suggestion, and so Strike and Robin crossed the road and entered the Tottenham, both looking forward to a drink and at least an hour of carefree conversation. But as soon as they’d ordered and found a table, they found that all they could talk about was work; the strange client that Strike had called Marketing Man was still circling both their minds.

“He’s a common or garden weirdo.”

“He’s not!” Robin laughed, sipping her wine. She had found the meeting illuminating: although she couldn’t personally see the appeal, she had been forced to conclude that Jade the accountant was head over heels for the meek marketing consultant. Robin felt a little better about the world; maybe there was hope yet, and not everyone prized six-packs and sports cars above all else, and maybe an ordinary girl might similarly have a fighting chance with a brilliant, famous, passionate man.

Robin took another hasty gulp of wine and told herself to concentrate.

“You don’t think he’s obsessed with her?” Strike asked her.

“No. We saw the emails. They were all from her to him.”

“Yeah, but it still doesn’t ring true,” argued Strike. “He could have deleted all the ones where he’s salivating over her, so he’s got the high ground.”

Strike took a pull on his pint, and Robin noted the serenity of his expression; in the pub after a hard day’s work, arguing about a client’s motivations. She wondered whether other people saw this side of him. It made her feel selfish, but she hoped not.

“But why bother? If you’re right, and they’re both sending flirty emails to each other, why do they need us? They can just admit they like each other and get on with it, surely, without all this faffing around?”

Robin had spoken without thinking; her wine glass was half way to her mouth before she saw Strike’s amused expression. He said nothing, and Robin felt hot blood rush into her cheeks.

“I don’t mean –”

“Yeah, why do people do that?” asked Strike, his face glimmering with suppressed laughter, his tongue absent-mindedly glancing across his upper lip.

Robin eyed him across the table. She knew perfectly well that the question had been rhetorical, but something inside her made her want to reply. She sipped her wine, thinking.

“I suppose,” she began, feeling tiny butterflies take flight in her stomach, “they don’t have the confidence.”

“I disagree,” said Strike quietly.

“Really?”

“Yes. I think somebody can be completely confident in lots of ways, and still decide not to make a move.”

Robin put her glass down and looked at Strike underneath her lashes. “But that would be stupid, wouldn’t it? Because they’d be missing out on great experiences, and amazing kisses –”

“Amazing, you’d say?”

Robin giggled. A second later, she chastised herself and fixed a stern look on her face.

“A lot of people think they’re confident, Strike. But then they do silly things like refuse to admit they fancy someone, or turn down Time magazine –”

“Hey,” laughed Strike. Robin wondered whether she’d pushed a bit too far, but she’d been dismayed ever since she’d found out. She wanted this for him. Even though a tiny part of her wanted to hide him under a bushel, her better self wanted to show him off. She wondered, not for the first time, exactly why he’d said no.

“Tell me I’m wrong?” she challenged. She looked down at her drink and realised she’d only had half a glass. She was intoxicated by his mere presence.

“Confidence is a great thing, but it’s not everything. You could be confident you know someone, but be completely wrong. You could, for instance, have worked with someone for six years and not trust them.”

Robin frowned as her own situation and the client’s spiralled together in her head, and Strike’s face had suddenly lost its mirth. He looked unaccountably serious.

“George thinks he knows Jade, but remember, she’s using a fake name,” he said. Robin drained her wine, her satisfaction with the world ebbing away.

Chapter Text

Strike rarely questioned his own judgement, but as he busied himself with surveillance for the next few days, he had to admit that he was worried.

Of all the things he’d pictured going wrong between himself and Robin, he’d never imagined that a nervous client’s crush on his accountant would be the thing to drive a wedge between them. But he could tell when something was wrong with his partner, and four days earlier, sitting opposite him at the pub, her face had dropped and her whole demeanour had changed. Strike had racked his brains to think what he might have done; he remembered making a stupid comment about not truly knowing people, and though he didn’t fully understand why Robin was dismayed, he still wished he’d kept his damn mouth shut. Things had been going so well, and yet some relic of his past that he couldn’t seem to shake was telling him that he must have ruined everything.

But he was determined to set them back on the right course, and so he’d asked Robin to meet him again, at the same pub, but this time a premeditated Friday night: a chance to talk without distractions. He’d been pleasantly surprised when she had said yes without hesitation. The following week would mark the beginning of Robin’s education in crochet, and between that and his own surveillance cases, Strike felt he would be lucky to carve out any time at all for them to spend together. If there was ever an advertisement for hiring more women, this was it; he’d wondered absently whether he could get away with sending Pat to the crochet class, thinking ruefully that the attendees would probably be closer to her age group anyway. He had laughed to himself, knowing deep down that Robin was always the better choice; she may be young, but she was a chameleon. Even if she needed to befriend a group of pensioners, Strike had no doubt that she could do it.

On Friday evening, Strike arrived at the Tottenham with ten minutes to spare. He bought a round and sat down on his usual leather seat, and then double-checked the time; there was no mistake. Ten whole minutes. He drank, more nervous than he’d thought, and kept checking his phone for text messages or missed calls. But the screen stayed resolutely blank, and he continued his journey down his pint.

Fifteen minutes later, with a dull clunk and a creak of hinges, Robin appeared in the doorway. Strike registered the sudden spark of excitement that flew across his skin and tried not to stare too openly as she approached. Her heels made a brisk tapping on the weathered floor, and Strike felt that he was surely justified, given the sound, in looking down at her feet as she walked towards him.

She’d worn four-inch heels of matte grey, and her shapely calves were bare. His eyes swept up her legs to the hem of her champagne wraparound skirt, which swayed around her knees as she moved. She wore a grey silk blouse tucked in at the waist, and Strike found himself idly wondering how many more of those neat buttons were hidden behind the skirt, and how it might feel to slowly unfasten one, silk and thread underneath his fingers, Robin’s beguiling eyes on his. He looked up abruptly and she was standing before him, her hair loose and curled, her lips painted claret. A suspended beat, and then she smiled. Feeling newly relaxed, Strike smiled back.

“Evening,” he said. “Thought you weren’t going to make it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she answered, pulling out her chair and taking the wine glass with murmured thanks.

Strike wanted to emulate the easy mood of what he’d come to think of as their second date, when they’d drunk cocktails and watched fireworks and kissed, finally, under the flaring multi-coloured sparks. But something felt tense, and as he struggled to think of a way to alleviate the tension, he became aware that Robin was watching him over the rim of her glass.

“Are you okay?” she asked. Strike smiled and tried to look relaxed.

“Yeah, course I am. You?”

“Never better. I get to start crochet lessons next week. Height of excitement,” she joked.

“I’m sure you’ll be brilliant at it.”

Robin eyed him askance. “I definitely won’t be. My nan tried to teach me how to knit once, and I was a lost cause. She told my mum that I should be in the house learning how to darn things rather than riding quad bikes in a field.”

She let out a breathy laugh and sipped her drink. Strike smirked; he had always enjoyed the mental image of her racing around her uncle’s farm.

“Cars, tractors, and now quad bikes? Bloody hell,” he commented.

“Quad bikes are easy. No pedals. I’ve never tried an actual motorbike though.”

“Ever wanted to?”

“Not really. I never wanted to knit either. But crochet’s different, apparently. It’s the new trend according to Instagram.”

“I didn’t know you were on Instagram.”

Robin laughed again. “I’m not. Don’t think I have the image for it.”

She drank some wine, and Strike grinned.

“Fishing again,” he joked, his hand rubbing along his jaw as he watched her. He was glad to see a spark of amusement in her eyes, and he felt a little better. Jokes aside, he wanted to make his interest clear; he sipped his pint and bit the bullet.

“Robin,” he said casually.

“Yes?”

“You’ve definitely got the image. You’re stunning.”

Colour filled Robin’s cheeks, and Strike suddenly knew that she’d dressed with care, for him. He felt a small weight lift off his chest and willed himself to stop worrying. It’s fine. It’s all going to be fine.

“I really wasn’t fishing,” she replied, grinning. “But thank you.”

“And I’m sorry if I offended you, last time we were here,” Strike continued, the words falling out now that some of the tension had eased; there was nothing to be gained by failing to communicate. Robin shook her head.

“You didn’t offend me,” she replied, but her smile was a little sad.

“Then what? Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

Her eyes were sharp as they fixed on his, and Strike frowned at her.

“We’ve known each other for six years, now,” she began softly. Strike watched her play with the stem of her glass, seemingly lost in thought. “When Time magazine called you –”

“This again?” said Strike without thinking.

“You asked,” Robin fired back, a stern look on her face. But she caught Strike’s eye and her expression softened.

“Go on,” he encouraged.

“I thought you’d want to do it. I didn’t understand why you said no.”

“Okay. But we talked about it afterwards, didn’t we? I didn’t realise this would upset you so much.”

“I’m not upset about it. I just – you were right, last time we were here. You can work with someone for years and not properly know them. I thought I knew you, and I didn’t.”

Strike almost laughed. “Robin, that’s one decision in six years. Nothing like that had ever come up before. How could you have known? You guessed wrong, that’s all. It doesn’t matter.”

“But it does matter! George thinks he knows Jade, but you were right, he doesn’t know her at all. She might be using a fake name, or she might be lying to him about where she goes. But the point is, he’s worked with her for six years! We both thought it was strange that they’ve been skirting around each other for so long and nothing has happened. What if –”

“What?” said Strike belligerently, while Robin caught her breath and took another gulp of wine.

“What if there’s a good reason for that? If there was something between them, it would have happened by now.”

“They’re not us,” said Strike quietly, but he couldn’t be sure that she’d heard him.

“What if I’m wrong about other things? I thought I was sure about some things, about you, and me, but… Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe there isn’t anything there. Maybe –”

“Robin,” Strike interrupted, and she fell silent. “I was joking around, but I was talking about the case. Maybe I should have been clearer. I don’t think we’re in the same situation at all. They don’t work in the same office. They don’t spend almost every day together. They don’t socialise outside of work.”

“We don’t know that,” muttered Robin.

“It was a stupid comment. Please don’t take it to heart,” he said earnestly, and Robin looked down at the table, fingers brushing against the polished wood. Strike took a deep breath, everything in his body yelling at him to stop, to protect himself, to deny his true feelings. He refused to comply. This was different. It had to be.

“You told me that you wished on a star for me to kiss you. Did you mean that?”

Strike saw his own intensity reflected in Robin’s gaze; he watched her cheeks turn pink, and he longed to touch.

“Yes, of course I did,” she whispered, but her eyes were still unsure.

What did she want? Strike refused to believe that she’d changed her mind about him. There’d been months’ worth of green lights, parted lips, audible sighs when he’d moved close to her or even looked at her a certain way. They’d kissed, and it had been nothing short of spectacular; he’d relived it countless times, waiting for the right moment to do it again, enjoying the anticipation of again seeing her eyes feint closed for his lips to take her over. Come on, Strike. If he wanted it, he was going to have to work for it.

“Look at me.”

Strike waited until Robin’s steely blue eyes were fixed on his own.

“That kiss meant something to me. And I know you felt it too. So if you don’t trust what that told you, or you don’t believe me now – I’m going to show you. I’m going to do everything I can to show you that I am serious, and that I want me and you, properly. If you tell me to stop, I’ll stop. But otherwise…”

He leaned over the table towards her. He felt the connection between them pull her in like a magnet, and she mirrored his movement, her eyes darkening as he cocked his eyebrow and growled:

“Get ready.”

Chapter Text

Robin leaned over, switched her lamp on, and deposited her camomile tea on the bedside table. She propped the pillows up against the headboard and slid herself under the covers, leaning back against the feathered pillows and enjoying the comfort and security of her own bed after a long day. She'd chosen the tea for its relaxing properties; heaven knew she needed a fair amount of calming after what had just happened.

As she sipped the hot tea, she tried to reflect: what had just happened? Strike had been reassuring and earnest, and he'd uncharacteristically apologised for things that may not truly have been his fault; Robin felt a little guilty at what she now considered to be her overreaction to his comments about the case. Their kiss had happened almost two weeks ago, and absolutely nothing had happened since; Robin had to admit that she'd panicked. When Strike had opined that one could never really know another person, she'd feared that he was having second thoughts.

But then he'd leaned towards her, his forearms flexing as they took his weight across the wooden table. She'd smelt his aftershave in the air between them, and all she could think of was the heady scent of his skin when he'd pressed his lips against hers all those days ago. Robin had stared from his mouth to his eyes and back again, and as he'd spoken to her she'd felt almost as weak as she had when his tongue had touched hers. When she tried to think of what she wouldn't do to feel his kiss again, she couldn't come up with much.

But then he'd said those words to her: get ready. It had been a warning, a bald statement of delicious intent, and Robin knew that she was done for as soon as his eyebrow hitched up and his voice dropped lower. She remembered the feel of that rough rasp as it skittered across her senses. Her legs were restless. She pressed her thighs together and replaced her cup on the table with a shaky hand.

Robin was an inherently honest person, and she'd spent a long time denying her true feelings and suppressing her true thoughts. She refused to do it any longer. There was chemistry between her and Strike, and they both knew it. For a while, Robin had wondered whether her fondness for him actually translated into physical attraction on her part. But then, several months ago, Strike seemed to have flipped a switch, and suddenly everything he did seemed to draw her in. His voice was sexy and seductive, his eyes piercing and deep. Robin had wanted to feel his mouth on hers almost constantly for months, and now that she had, she wasn't ready to give it up.

Her hands were warm from the teacup. Robin tried not to feel any guilt, any awkwardness; after all, he couldn't see her. But then her wayward mind showed her an image of what his face might look like if he could see her, and she closed her eyes against the rush. She was sure his eyes would be stormy and dark, his expression almost dangerous. He'd watch hungrily, and if she asked him to, he'd join her. Robin lost herself in thoughts of what it would feel like if he did: he'd take control in that way he had, assertive and strong, reeling her in with his eyes, and his mouth, and it would be his hands instead of her own… 

When Robin finally reached over and switched off the lamp, she felt as though the situation had resolved itself in her head: she decided to just relax and let things play out as they had been before those awkward conversations. Strike had told her that he intended to show her exactly how he felt about her, and all Robin had to do was sit back and enjoy the ride. As she turned onto her side to sleep, she smirked to herself as she wondered whether she should attribute her new feeling of contentment to Strike's reassurances, or to camomile tea, or to something else.

*

"In you come, in you come! Find a seat anywhere!"

A tall blonde woman who looked to be in her early sixties beckoned Robin, who followed the handful of women in front of her into a café that had been set up as though for a small and hastily-arranged conference. Rectangular tables had been positioned into a broad square shape with an empty space in the middle, where a large packing crate currently sat. Robin smiled self-consciously but sat down in the middle of the side closest to the door. A few minutes later, when the room was full, Robin surreptitiously slid her chair back a few inches, so that anyone wanting to leave would have to ask her to pull in.

"Good evening, ladies!" called the blonde woman. "For the new ones among us, I am Marianne, and I'm leading your class for the next six weeks. We do have another teacher, Julie, who's usually here to assist, but she's off sick. Bit of a palaver for a cold, but there you are."

A snigger to Robin's right made her turn around; a woman a little older than her was perched on the edge of her seat, elbows on the table and her chin resting on her fisted hand. Her jet-black hair was cut in a sleek bob, and she wore square glasses with diamantes at the corners. Robin smiled, and the woman grinned back.

"Anyway, can you all make sure you have everything you need in the pack in front of you! Each one should include an H8 hook, some scissors, a photocopied sheet like this that says "introduction 1C" on the top - can you read that? - it's the one with the bee at the bottom…"

There was a flurry of noise and activity as everyone pulled equipment and instructions from the plastic folders in front of them. Marianne climbed comically over one of the tables and into the centre of the room, where she began to delve into the box and pull out several yarn-based creations, which were evidently being stored at the venue between classes. She handed them out, assuring Robin on her way past that she would be back to help her get started once everyone else had begun.

Robin glanced sideways; her neighbour had been handed a green and yellow blob of yarn. Robin couldn't tell what it was, but then the woman turned it over, and it had a face. Other women were comparing their own works in progress: Robin could see a scarf, a baby's cardigan, and the makings of a giraffe, which was easily the most complicated project in the room. The giraffe woman's friends oohed and aahed over her progress, and Robin's black-haired neighbour looked down at her own masterpiece with a doubtful look on her face.

"Have you been coming here long?" asked Robin, pretending she hadn't noticed the blob.

"What do you think?" said the woman, smiling as she held up the green shape. "You're new, aren't you?"

"Yep. Never crocheted a thing. But I really want to make my niece a blanket."

"Sounds nice. I quit smoking and I wanted something to do with my hands. But the stress of it just makes me want a cigarette."

Robin laughed, and the woman held out her hand.

"I'm Olivia."

"Venetia."

The women shook, and as she registered the name of her mark, Robin felt the usual thrill, not yet dampened by familiarity, of a new investigation beginning.

*

Robin climbed the staircase, her low heels noisy on the metal steps. She hoped Strike would still be around; she wanted to catch him before he left for the day and thus gave her the inconvenience of having to decide whether a home visit was appropriate or not. Thankfully, the office light seemed to be on, and she pushed open the door and stepped inside.

"Hi," he greeted her, surprise clear on his face. "What are you doing here? It's late."

"I know. I was looking for you."

Robin moved slowly into the room and sat on the mock-leather sofa. She put her handbag down at her feet, wondering whether to remove her coat and scarf or not. Would she be staying? Would he suggest something else?

"How's your day been?" asked Strike, laying his pen down on the desk. Robin heard the chair creak a little as he leaned back.

"All right. Did some crochet."

"Oh, yeah. How'd it go? Didn't stab yourself with your needles or anything?"

"You don't use needles for crochet. You use a hook."

"See? You're an expert already," he joked.

"I'm pretty sure that's lesson number one," replied Robin.

Strike shrugged lightly, as if to say she had a point. He deliberated for a second, and then stood up. He walked slowly around to the front of the desk and stopped there, leaning back on it, watching Robin softly. She felt as though she were under a spotlight, and although she was habitually self conscious, she found that it wasn't unpleasant to be the object of his focus.

"I did want to ask you something, though," ventured Robin.

"Go on."

She stood up and closed the gap between them with a couple of steps in his direction. Strike didn't move, but his lips curved helplessly upwards, and Robin's insides performed the same dance she'd become used to since the firework championships.

"I want to see your hands," she murmured.

"What?" laughed Strike.

But even as he said it, both hands came up in front of him, palms up towards her, offering her what she wanted without hesitation. Robin reached out slowly and touched his palm with one finger, tracing his head line and his life line, feeling the callouses under her fingertip.

"Am I tickling you?"

"A bit," admitted Strike, his face amused and curious. He stayed completely still.

Robin ran her index finger along Strike's, until she reached the very tip. His nails were so short that she could only feel skin from this angle, and she rubbed the end of his finger lightly. He raised one eyebrow in a silent question.

"Rough," Robin whispered.

"Yeah. Smoker's hands," Strike replied.

"Soldier's hands," returned Robin.

"Once upon a time. Not any more."

Robin slowly removed her finger. Strike's hands hovered in place for a second, and then he raised them, infinitesimally slowly, up to her throat. His hand paused on the front of her scarf, seeking permission from her eyes, and Robin nodded gently, unable to speak. Strike undid the loose knot, his fingers brushing against her skin at every chance, and he unwound the scarf from around her neck and discarded it on the desk, his gaze never leaving hers.

He laid both hands on the back of her neck, his fingers playing with the strands of hair there. His fingers dipped under the collar of her coat, trailing light patterns against her skin. Robin's eyes drifted closed, and she basked in the warm shivers he was creating, knowing his eyes were on her, just inches away from her face. 

"Are they too rough?" he murmured.

"No."

She didn't open her eyes, but she knew that he smiled; she felt his whole hand rest against the back of her neck and gently pull her in. 

"I want to kiss you," he whispered.

Robin finally opened her eyes; his gaze was blazing into her, and she feared she might burn to ashes. Her arms came around him as she heard herself whisper, "yes." She felt his fingers flex and his other hand grip her waist, and suddenly they were kissing again, wrapped bodily around each other, swaying into the desk with the force of it. Robin's desire quickly spiralled out of control; she kissed him fiercely, as though she needed him to survive. He kissed her back just as intently, and his hands on her body ignited her; was it normal to feel so wildly turned on by just a kiss?

Robin had no idea how much time had passed when she finally pulled away, but Strike's expression left her in no doubt that his thoughts had been going to exactly the same places hers had. She smiled at him and laid a soft hand against his jaw, where his stubble scratched her palm. 

"Rough, again," he murmured ruefully. "There's no escaping it."

"Not everything about you is rough, Cormoran," replied Robin, and he smiled. 

"When are we going out again?"

"When we're both free of surveillance and silly night classes. Do you want me to -"

"No," Strike interrupted. Robin looked at him quizzically. "I'm proving myself to you, remember? It's my turn to plan the date."

Robin tried not to let her glee at the mention of the word 'date' show on her face.

"Well then, I can't wait."

Chapter Text

“So you’re free Saturday afternoon?”

“You know I am,” replied Robin. It had not escaped her notice that Strike had rearranged the rota so that neither of them had any work for the whole day. Robin had been hoping for some time off for a while; she needed a haircut, and to sort her ever-expanding pile of laundry. But she knew she would much rather spend her free day with Strike, so she resolved to do the laundry in the evenings and just put up with her slightly overlong hair.

“Well, I’ll pick you up at two, then.”

“Pick me up?”

“Er, yeah,” said Strike, a slight embarrassed edge to his tone. “I thought I should.”

Robin laughed. “Don’t be daft. It doesn’t make sense you coming all this way. I’ll meet you there.”

“No. I don’t want you looking the place up and figuring out what we’re doing,” said Strike. Robin could all but hear his grin down the phone. “All right, you can meet me at Sloane Square station, but that’s it.”

“All right,” replied Robin, intrigued. “At two?”

“Sure, why not. We can always get a drink first. If you want to, of course.”

“So coy, Mr Strike.”

“Bloody hell. You haven’t called me that in a while.”

Robin laughed again. “Anyway, I just wanted to let you know I’m heading back to Kylie’s house. She normally goes to the gym around this time, so we’ll see if she’s still keeping up appearances.”

“Keeping up appearances?”

“Well, she’s not actually going, is she?” Robin pointed out. “She’s never in a class.”

“Could she just be in the main gym?”

“Don’t know. I’m going to go in workout clothes this time, so I can go in and see.”

“Well, good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Robin rang off, still thinking about the concept of keeping up appearances. She wondered whether the flash of suspicion she’d experienced when using the throwaway phrase would amount to anything at all.

*

Robin emerged onto the grassy square at the end of Kylie’s street, admiring, as she always did, the sandy stone exteriors of the smart houses. On a whim, because she still had ten minutes before Kylie normally left the house, Robin walked around the back of the end property, where a row of numbered parking spaces sat perpendicular to the main road. Robin found the space allocated to Kylie, and found the unremarkable Focus Estate sitting there, its dark grey paintwork unblemished, its seats completely free of any belongings or debris. Robin walked twice around the car, keeping an eye out for passers-by, but marking its features against a mental checklist.

It seemed to be in reasonably good condition. The tyre tread was a little more worn on the driver’s side, and there was a slight discolouration of the inside edge of the gearstick. Neither fact was unusual, and Robin continued around the car. The back end was longer than the more common Focus hatchback, and Robin noted with interest the metal grille that divided boot and back seat. Robin recognised the setup from cars her family members had had in childhood, and her uncle certainly had one… Robin looked closer, and saw mud on the back of the car, between the boot door and the bumper. She crouched; there was no mud whatsoever on the tyres.

Forced to her conclusion despite it making little sense, Robin drew out her phone and took several surreptitious photographs, hoping she hadn’t used up her ten minutes. Kylie usually drove to the gym, and so Robin retreated hastily to the corner of the street once more to wait for her mark.

Kylie was only a couple of minutes later than her usual schedule. She indeed drove to the gym, and Robin hung back in the Land Rover, again parking it around the corner rather than on the leisure centre car park. She watched as Kylie left her car and entered the gym, and thirty seconds later, Robin followed.

This time, Robin was fortunate enough to catch a glimpse of Kylie walking through the double doors to the side of the reception desk. Robin approached the desk, emulating her previous ditzy persona, and paid for entry into the gym. She followed the receptionist’s directions along a wide corridor, finally stopping at a pair of double doors. She ducked her head and entered the four-digit code to open them, and walked into a harshly air-conditioned space that was blasting dance music through wall-mounted speakers. Robin saw one or two heads turn at her entrance but she ignored them; she walked slowly towards the back of the room, where free weights sat on metal racks against the wall. She selected two four-kilo hand weights and an eight-kilo kettlebell and sat on the single free bench, keeping the front of the room in her eyeline. Kylie was standing against the wall, behind the row of treadmills, deep in conversation with the same tall man who’d spoken to Robin the very first time she’d followed Kylie here.

Robin was filled with an inexplicable sense of trepidation. The man had made her uneasy on their first meeting, and the feeling was replicated now; he had an untrustworthy face, though Robin couldn’t have explained why. She suddenly felt worried for Kylie. Lifting her phone to pretend to text, she figured she might as well send the real thing, so she took a selfie and sent it to Strike with the caption, “getting my curl on.” When she was confident neither Kylie nor the tall man were watching her, she opened the camera app and began trying to take a photo.

“Hi, love, need some help?”

Robin jumped and shoved her phone back down on the bench beside her. She looked around and saw a rotund man standing over her, smiling jovially, a bottle of Powerade in his hand. She noted his red, sweaty face and the belly overhanging his shorts, and suspected that this was not a personal trainer trying to solicit business.

“Er – no, thanks, I’m ok.” She smiled, trying to take the sting out of her rebuttal. The man grinned even more widely.

“Come on, let’s have a look at your form. Are you doing squats? I’ll spot you,” he offered. Robin thought of Michelle and the chats they’d had about weightlifting.

“No, I’m ok, thanks. Does anyone really need spotting with eight kilos?”

The man looked disconcerted, and a frown line appeared on his brow.

“Well, you can always do with some help. I’ve been coming here for five years, I know what I’m doing.”

He took a step closer, and Robin leaned back on the bench.

“Well, I’m not doing squats, anyway,” said Robin breezily. She glanced under her hair at the front of the room, where Kylie was still in full flow, gesturing with her hands. Another man had joined them, listening intently and nodding along. He was burlier than the first, but shared the same apparent sense of self-possession. “I don’t need any help, thanks.”

“Here,” said the man, and he grabbed the kettlebell Robin was holding. She released her grip on it, but made a startled sound; she stared up into the man’s face, a wave of anger crashing over her.

“It’s all –” he began, but Robin cut him off.

“What on earth are you doing?” she demanded. He was suddenly, ridiculously, holding the kettlebell out in front of her, Robin glaring with all the force she could muster.

“There’s no need to be like that, love, I’m only –”

“How dare you? I said no!” Robin felt her face heating up, and she knew people were starting to notice. She tried to keep a lid on her temper, but rage was building inside her, and she felt a certain inescapable recklessness creeping in.

“Jesus fucking –” The man turned slightly away, still holding the kettlebell, looking for a place to deposit it.

“Are you an instructor?” Robin asked, rising slowly.

“No, but –”

“Then fuck off,” spat Robin, and she listened to herself screech the words, a demon coming over her, furious indignation spiralling through her. She felt heads turn in her direction, but she didn’t care; she watched with venom as the man dropped the kettlebell haphazardly onto the nearest rack and stormed off, shaking his head and muttering under his breath.

Robin gathered her things in a hurry, and hotfooted to the exit.

*

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t –”

“I didn’t –”

“– no, it’s not your –”

“– no, I mean I fucked –”

“I’m coming. I’m coming now.”

*

They sat on the floor, eating the Chinese food Strike had brought with him, plates and glasses on the coffee table as though it was made for dining. Robin had admonished herself all the way back to Earl’s Court, cursing her short fuse and hating men who couldn’t take no for an answer. Not only had she panicked and sworn at a complete stranger, but she’d drawn the attention of everyone in the room, and thus destroyed any chance of finding out the name of the tall man Kylie had been talking to. Aside from one incident that she mainly blamed on pre-wedding craziness, she’d never messed up so badly.

Strike, however, had been entirely unperturbed. “So you reacted to a bloke being a dick,” he’d said. “So what? It would have been strange if you hadn’t. And I’m never going to expect you to put up with that kind of thing for a case. If he’d nicked a weight out of a bloke’s hand he’d have been punched.” And he’d wrapped his arms around her in a full-body hug that had helped soothe her nervous agitation.

As she’d leaned into him, Robin had felt like crying all over again. His words were, of course, true; why did men believe that women were passive, docile, easy to manipulate? Of course, they usually had the physical advantage, a fact that had been clear to Robin as the large man had loomed over her at the gym. Out of shape he may have been, but there was no doubt he was superior in weight and physical strength. Robin had pulled away from the hug, grateful but still enraged that a man’s interference had prevented her from doing her job.

“Cheer up,” said Strike, jolting Robin from her miserable reminiscence. She ate some more fried rice with a forlorn air.

“You found out that she is actually going to the gym, although not to work out. She’s likely going to speak to that bloke, and I’d bet good money he’s an instructor or a PT. I reckon Barclay might need to lose some weight, eh?”

“Yeah,” agreed Robin with a watery smile. But she didn’t feel so sure they were making any real progress, and she ate another forkful, lost in thought.

“Out with it,” said Strike, and Robin smiled again.

“I just… I can’t shake the feeling that we’re missing something. She lives alone. Why has she got a big estate car?”

“Status? Some people like having a big car. Loads of people buy Range Rovers just to nip to the shops.”

“It’s not a high-status car. It’s old, dull, run-of-the-mill. It’s not something you’d brag about.”

“Well, I don’t know.”

“She’s a single female accountant living in one of the poshest areas of London. But she’s got at least one big, rough-looking male friend. Maybe two. I just – it doesn’t add up.”

“It doesn’t add up that a woman could have a large male friend?” asked Strike with a quirk of his eyebrow.

“No, of course,” laughed Robin. “I know it happens. But it just doesn’t seem to fit with her.”

“Do you think you might be letting your experience with sedate, boring accountants cloud your judgement?” asked Strike archly.

“Well, maybe,” replied Robin, amused but unconvinced.

*

Thursday night found Robin sitting once more at the hastily arranged ring of tables that formed the setting for her crochet class. Having made very little progress in the last two sessions, she was beginning to wonder whether Barclay mightn’t have had more success. Her attempts at beginning a blanket were lacklustre at best, but Marianne had assured her that everyone struggles at first, and that she was far from the worst to have graced the class. This didn’t make Robin feel much better.

She leaned back in her chair, waiting for the idle chatter to cease so that the class could begin. Robin suspected that most of these women attended the class for reasons other than a studious interest in yarn-based creativity; it was a tiny community, an opportunity for socialisation for those without an interest in club nights and smart parties. Robin thought of the group she’d joined in order to watch the Orionids, and the woman on Facebook who’d regaled her with stories about musicals and pugs. Classes like these were a perfect excuse: a façade, really. Casual conversations were far easier when the mind was already occupied by a task, particularly one that involved dexterous use of a hook.

Robin’s eyes surveyed the room. The teacher, Marianne, was deep in conversation with the owner of the giraffe toy. Several others made sounds of appreciation when Marianne pulled other stuffed animals from the crate in the centre of the room; a ladybird, a duck, and a rabbit. Robin wondered how long the woman had been attending the beginners’ class; she seemed to be storing months’ worth of creations. A few women were standing along the back wall, making stilted small talk. In the corner stood Olivia, chatting into her mobile.

Olivia’s raven hair was covering most of her face. Robin wondered who she was talking to; could it be her husband, on whom she currently stood accused of cheating? In their few conversations thus far, Robin hadn’t learned much about the marriage, but Olivia seemed to treat every topic with the same blithe disinterest. She was happy to venture information, but didn’t like to answer questions. Robin thought about Olivia’s explanation of why she’d taken up crochet, and then her smooth fingers as they’d shaken hands. Robin tried not to make it obvious that she was looking; Olivia made a half-turn in her direction, still talking, gesturing keenly with her hands as she did so.

And suddenly, as Olivia turned to face her, intuition hit Robin like a freight train. She still didn’t know quite what was going on, or why, but she felt a tiny piece of what had been puzzling her slide smoothly into place.

Chapter Text

Robin didn’t confess her secret suspicion to Strike. Despite their developing closeness and his usually steadfast support for her and her theories, this felt different. She had no evidence, and she couldn’t yet see any way to prove her hunch. So she kept it to herself, resolving to look far more closely at next week’s crochet class.

She walked along the chilly street, thinking about Strike. In twenty minutes, she would be seeing him again; after that, they would be spending an afternoon together in a setting that was as yet unknown to Robin. She spent a few minutes idly wondering what he might have planned for them. Although she was sure, now, that he cared about her, she still couldn’t help thinking of him as inherently unimaginative. She grinned as she made a little bet with herself; odds on that it was drinks and an early dinner in a pub.

But the idea didn’t cause Robin any disquiet. Some of the best memories she had of their friendship had been of sitting opposite each other in a quaint city pub, or sitting next to each other in the Land Rover, the miles flying past them as they travelled up-country to interview a witness. Robin felt that she saw ‘her’ Strike in these simple, unlacquered moments. He was brusque, taciturn, principled to a fault; but he belonged to her nonetheless, and if he’d planned a date where they could sit opposite each other and enjoy that quiet closeness, then she would enjoy it just as much as any elaborate scheme.

She rounded the corner and passed the Saatchi Gallery, remembering the shocked faces of a hesitant man and a garrulous woman as Strike had yelled across the upmarket café. Robin grinned to herself once more; strange how these things became fond memories, once the tension surrounding them had been stripped away. Fifty yards ahead, leaning against the brick wall of the station, Strike lifted his head and smiled.

“Good afternoon,” he called. Robin smiled broadly as she approached, and he pushed away from the wall to greet her. He paused for a second or two, and then dipped his head and kissed her cheek. His lips lingered; she felt his warm breath between them, gracing the skin next to her ear.

“Hi,” she breathed.

“Ready to go?” Strike asked. Robin smiled, suddenly shy, and tucked her hair behind her ear.

“Lead the way,” she murmured.

They walked through the busy afternoon until, a surprisingly short time later, Strike stopped abruptly. They appeared to be in a quiet, suburban street, but they were in the middle of London; Robin looked around again, and realised that every building was surmounted by a sandblasted glass sign. They were bars and restaurants, all of them, and Robin looked this way and that, realising that the pub dinner she’d bet on was obviously set to be a lot fancier.

Strike stopped outside a tall, cream building with black double doors. “After you,” he said, and he stepped aside to let Robin enter a sleek restaurant named ‘Dosa’. Robin looked sideways at Strike, surprised, but said nothing. Just as Strike’s eyebrows raised at her and she found a grin pulling at her lips, she turned away and walked inside.

The restaurant was almost empty, but a cheery voice called, “hello!” from the back of the room. A white-coated chef was waving and beckoning them over to an open area that had clearly been set up for a presentation. Several couples were standing behind workstations that each consisted of a wooden work surface, an electric hob, and a tiny sink and drainer. Each station held the same small collection of items: a solid wooden chopping board, two knives, mixing spoons, a pestle and mortar, measuring jug, and a metal bowl that seemed to be full of food; Robin could see fresh coriander spilling over the top of the bowls. There was a single workstation that was unmanned, and she turned to face Strike as the implications hit her.

“We’re… cooking?” she asked, stunned. His rueful smile was so endearing that she had to hold herself back from kissing him right here, in front of the patient crowd.

“Yeah. I thought – Indian takeaways seem to be a hit with us. We should learn how to make some Indian food.”

He grinned, and Robin smiled back; they moved over to their station, greeting the chef and their fellow students as they went. They settled in comfortably, finding tall stools behind the workstation to sit on, and cupboards beneath that presumably held everything else they might need. Robin smiled gleefully, unable to stop herself; she felt positively giddy.

“Hello everyone! You are very welcome to my restaurant. Thank you for coming – you are all my sous-chefs today!”

The chef was a short, Indian man with dark, bushy eyebrows and an infectious smile. He positioned himself behind his own workstation, which was somewhat larger than the others, and pressed a button on a remote control on his desk. A large screen behind him flickered to life, showing a list of basic instructions to wash, peel and chop various items.

“So today we are making cafreal! You will find everything you need in front of you. We will begin by preparing the meat and spices. When you’ve done what’s on the screen, turn your light to green! I will come around and help. Is that clear to everybody?”

A general murmur of assent rang around the room, and then there was a flurry of activity as everyone began to gather ingredients and equipment. Robin slid off her stool and read the instructions from the screen.

“Ok, so do you want to do the chicken, or the other stuff?”

“I don’t mind. Whatever you want,” he said, and Robin felt a tingle for which she admonished herself sternly. Don’t get carried away.

They both put on black aprons. Robin handed Strike the wrapped parcel of chicken thigh fillet and a santoku knife, and then she took a chopping board and a smaller, serrated knife for herself. As she peeled and chopped ginger root, she found herself glancing over at her partner more than was strictly necessary. She told herself to concentrate; usually, in the office, the consequences of allowing her focus to drift were no more than embarrassment, or perhaps a haughty client. Here, she could lose a finger.

“You seem at home,” observed Strike. He was dicing chicken, concentration writ large on his face.

“I like cooking. It was a family thing, when I was growing up. Everyone had to learn how to make my nan’s stuffing,” she laughed.

Strike grinned and set down his knife, moving to the sink to wash his hands. He squinted up at the screen; there was nothing else to do, given that Robin was already working on the garlic. He settled back onto his stool.

“And you were always the best at the gravy,” he mused.

“What –” Robin hesitated, and then laid her knife aside. “Yes, I was. I don’t even want to know how you knew that.”

“Just a good guess.”

Robin looked sideways at him. “How did you learn to cook?”

Strike switched their light to green, and then smiled softly at her.

“Taught myself. Army.”

“Didn’t you live in Oxford for a while?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think you can call living off Pot Noodles and ham sandwiches cooking.”

As Robin laughed, the chef wandered over to their table to explain the next steps. He demonstrated how best to use the pestle and how to toast the spices, and then he leaned over conspiratorially to Robin.

“And is it you who does the cooking in your house?”

“Normally,” said Robin airily. “Sometimes he buys me a takeaway, though.”

As the chef laughed politely and moved on, Robin looked at Strike, gauging his reaction. He didn’t seem embarrassed or annoyed; he was smirking down at her. Robin looked around; most people were now moving on, and the TV screen showed a new slide.

The room soon filled with the smells of lime and coriander as they continued the cooking process, chatting as they went. Strike laughed at Robin’s attempt to deseed a chilli; she accidentally touched her eye and blinked tears away for a minute, flapping her hands comically, before the prickle subsided. Strike showed off, flipping a heavy-bottomed frying pan and catching it by the handle. When he made to repeat the move, Robin bumped his shoulder with hers, knocking him off balance so that he nearly dropped it. They joked around, earning looks from the other attendees; some were amused, others disapproving. Robin noticed the glances but found it hard to care; she was having too much fun.

Finally, they managed to get their coated chicken into the pan and on the stove, where it popped and sizzled. They started to clear up, washing utensils and stacking them back in the cupboards. Robin handed Strike the bottle of cooking oil, and he slotted it into the rack where they’d found it, smirking.

“What?” asked Robin.

“Nothing, really. It’s just so… domestic.”

“Well, it was your idea.”

“It’s been fun though, hasn’t it?” he asked, and his face was suddenly earnest.

“Yeah, it has.” Robin stopped drying cutlery and faced him. “Thank you.”

Strike smiled a cheerful, boyish smile.

“You’re welcome.” He started putting leftover ingredients back into the clean bowl. “See, you think we don’t know each other. But we’ve managed to have some incredible dates so far.”

Robin resumed her tidying, turning away to hide her blush, yet again, at the word ‘dates’.

“That’s true,” Robin agreed, remembering the firework competition and the incredible feel of his mouth on hers. “But I didn’t say we don’t know each other at all. I just worry…”

“You worry too much.” She looked over, and he was leaning against the worktop, his arms folded, gazing at her.

“Or maybe you’re too cocky,” she fired back, her eyebrow raised. Strike smirked, and Robin knew he’d read the invitation in her challenge. Feeling playful, she took the glass bottle of vinegar from the counter in front of her, muttered, “look out,” and threw it to him. Robin watched Strike’s head whip around, and then his arm shot out, lightning-fast, and caught it. Robin couldn’t help being impressed, and he knew it; he set the bottle down and then took two steps towards her, closing the distance between them in a suggestive prowl.

“I know you better than you think I do, Robin Ellacott,” he whispered in her ear.

Delicious tingles shot down Robin’s spine; she closed her eyes, and Strike kissed her. He laid one hand on her waist and drove one into her hair, his lips moving slowly against her mouth, tasting the hints of spice and citrus there. His tongue dipped lightly between her parted lips, and he felt her sigh against his body. He pulled her closer.

“Sir! Your chicken, please.”

They sprang apart; the chef was striding over, laughing. Robin was suddenly aware of a faint burning smell, and she rushed to the pan, grabbing a pair of tongs to turn the chicken. There was a slight char, but it seemed they’d got away with it. Keeping her head dipped to hide her flaming cheeks, Robin concentrated on adding more sauce.

“Sorry,” she heard Strike say blithely. He didn’t sound even remotely apologetic. Robin risked a look up; some of the previous disapprovers were casting snide glances in their direction. Robin resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at them.

“Don’t apologise for being young and in love!” the chef was saying to Strike. “You are a lucky man, my friend.”

He winked and clapped Strike on the shoulder before moving off to visit another table. Robin put down the tongs and locked eyes with Strike; as they looked at one another, she felt the flare of heat that told her she wasn’t the only one who wanted to do that again, this time preferably in a quiet flat with no-one else around.

*

Strike strolled down Tottenham Court Road, rucksack over his shoulder, a cup holder and a takeaway bag clutched in his hand. An unusually bright morning and an overnight surveillance job had compelled him to veer into a local café for breakfast and a large Americano. While he’d been in there, he’d checked his watch; it was just after 8am. Eager as he was to get home and make a start on the bacon and egg sandwich he’d just ordered, he still figured he might look in on the office on the way up; Robin had mentioned a desire to come in early today, to try to make headway on the Kylie case. He ordered a large vanilla latte too.

He thought about Robin as he passed Centre Point. It had been a few days since their cookery class; he hadn’t seen her since, but he’d received brief text messages containing various work updates. There had been only one personal text, on the evening of the class, thanking him for a lovely date. Strike wasn’t usually one for overthinking a situation, but he wondered whether he ought to worry. He wanted her to text him and let him know that they were still on the right track, and that she was thinking of him, and not just in a work capacity.

But he had made her a promise; he had assured her that he was going to prove to her that she could trust him, and that she could believe in what they had together. Things had been going well, but he had to keep it up now. He couldn’t wait for her to make all the moves; if he wanted her to think of him, he was going to have to give her a reason.

He paused in a doorway and rifled through his pockets for a pen. Finding a simple black Sharpie, he stuffed the bag containing his breakfast into the side pocket of his rucksack to free his hands, and then he turned the latte cup around so that a plain white space faced him. He thought for a moment; a few jokes about hot and sweet things ran through his head, but overall, he wanted to tell her something simple and true.

You make the mundane bearable, and the enjoyable sublime. x

He replaced the cap on his pen and shoved it back into his pocket, hitching the rucksack up again and walking on. He pictured her face when she read the message; would she find it corny, or sweet? He didn’t mind, as long as it made her smile.

But as he rounded the corner he stopped, surprised: Robin was stepping out onto the sunny street. She turned and waited as another, familiar person closed the office door and followed her.

They walked up the road, close enough for their elbows to touch; Strike couldn’t resist rushing forward, as though he were on wheels. But they were walking away from him, turning the corner, and neither looked back. Strike slowed to a stop, looking down at the cooling coffees, wondering whether his instant flash of recognition had been a mistake.

But his visual memory had always been excellent. There was no chance of forgetting that figure, not when his most vivid memory of it had been that same damn person holding Robin in a fragrant ballroom, swaying in a circle, while Strike had looked on helplessly.

No, he was certain; he would have recognised Matthew Cunliffe anywhere.

Chapter Text

Robin pushed open the door and strode inside. The café was almost empty, early as it was, and so she was free to head towards a table at the very back. She deposited her coat and messenger bag on the chair and then turned to Matthew.

“Can I get you a coffee?”

Matthew looked at her, and Robin was amused to see that he looked discomfited.

“You know what kind of coffee I drink.”

“I didn’t want to assume. Cappuccino?”

“Yeah,” he agreed. He still didn’t sit down. “I’ll get them.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said cheerily. “It’s on the agency.”

Robin had no intention of charging Strike for the drinks, but she was determined not to let Matthew control the dynamics of the meeting. She also knew that her demeanour would be throwing him off; had they still been in a relationship, she would never have been the one to order drinks, and they both knew it. She brought two coffees back to the table, placing the cappuccino in front of Matthew, who had finally taken a seat. She noted that he didn’t thank her.

“Thanks for coming, Matt. I asked for this meeting because –”

“A meeting?” he interrupted. “Why are you being like this?”

“Like what?” asked Robin, feigning ignorance.

“A meeting,” he repeated, scoffing. “You asked me for coffee. It’s not exactly the Google AGM.”

“What would you call a scheduled chat with someone for work purposes?” asked Robin, determinedly obstinate. Matthew didn’t answer, but fidgeted with the laminated menus stacked on the table.

“I saw him in Time magazine.”

“Matt –”

“Likes to show off, doesn’t he?” he smirked.

“Not that it’s any of your business,” said Robin, her temper flaring, “but he didn’t agree to that article. They wanted to do a much bigger one, with a personal interview and photos –”

“Bloody hell,” said Matthew.

“– but he turned it down. He doesn’t go around bragging about what he’s achieved, which is more than I can say for some people.”

“All right, you’ve made your point. You’re mad at me.”

“I’m not mad at you,” said Robin bluntly. “I’d have to care about you to be mad at you.”

Shock made Matthew recoil slightly, and Robin immediately regretted the hostility. He could just walk out, and she needed him. She shook herself; the clinical business persona was clearly not going to work. Robin had learnt, over the course of her years as a detective, how to manipulate people into compliance. She’d never had cause to try it with Matthew, but how much harder could it be? She knew that if she tried it with Strike, he would see through her instantly; but Matthew had shown, over the last few years of their relationship, that he actually didn’t know her at all. She took a deep breath.

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair.” She dropped her head in a show of embarrassment. “I suppose I’m – I am still a bit mad at you.”

Robin braced herself internally, and then, very deliberately, she lowered her voice.

“This isn’t easy for me,” she murmured.

Matthew’s face softened by a minute degree; he leaned back and ran a hand through his tawny hair.

“I didn’t plan it,” he said. “It wasn’t my intention to do that – to have a kid straight away. It was – well, anyway –”

Robin kept her head bowed and took a sip of her coffee. Something had made her order a vanilla latte, and she enjoyed the hit of sugar.

“I get it. Things happen. I don’t hold it against you.” She smiled weakly, and Matthew returned it with a generous air. “How is she?”

Matthew took a sip of his coffee. “She’s great. Doing really well.”

“That’s good. I’m really glad.”

“You’re a good person, Robin,” said Matthew plaintively, looking into her face. Robin forced herself to maintain eye contact.

“Thank you,” she whispered. She held his gaze, and watched it transform into something she’d seen a thousand times before.

“Anyway,” he cleared his throat. “What do you need?”

Robin smiled again, and dragged her eyes away. She pulled her notebook and a pen from her bag.

“I need a run-through of the most common accountancy services and their usual market rates,” said Robin, clicking out the nib of her pen. “If you can give me any lower limits, such as minimum break-even figures, that would be even better.”

Matthew was once again visibly surprised, but he rallied; he took a drink of his cappuccino and assessed her with a cool eye.

“You’ve changed.”

“So I’ve heard.”

*

Forty minutes later, Robin emerged onto the sunny street with a slight sense of guilt but a renewed air of confidence. She grinned to herself as she remembered Matthew’s face when she’d whispered to him across the table, and she knew, deep in her gut, that there was at least a sliver of regret there.

Robin didn’t regret her divorce for a second; she might have regretted that there had ever been a need for it, because she should never have married Matthew in the first place, but the final decision to dissolve their partnership had unequivocally been the correct one. But nevertheless, she had her pride. It had hurt to know that Matthew had betrayed her, not once but repeatedly, and that he had doubled down on his betrayal by choosing to remain with the woman who’d tempted him away from the marital bed. In the weeks after walking out on him, Robin had lain awake, torturing herself, imagining the conversations that might occur among mutual acquaintances when neither of them were in earshot: well, if he wasn’t getting what he wanted at home…

The truth, of course, was that he hadn’t been; but neither had Robin. She had known that she was becoming a different person, a more independent and unorthodox person, and nonconformity was something that Matthew had never been able to understand. He was steadfastly predictable and he expected similar from the world around him, a fact that had made it easy for Robin to persuade him today, within minutes, that she still nursed some lingering feelings for him. As she reached the office and unlocked the outer door, Robin grinned again. She knew exactly what Matthew would be thinking, now, as he traversed the tube on the way to his corporate office. But she didn’t care; to Robin, it was just another job well done.

She flew up the metal stairs, heels clanging, and pushed on the door; but to her surprise, it was locked. She paused for a moment, puzzled. She was sure that Strike had mentioned catching up in the office this morning. She checked her phone, wondering if she’d missed a message requesting a change of venue, but there was nothing. She took out her second key and unlocked the door.

It was clear that the office was empty. Robin hung her coat and bag as usual and wandered over to fill the kettle at the tiny metal sink. She felt a little thrown off kilter; Strike wasn’t usually one to go back on his word, even over the smallest things. As she replaced the kettle and switched it on, she noticed that there was beige liquid splattered all over the sink, and she turned the tap on again to rinse it away. This confused her even further; Strike was normally punctiliously tidy. She felt a prickle of unease across her scalp and made a decision; she pulled out her phone once more and dialled.

As the phone rang and the kettle rattled, Robin moved over to the mock-leather sofa and sat down to wait. But Strike never answered; after a minute or so of ringing, Robin heard the cool, impersonal voice telling her that the person she was trying to reach was unavailable, and asking her to leave a message. The tone beeped, and it was a few seconds before Robin felt able to speak.

“Hi, it’s me. I just wondered – I’m at the office – are you okay? If you need me to meet you somewhere else, I can. But if something’s come up… Um, just let me know you’re all right.”

She rang off. Not knowing what else to do, she stood and resumed the task of making tea, looking around the room as though Strike might suddenly appear from behind a filing cabinet.

Robin couldn’t rationalise, even to herself, why she was feeling so unnerved. There was nothing inherently alarming about the fact that a private detective had changed his plans; he might have had an urgent call and had to undertake work elsewhere. But Robin knew that he would ordinarily have told her, and the omission worried her.

Robin squeezed the teabag against the side of her mug and pivoted to throw it away. But as she leaned over the bin, her eyes caught on a couple of words of Strike’s handwriting, on the side of an empty coffee cup that certainly hadn’t been there yesterday. She dropped the teabag on the counter and plucked the cup from the top of the bin. Turning it slowly in her hand, her stomach fluttered as she read the heartfelt message that Strike had written that morning. But something had obviously gone wrong; he’d thought better of it, and thrown it away. Cold dread settled in Robin’s gut. Had he changed his mind about her?

Robin checked her phone. She had no messages. She agonised for a moment, but she was tired of miscommunication and guesswork. She took a deep breath and dialled his number again, but unsurprisingly, it went to voicemail.

“Cormoran, I don’t know whether something’s happened, but… I, um, found the coffee cup. If that was for me – well, can we talk about it? Call me back.”

Robin rang off, took her tea to Pat’s desk and sat down. She flipped open the Kylie file, and began to transcribe the information she’d gained from Matthew, but after a few minutes, it was clear that she couldn’t concentrate. She drank some tea, unable to stop wondering what had happened to make Strike throw his sentimental gift away.

As she gave up and closed the file, Robin suddenly froze: from the flat overhead, she heard the faint sound of footsteps.

Chapter Text

Robin took the second staircase much more slowly than she'd taken the first. She knew Strike would be able to hear her coming, and she only hoped he would have the decency not to ignore her knock as he'd ignored her messages. She'd only been in his flat a handful of times before, and a nervousness settled on her that couldn't be entirely attributed to the morning's events. She approached the door and, swallowing her trepidation, knocked twice. There was a moment of silence, and then a dull clunk. Robin waited, and then, finally, the door opened.

"Hi," she said.

Strike was standing on the threshold, his face impassive. He took a breath and then stepped back, opening the door wider to allow her to enter.

"Want to come in?" he muttered.

Robin nodded and walked inside. She didn't feel like sitting down; nerves were making her restless, so she stood with her back to the fridge while Strike closed the door and wandered back over to the dining table.

"Are you - are you ok?" Robin asked. 

"I'm fine." He sat down and picked up the mug he'd set down before answering the door. He raised it to his lips and then changed his mind, and lowered it again.

"Did you get my messages?" asked Robin.

"Yeah. Listen, Robin, I'm not sure I can do this now. I'm a bit -"

"Was the coffee for me?" 

Robin had folded her arms, her chin set in an obstinate line. Her nerves hadn't left her, but she felt a new stubbornness that was spurring her on. She was confused, and she didn't like it; he could give her the answers she needed. If she couldn't ask him this, what hope did they have? Strike sighed.

"Yes."

"Well, thank you."

Strike looked up.

"Um… you're welcome." 

Robin hesitated, unsure what to ask. Strike looked as though he was trying to figure her out, but she reminded herself as he gazed at her that he'd thrown his gift away, most likely in anger, and then stormed up here to nurse his mood. As she tried to come up with a coherent question, he spoke.

"Matthew ok?"

Robin narrowed her eyes. "Is that what this is about?"

"What do you -"

"Oh, come on," said Robin, finally snapping. "You did a lovely thing, but then you changed your mind, and now you're up here sulking -"

"I'm not bloody sulking. What d'you expect me to think when you're going off with him? It's not nice watching my -"

He broke off. Robin tried to resist it, but she felt a tingling sensation as she realised that Strike had been about to label their fledgling relationship. She wondered what he would have called her. But regardless, here it was, the crux of the matter: did he know her at all? Quirky dates and hot kisses were one thing, but if he couldn't trust her on this, they were damned before they'd begun. Robin's heart pounded as she asked the million dollar question.

"What exactly do you think I did with Matthew, Cormoran?"

Strike inhaled sharply as his eyes flashed, and Robin knew he was picturing something he had never wanted to imagine.

"That's not the - I don't think anything happened. But -"

"But what? You were obviously angry enough to throw the drink away. Just spit it out!"

"Fine. Do you want him back?" he asked bluntly, staring into her eyes.

"What?" 

"Well, you went for a cosy little chat, nice breakfast date -"

"A date? You've got to be joking!"

Robin glowered at him, aghast at his ability to put two and two together and make twenty-five.

"I asked him to come to the office, because I had things to ask, for work. I took him to a cafe because I didn't think it'd be a good idea for the two of you to meet." Robin's voice rose, her pitch high. "I was trying to consider your feelings! If I'd known you were going to be such an arse about it, I might not have bothered."

Strike closed his eyes, and Robin thought she saw his fists relax slightly.

"All right. I'm sorry. I didn't think of that."

A moment passed, and then he stood and joined her in the kitchen area, facing her from across the linoleum. He forced his words out as though they caused him physical pain.

"I thought - I thought you'd gone to talk things over, to try and see if you could work it out."

Robin was torn between anguish, concern, and quietly bubbling anger. 

"Why would I do that?" she demanded.

"I don't fucking know! I don't know why women -"

"Women?" Robin yelled, suddenly incensed. "We're not one big bloody entity. We're talking about me, here! If you don't know me well enough to -"

"I get it, but I know how it is, with an ex-"

"I'm not Charlotte!" 

"I know that! I know you're not," he insisted, and Robin turned away, leaning one hand on the kitchen counter and rubbing her forehead with the other.

"But I'm not like her, either," said Strike, "and I still went back to her, over and over again!"

Robin breathed hard, trying to keep a lid on her temper. "I don't see," she said darkly, "what any of this has to do with me." 

Strike covered his face with both hands, and for a second or two they were silent, the air between them vibrating with tension.

"Robin, I panicked - I can't -" Strike faltered and stopped. He dropped his hands back to his sides. "I don't know what to say."

"If that's all you've got, this conversation's over," said Robin coldly. She reached over for her bag.

Panic flared in Strike's stomach. He muttered, "no," and took two strides towards her. With the reckless hope of a man on the edge of losing everything, he took her face in both hands and kissed her, hard.

Robin felt herself sob as her heart flipped; she brought both hands up and gripped his forearms, holding him to her as they kissed furiously. She could taste desperation on his tongue as it dipped into her mouth, and she opened to him, tilting her head and letting him deepen the kiss.

His mouth was incendiary. He kissed her with more passion than he ever had before, rapidly turning her fury to lust. His tongue threatened to melt her to the ground, if only she could stand it long enough; she whimpered faintly, and his big hands came around to support her, one hand on the back of her head, one holding her up by the waist as her knees turned weak.

Robin's hands drove into his hair; she pulled on it, her hands bunching, demanding more of him. She felt a surge of emotion as she realised this was what she'd been missing; she needed to feel his passion, to connect to him, to know that he wanted her just as much as she wanted him. She pressed herself closer. Strike growled and banded both his arms under her buttocks; he lifted and pushed her backwards, walking her back until they stumbled into the bedroom. They fell in a tangle on top of the double bed, still lost in tempestuous kisses.

"Cormoran," said Robin breathlessly, her hands still clutching at him. Strike leaned back, concern marking a V on his brow.

"Stop?" he asked.

"No," Robin bit out. Her fingers dug into the muscle of his back. "Don't stop."

"Robin," he whispered. He looked up at her with stormy eyes. "I'm an idiot. I thought - I thought I'd lost you."

Robin's hands stilled, and she fixed her gaze to his. For a moment, there was nothing else in the world.

"Why would I choose him over you?" she asked quietly.

Several answers occured to Strike, but none that wouldn't sound self-pitying. He said nothing. His fingers drew tiny patterns on her hipbone, and he couldn't look at her.

"I choose you. I swear," said Robin.

Strike's throat was so constricted that for a second, he didn't believe he could speak. He dipped his head and kissed her, trying to show her everything he couldn't say. 

"Me too," he managed. 

Robin wrapped her arms around his neck, and for a blissful interlude, her only thoughts were of his lips, and the touch of his hand as it meandered across her skin. Soon enough, their fingers moved to unfasten buttons and zips, and then his mouth became something altogether more dangerous, moving down her body and causing tremors in its wake. He whispered words of pleasure against her, raising goosebumps across her flesh, and her hands clutched his arms reflexively. When finally she begged him, the question turning into a moan as it left her lips, he took both her hands in his, looked deep into her eyes, and sank into her.

As her body arched and bucked, and Strike worshipped her with his, Robin screwed her eyes shut and watched constellations explode into a shower of shooting stars all around her.

Chapter Text

Café Verona was a small, unassuming building on the edge of Covent Garden. Its maroon awnings and exposed brickwork suggested a quiet sense of style, but the menus scrawled on several chalkboards ranged outside painted a different picture: "Full English breakfast WITH TEA £4.95." Robin had grinned when she'd seen them; she had stopped and suggested going inside, amused to note Strike's relieved expression. Robin was glad they'd found somewhere that would better appeal to his no-nonsense character, as opposed to the artisan brunch venues they'd passed along the way, offering poached duck eggs and truffle carpaccio for £14.50. 

Sitting towards the back of the café with mugs of tea, the detectives chatted intermittently, comments and questions drifting in and out like feathers in a breeze; mostly, they were content to just sit, enjoying the lazy morning. Robin looked up as a smiling waiter deposited their breakfasts: eggs royale for her and, unsurprisingly, a full English for Strike. 

"Well," he said, as he pulled the pepper shaker towards himself. "This is unusual."

"It seems like a pretty ordinary thing to do to me," countered Robin.

"That's why it's unusual," said Strike, and Robin laughed.

"Has there been a bit too much excitement for your liking?"

"I don't know about that. I've quite enjoyed myself," he said. He ate some bacon, eyeing her cautiously, and then asked, "what about you?"

Robin took a sip of tea, her expression innocent.

"Are you trying to ask me how last night was for me?"

She looked up at him through her lashes. Strike laughed gruffly, glancing down at the table.

"Pretty much, yeah," he admitted, looking back up at her.

As Robin looked into his eyes, she was helplessly transported back to the previous night. She'd lost herself in his gaze, closer to him than ever before, begging him not to stop as he'd brought relentless pleasure to her, over and over again. She absorbed the remembered rush and smiled playfully. 

"Well, I think you proved it."

"What…" Strike trailed off, brow furrowing, but then her meaning registered: he remembered the conversation in which he'd promised to prove to her that he was serious about her.

"Bloody hell, Robin, if that was the thing that convinced you, we could have done that weeks ago -"

Robin burst into laughter, and Strike grinned. They ate for a while, and Robin marvelled at how easy it was; it was just like always, except that now they had an incredible night to reminisce on. Before, she'd anticipated countless drawbacks, risks, negative impacts; but now that it had happened, Robin could think of none.

"Anyway," said Strike, cutting a sausage in half lengthways and putting it on a slice of toast, "what did you get out of Matthew?"

Robin raised her eyebrows, and Strike had the grace to look embarrassed. 

"We might as well talk about it," he said ruefully.

"Yes, let's," said Robin, trying to look stern but suspecting that she had only succeeded in looking amused. She watched Strike add half a hash brown to his sandwich and press it down with his fork.

"Well, obviously I can't speak for all accountancy firms, but Matt's done consultancy work for a lot of different organisations, and his company actually audits other accountants, so it's a reasonable sample size…"

"Okay," said Strike.

"Kylie is hugely undercharging George." 

Strike appeared to consider his plate for a moment, and then he scooped up what was left of his fried egg and added it to the top of the hash brown.

"Only him? Or does she undercharge everyone?"

"That's the thing; we don't know. It would be helpful to speak to another of her clients, but I'm not sure George would know who else is on her books -"

"No," agreed Strike.

"- and anyway, I'm not sure I want to go back to George just yet. There's something really odd about this whole situation, I can feel it."

There was a splurting sound as Strike added ketchup. He looked up at her.

"Like what?"

"I'm not sure yet. You know that's never going to close, don't you?"

Strike grinned again and then folded the toast over, using both hands to keep the sandwich together. After a few seconds of manoeuvring, he managed to take a bite that encompassed most of the food that was poking out of the side, and Robin laughed.

"Don't you think it's strange that George had watched her for weeks before contacting us, and she'd never gone to any cafés? But as soon as we started watching her, she spent three mornings sitting outside a coffee shop. She's never been back since."

Strike narrowed his eyes and swallowed. "But that's - she's allowed to go to a café."

"I know that." Robin ate some more smoked salmon. "While she was there, that's when you got the email about Olivia."

"Was it?" Strike thought for a moment. "Yeah, I guess so."

"And Olivia is definitely not an ex-smoker. And her hair's too dark for her skin tone."

"I'm not foll-"

"I'm just thinking out loud," sighed Robin. "How does Kylie afford a house in Pimlico on her own if she's undercharging?"

"Now we're back to Kylie?"

"Mmm."

They ate for a while in silence, until finally Robin put her knife and fork together on her plate and picked up her tea. She watched Strike finish his breakfast, thinking. When he'd put down his own knife and fork, she caught the waiter's eye to ask for the bill.

"I need to speak to Michelle," said Robin.

Strike looked at her for a few seconds, and then shook his head. 

"Robin, I'm confused."

"Look, I'm not sure about any of this, so you don't need to worry about it for now… I need to confirm a few things. Just give me another couple of days, and then I'll have a better idea."

"That's fine, but… you can tell me, you know."

"I know that."

Gazing at his earnest expression, Robin felt guilty. But she knew she might still be way off, and she was perennially protective of her reputation. If she started throwing unfounded theories around, the value of her assertions would become inevitably diluted.

"Just a few more days, I promise. I need to speak to Michelle, and Barclay, and I suppose I'll have to go to crochet again…"

"Not if you don't want to," said Strike sharply. Robin glanced up, and he was looking at her, completely serious. She realised her face must have shown some trepidation. "If it makes you feel uneasy, you pull out. No questions. We'll send Barclay in a wig if necessary."

Robin laughed. "Not necessary. But thanks."

The waiter came over and Strike paid the bill, still watching Robin closely. He drained his tea and then deposited the mug back on the table, sighing.

"I wish you'd tell me, Robin."

"I will. I just want to be sure."

*

"Hi, Robin."

"Hi. Is now a good time to talk?" Robin pulled her feet up underneath her on the sofa, and rested her notebook on her knee.

"Of course. What do you need?"

Robin reflected, not for the first time, on how lucky they were to have replaced Morris with Michelle. Quite apart from the fact that Robin didn't have to fend off unwanted advances from her, working with Michelle was never complicated. She was practical, level headed, and fair; she never overestimated her own abilities, and yet she had confidently closed every case she'd been assigned.

"This might sound odd. But I wanted to talk to you about your wrist," said Robin.

"Yeah, of course," said Michelle. "I'm sorry that I couldn't -"

"No, that's not a problem at all," interjected Robin. "Just - how did it happen?"

"Oh," said Michelle, clearly surprised. "I sprained it while I was bench pressing. Bent it right back and couldn't realign it properly."

"Right," said Robin. "You've been weightlifting for a while, haven't you? Does that happen a lot?"

There was a brief pause.

"No, not really…"

Robin felt a slight flare of intuition, and she wondered whether she was asking something private. Michelle cleared her throat.

"All right, I'll admit it, woman to woman. My normal PT wasn't in, and the guy that stepped in distracted me completely," said Michelle, laughing. "I'd been comfortable at fifty, fifty-five kilos, but he convinced me to try sixty-five. It was bloody stupid, but he was so fit."

Robin laughed gently, but a fierce thrill ran through her as she realised she might be onto something.

"You said the guy who stepped in -"

"Yeah. He said he'd swapped shifts."

"Had you ever seen this guy before?"

"Yeah," said Michelle, "I've seen him knocking around. Never spoke to him before that day, though."

"And have you seen him since?"

"Uh… no, I haven't." Michelle was quiet for a moment; when she spoke again, her voice was unsure. "I don't know - maybe I have? I haven't been back a lot, because of the injury."

"Yeah, of course," replied Robin. "Did you ask him to help you?"

"No, he offered." Michelle hesitated. "Is there something - do you know him?"

"No," sighed Robin. "I might have come across him before, that's all. I can't say much, but it's to do with a case."

"Oh, right," said Michelle. She sounded relieved, and Robin wondered whether Michelle thought she'd stepped into something personal. "I didn't think it was strange before, but I suppose it was, now you mention it."

"One last thing. Can I just double check - which gym was it?"

As Michelle rattled off the name of Kylie's gym in Pimlico, Robin remembered the razor-sharp stare of a tall man behind her in the queue, and the accompanying sense of unease.

*

A while later, settled in bed, Robin found herself yet again thinking about Strike. She'd lost count of the number of times it had happened; the process of coming home to her solitude and her empty double bed, which used to seem a symbol of freedom, was increasingly unappealing. She no longer minded admitting to herself that she would much rather spend her evenings in his company, talking about work, or cracking stupid jokes; or just gazing at him, and grinning embarrassedly when he inevitably caught her staring. Robin looked at the clock; it was only 10pm. It seemed like a long time until she would see him again. She rolled over, sighing, and told herself to get over it; this was no different from every other night. She was, depressingly, becoming used to the sensation of missing him. 

But, Robin realised, things were different now. They'd crossed a significant line, and their relationship was indelibly changed whether they liked it or not. She leaned over and grabbed her phone from the bedside table. If she didn't have the right to contact him now, when would she? As she held the phone in her hand, trying to decide, it began to ring. Startled but amused, Robin answered the call.

"Hi," she said quietly.

"Hi. Were you asleep?"

"No," she laughed. "I was just thinking about calling you."

"Oh. Well, I just wanted to - well, I'm not sure, really -"

Robin laughed again. "Me neither. I mean, I just wanted to talk to you. Not about anything in particular."

There was a pause, and Robin could have sworn she could hear Strike's smile through the phone. 

"What have you been doing today?" he asked.

"Speaking to Michelle. She confirmed something I thought. And I spoke to Barclay, too. He's still got the tools he had that night when we -"

"Yeah," said Strike gruffly. "When are you going to tell me what you're up to?"

"When I know. Look, I'm not trying to play games, or make you anxious or anything. I'm just being careful."

"Well, you are making me anxious. I don't want you getting yourself in trouble."

"I'm only speaking to our own staff, so far."

"It's the 'so far' bit that bothers me," said Strike dryly.

"Do you trust me?"

There was a brief pause as the memory of his reaction to seeing her with Matthew seemed to rise to the forefront of Robin's mind.

"Of course I do," murmured Strike.

"Well, then," said Robin.

She knew she was pushing her luck; Strike had never handled being kept in the dark particularly well, but she saw it as a necessary struggle until she could be sure of herself. She could feel his discomfort, but he said nothing.

"I miss you," ventured Robin. It was a peace offering, but it was nevertheless entirely true.

"Me too. But," he said bracingly, "we haven't got long to wait."

"What?"

"Didn't I tell you? I'm taking you out again."

"You know you didn't bloody well tell me," said Robin, laughing. "When is this supposedly happening?"

"Saturday, 3pm," said Strike. "Wear some sturdy shoes."

"Okay," agreed Robin, and she sensed Strike's grin once again.

"But -" said Strike. His cheeky tone fell away, and he continued tentatively. "We can go for a drink or something before then, if you want. After work tomorrow, maybe."

"Keen?" teased Robin.

"Shut up," he muttered, and Robin laughed. 

"I'll see you tomorrow, then," she said. 

"Can't wait," murmured Strike.

Chapter Text

Strike stood on the chilly pavement, smoking, asking himself whether the feeling of warm contentment that had settled on him over the past few weeks was here to stay. He couldn't help feeling like it might yet be whipped away, like the sudden removal of a blanket on an icy night. He'd spent years believing that his fear of commitment meant that he was both unsuited to and undeserving of it, and he'd avoided opportunities to confront it at all costs.

But Robin had changed everything; she'd redefined what it meant to have a partner. Strike was used to looking after a woman; he'd been responsible for Lucy, and his mother, and for Charlotte. But Robin didn't need him in the same way; she was independent, fierce, capable. She rebuffed any suggestion that she couldn't handle every task or problem that was thrown her way, and there was no doubt that she'd been thrown more than her fair share. She dealt with life and its various hardships in a way that was both admirable and slightly unbelievable. 

Strike had wondered whether that was the thing that had rocked him. Was he so used to being needed that he hadn't known how to relate to Robin? Was that why they hadn't been able to get things off the ground? But as he thought about it, he realised that it was much deeper than that: he cared about her too much. His blood ran cold at the thought of disappointing her, of adding to the problems life had thrown at her; he couldn't bear to be the cause of any more pain. But he'd realised, at last, that pretending not to want her had been causing them both more pain than simply giving in.

And he had given in completely. Watching the Land Rover pull up and extinguishing his cigarette, Strike recalled the previous night in the pub, when Robin had tentatively asked him whether they were in a relationship. To his intense surprise, he'd known no hesitation as he'd taken her hand across the warm wooden table and agreed. She'd laughed delightedly, and they'd kissed in the middle of the Tottenham, not caring who might see. The abstract idea of lifelong commitment might have been a frightening one, but somehow, the reality of committing to Robin felt as safe and comfortable as an old blanket.

"Afternoon," said Robin, as Strike opened the passenger door and pulled himself in.

He turned to her, placed a gentle hand on her cheek, and kissed her full on the mouth. He felt her sigh gently as his lips moulded to hers, and her hand rested lightly on his chest.

"Hi," replied Strike as he pulled away, and then he planted a second kiss on her parted lips before sitting back in his seat.

"Um -" said Robin breathlessly. She laughed softly. "That was -"

Strike's boyish smile lit up his face. He reached over and squeezed Robin's knee, and she looked down at his hand.

"I missed you," Strike admitted.

"You saw me," Robin checked her watch, "fourteen hours ago."

"Still true," shrugged Strike. 

Robin pulled away from the kerb, shaking her head; but Strike could see her profile, and her rosy cheeks were pulled up in a secret smile.

"So anyway, where are we going?" 

"Nope, not telling you," said Strike. "Head for the A41 and I'll direct you from there."

"All right," said Robin, indicating.

She drove through the busy streets, neither of them speaking, until she merged onto the A-road and settled in for a few miles of grey dual carriageway. She looked over at Strike; he was looking out of the window, seemingly lost in thought.

"Penny for them?" Robin asked. Strike jumped, and then smiled furtively.

"It's nothing. Just thinking about… well, you, actually."

Robin grinned. "You missed me after a few hours and now you're staring wistfully out of the window thinking about me? Anybody might think you've got a bit of a crush," she teased.

Strike looked at her, unable to stop himself from smiling. Robin sensed his eyes on her and glanced sideways.

"What?" she said, self-consciously.

"I can't wait until we get there, and I can kiss you again," replied Strike.

Robin blushed profusely.

*

Half an hour later, they pulled up at a vast, grassy expanse with signs everywhere reading 'A1'. Leaving the Land Rover in a gravelled square that served as a car park, they ambled over to a series of wooden huts at the side of the field. Leading the way into the first, Strike was greeted by a white-haired man who looked to be in his sixties. His amiable face was weather-beaten, but his eyes were sharp. He smiled and shook Robin's hand, too, introducing himself as Frank. His fleece had a sewn-on badge that read 'The Big Shoot'.

"We're shooting?" asked Robin, turning to Strike. He nodded.

"Clay pigeon shooting!" said Frank eagerly. "You ever done this before?"

Robin shook her head, and Frank turned to Strike, who smirked.

"Yeah, a few times. And - army."

"Ah! Of course. So you'll not be needing my help then!"

"I might be a bit rusty," he replied. Robin raised her eyebrows at him, but said nothing.

They were led to a marked-out area where several people were standing among stacks of guns. Every few feet there were boxes of something small and yellow. The detectives sat side by side on a bench, and Robin wondered whether the yellow things were ammunition, until she got a closer look and realised that they were foam ear plugs. She giggled softly, although there was nothing really that funny about it. She turned to Strike and looked at his face for a few seconds. As she turned back to face the instructor, she slipped her hand in Strike's.

"Now then!" called Frank, clapping his hands together. "As there's on'y a few of us, we can work in pairs today. This is Jake, and this is Harry," he pointed out the two instructors to his left and right, both young men in their late twenties or perhaps early thirties, sporting Barbour jackets and fleece-lined boots. Robin sneaked a sideways glance at Strike; he was eying them sceptically, as though he doubted they'd know one end of a gun from the other. Robin laughed again.

Thankfully, as the customers were divided up, it was clear that Strike and Robin were to work with Frank. He strolled over to them, carrying a basket of shotguns and two boxes under his arm. He offered them both earplugs, and then set the box down on the floor. 

"Now. You'll need the plugs when we're shooting, but don't put 'em in just yet. You've never shot before?" 

Robin shook her head. 

"All right. You c'n a' this one," and he handed her a gun. She took it gingerly, surprised at its weight.

"It's a semi-automatic shotgun, so's should be a fairly easy first shoot. See how you get on with that, and we can maybe move you on."

He grabbed the barrel of another and handed it to Strike.

"You're having the over-under. It's a trap so you'll need to aim high," he explained. Strike nodded.

"Are you understanding this?" laughed Robin.

"He's an old hand, m'love, they shoot all sorts in basic training. Although it mighta changed, it's been forty-five years since I did mine."

"Really? What regiment?" asked Strike.

"Royal Green Jackets. It'd just been formed. But it's not there any more, it's all Rifles now.

"Anyway, here's what the clay looks like," he said, showing Robin a cold, brittle disc. "They'll be fired from a few throwers out there, but we'll start wi' one that's just in those trees to the left. The bird'll fly away from you, so you wait a few seconds and you shoot it on the drop. Aim bang on, because the barrel's high but the lag will mean your bird'll fall before the shot hits it. Make sense?"

Robin looked from the clay to the gun, and simply nodded. Strike smiled and leaned towards her, whispering in her ear.

"I'll help you."

His breath tickled, and goosebumps spiralled down her neck.

Frank had noticed nothing. He was pressing buttons on a black box that resembled a radio. A green light appeared, and he handed the box to Strike.

"This is the control for the thrower. Press here to release one. If you want a series, press here. Series will last for five birds, but they'll come from different traps."

"No problem," said Strike.

"All right," he clapped his hands together again, "who's up first?"

Robin and Strike looked at each other, and Robin grinned. She stepped forward, and Frank beckoned her onto a marked concrete spot. 

"I'll give you the basics, and then yer man can take it from there, all right? I've to stay around for insurance purposes, but you're all right with him. First up, where's the safety?"

Robin narrowed her eyes as she looked at the shotgun. She indicated a small button in front of the trigger. "Here?"

"That's right. Simple manual bolt, features on most guns," he said, showing her. "Take it off before you shoot, make sure you put it back on when you're not shooting. Simple enough?"

Robin nodded. She felt Strike move behind her, and then his firm body pressed up against her back. His hand dropped to her hip and rested there, his thumb rubbing softly back and forth.

"Brace the gun against your shoulder," said Frank, and he gestured to her to lift the gun. Strike stayed behind her, helping her place her hands. "Cheek to stock… that's right… and when you're ready, we'll release the bird."

"Ready," murmured Robin.

Frank pressed the button to release, and a clay target soared into the sky. Robin aimed, braced herself, and squeezed the trigger: the gun kicked back and the bullet flew, clipping the top edge of the clay. It spun to earth, and Frank was cheering. Robin turned to look at Strike, and he was beaming at her.

"You're a natural!" said Frank. "All right, I'm going to go and sit over there -" he pointed to a wooden bench inside a small, open hut. "- and you just shout if you need me."

Strike's eyebrows were raised as Robin pointed the barrel to the floor and turned to face him, her body flush to his.

"Can't believe he's allowed to just leave us to it. You might be lying," she whispered.

"They know I'm not. Sent copies of my military credentials in advance, and I signed a waiver. They agreed to let me use their equipment without needing the actual lesson. He just stuck around to make sure you were okay."

Robin laughed again. "So you're teaching me?"

"Pretty much," grinned Strike, and Robin's cheeks flushed.

"Okay," she whispered, gazing at him, and the word sounded like a promise.

Strike puffed out a breath. "First we need to sort your stance out."

He turned her slowly in his arms so that she was once again facing away from him. He used his leg to nudge hers, murmuring instructions to her. Robin could barely hear him; the feel of him pressing up against her, moving his leg briefly between hers, was thoroughly distracting. His arms came up and around her, his hands over hers on the barrel of the gun, and Robin closed her eyes. 

"I can't concentrate if you're going to do that," she mumbled.

"Do what?"

His whispered words were right by her ear. She turned her head slightly, and he dropped a featherlight kiss on her neck.

"I'll stop, if you want."

"No," she blurted. Her cheeks heated again, and she tried for a cheeky tone. "I suppose you can stay."

"All right. You ready?"

Robin nodded, and Strike dropped an arm down to the remote control. A second later, a clay flew into the air, and Strike's arm came back up to cradle Robin's. She shot: she missed.

"Your fault," she giggled, turning.

Strike held his hands up. "Don't blame me, Ellacott!"

"I want to try properly for a bit," she said, and she fixed him with a steely glare. 

"All right, all right," laughed Strike, and he stepped back.

For three quarters of an hour, they worked together on Robin's accuracy. She improved steadily until every shot was a kill; Strike applauded her, impressed, and Robin tingled with pride. But when Strike took his own shotgun in hand and braced it on his shoulder, staring keenly down the barrel and picking off series after series, she tingled for an altogether different reason. She imagined him in uniform, and suddenly her cheeks felt hot again. 

"Maybe I can help you with your shot," she suggested.

Strike looked around, amused; he'd missed nothing. He was therefore certain she had something else in mind. He nodded and beckoned her over.

Robin stood behind him and wrapped her arms around his torso. She couldn't see over his shoulder, so she shifted to the right. She ran a hand down his arm and then his stomach, feeling his body tense as she went.

"I think your stance is fine," she said. She cast a brief glance over her shoulder; Frank was immersed in a magazine, oblivious.

"Yeah?" said Strike.

"Mmm. Let's see about your form," she whispered, and she trailed her hand down the front of his jeans. She felt him twitch under her hand.

"Robin," he muttered.

Robin's hand kneaded gently, and she felt his body sway a little as his pelvis rocked forward instinctively.

"I like it. It's good."

"You are -" he flicked the safety on, and then dropped the gun into the basket by the side of them, "- a dangerous woman."

His body turned to face hers, and then he was kissing her forcefully, his hands driving into her hair, his hips pressing forwards. Robin moaned into his mouth and he dipped his tongue inside, sending shockwaves of pleasure and excitement through her veins. Robin could feel every inch of his hard body against her, and she suddenly didn't want to be here, in this public setting, inconveniently far from home.

They broke apart, and Robin realised that she was gripping his biceps. She let go, grimacing apologetically. 

"Shall we go?" she asked, and Strike's wicked grin gave his answer. They walked hand in hand back towards the buildings, and waved their goodbyes to Frank. He let them go with a slight smirk, and Robin wondered how oblivious to their amorous display he'd actually been. 

Back in the car, Robin looked over to Strike, unsure whether she should say what she wanted to. She mulled it over in her mind, thinking and rethinking each possible phrasing, until Strike finally spoke.

"So, what now?" he said softly.

"Well, what do you want?"

Strike raised his eyebrows, and Robin giggled.

"You know what I want, Robin. Your wandering hand discovered that pretty swiftly," he rumbled, leaning closer. Robin reached her hand out, trailing it up his thigh. 

"Are you - do you have any plans for the rest of the day?" asked Robin.

"No. I hoped I'd be able to spend it with you."

"Me too," she whispered.

Why did she feel so shy now, in the confines of the car, when she'd been so bold in the field? But Strike was looking at her as though he was battling his own thoughts, and then he finally blurted out a question.

"Do you want to stay with me?"

Robin swallowed. 

"I mean," clarified Strike, "do you want to get back into London, maybe get some dinner, and then come back to my flat?"

Robin's hand found his lapel, and she used it to pull herself forward, until they were once again chest to chest. She felt his breath, warm on her lips, as she answered him.

"Sounds perfect."

Their journey home could wait a while; the interior of the Land Rover was warm and comfortable, and Robin's head and heart filled with Strike, and the heat of him, and the dizzying rush of his mouth on her skin.

Chapter Text

"You're doing it again."

"I'm not doing anything."

Robin looked up from her desk, a single raised eyebrow challenging Strike's denial. He glanced at her and his face softened.

"Sorry. You're distracting," he muttered, grinning ruefully. 

Robin leant back in her seat, smiling, and idly wondered how long this feeling would last. She hoped it would be a while; she wasn't yet ready to give up the bursts of tingles she felt when she caught him looking at her, or the swoop of heat when she really focused on his eyes or his hands. Before, she'd been under the impression that she knew what it was to be desired; she'd been in a relationship for years, after all, and it hadn't always been stifling. But now she realised that she might as well have been asleep. Strike's affection had sparked something in her; she felt free to behave as she truly wanted, free to express her own desire; free, now, to slide her chair closer to his, and put her hands on his parted knees. His expression was neutral, but he couldn't hide the happiness behind his eyes. He spread his knees wider and beckoned her closer.

"I wanted to tell you something," said Robin.

"Okay."

Strike leaned forward, holding Robin's gaze in his, and then dipped his head to the side of her neck. He kissed her gently, his lips just gracing her skin, and her eyes closed of their own volition. She held still while he did it again.

"Robin?"

He moved to the other side.

"Have you lost your voice?" he teased.

"Mmm."

His lips touched the hollow beneath her ear, and a tiny gasp left her throat. Robin pressed down on his thighs, trying to ground herself; his mouth trailed up, and his teeth nipped her earlobe. Memories of the previous night washed over her, and everything else was obliterated; her hand came up and gripped his shirt.

"We're in the office," she mumbled.

"It's our office."

He kissed her, and Robin felt the now-familiar crackle of electricity as his lips met hers. He was slow, and careful, and sure: she felt her bones melting, and his hands cradled her back as she sank into him.

A minute or two later, they broke apart. Robin realised both her hands were fisted in his shirt, and she released him, smoothing the crumpled fabric and grinning guiltily. He smiled back at her.

"You wanted to tell me something."

"Yeah," Robin muttered. She turned, reaching back over her desk and pulling the topmost sheet of paper from a stack there. "You've had another message," she said slowly, with an arched eyebrow, "from Time magazine."

"They won't leave it, will they?"

"I suppose not."

"Well," said Strike. He rubbed his chin, considering. "Is it important to you?"

Robin felt a small tremor of shock.

"No," she said in a rush. "No, it's fine. It was just -" 

She didn't quite know what to say; the idea that he might be reconsidering his response based on her opinion was entirely unexpected. She didn't want him to be uncomfortable. But then, hadn't they both dragged each other out of their comfort zones in the last few months?

"It only bothered me because it made me worry that I didn't know you very well. And, you know… I want you to take credit for what you've done," she said, smiling shyly. "You've helped so many people. You've built this business. And you did it all from nothing. It could be a good example for people who don't know how to get started, or who maybe lack confidence…"

Strike still looked skeptical. But after a beat, he plucked the sheet of paper from Robin's hand.

"All right. I'll call them."

"What? Really?"

Strike laughed. "Yeah, really. Could be good for business, anyway."

Robin grinned, and found that for some reason she couldn't bring herself to stop. Strike leaned forward, kissed her forehead, and then wheeled his chair back a little. He moved his knee gingerly, and Robin felt a fresh surge of guilt, remembering her hands pressing into his thighs.

"I'm sor-"

"Don't start," he interrupted. "You can do that to me any time."

Robin laughed.

"What are you up to tonight?"

"Meeting with Bentley's wife at four. But I hope she doesn't go on, I've got crochet class again at six. I'll have to just get the tube straight there."

Strike cast a fleeting glance down Robin's body; her soft shirt and leggings provided no room to conceal a crochet hook, and she hadn't brought a handbag.

"Don't you need all the stuff for it? Wool or whatever?"

"No, they store it at the class. I don't need anythi -"

She broke off, a dreamlike quality sweeping across her face.

"Robin?"

"Yeah, I…" Her eyes refocused, and she looked at him. "No need to carry anything. Everything's stored there."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I'll just - I need to get ready for Mrs Bentley."

She rolled her chair back towards her desk, unlocking her laptop and resuming work, still with a somewhat dazed expression on her face. 

*

Robin entered the café and headed straight for the back wall. This was the first time she'd attended the crochet class since the truth of Olivia's identity had hit her, and she wasn't at all certain that the woman would show up. But if she did, Robin knew that she had to be careful; she ran through everything she'd already said, trying to make sure she wouldn't contradict herself. As she muttered under her breath, Olivia walked in.

The hair was just as sleek, the skin just as pale; she walked nonchalantly across the room and joined Robin on her side of the table. Now that she was looking for it, Robin thought that the act was a little too contrived; Olivia nodded at her, rifling through her handbag, and then surreptitiously shifted her chair six inches closer. Robin turned in her seat, angling her face away. She let out a slow breath and told herself to keep calm.

"Hey."

"Hi," replied Robin. She turned back to face the centre of the room, throwing a casual smile sideways towards her mark.

"Didn't see you last time," remarked Olivia.

"No. I've been trying macramé too. I don't know which one I'm going to pick."

"Oh, I've never tried that. It'd probably go about as well as this is going, though."

She gave a reluctant grin, and Robin had to remind herself not to be fooled. But she couldn't resist pushing her luck a little.

"I'd have thought you'd be great at both. What materials do you work with in your job?"

"Materials?"

Olivia looked surprised for a split second, and then she recovered herself and gave a tinkly laugh.

"Oh, right, the medium. Watercolour, normally, or oil paint."

"What do you paint?"

"Not bloody knitted giraffes," she said, nodding at the stuffed animal that was once again emerging from the box in the middle of the room. Robin laughed along, but then Olivia fixed her with an intense gaze.

"I tend to deal with themes of real life, you know? Hard work, independence, making a living. Doing everything you can to get ahead." She gave a short, humourless laugh. "Suppose you could call it dark. Do you know what I mean?"

"I don't know anything about art, but it sounds great," answered Robin. Olivia was still watching her, and Robin felt scrutinised.

"You never told me what you do for a living?"

"Oh, I'm a receptionist," said Robin blithely. She wasn't sure exactly how much Olivia knew about her, and she hoped the lie was feasible enough. "I answer phones and pay expenses… music tuition company."

"Fascinating."

"It's actually quite interesting," said Robin automatically, and then she felt faintly ridiculous for defending her fake profession.

"If you're happy," smirked Olivia.

For the first time, Robin felt a wave of dislike.

Robin muddled her way through the next forty minutes, trying to concentrate on foundation chains and counting stitches. The teacher walked by her several times, offering encouragement and assistance, but Robin knew that this would likely be her last class, and so she didn't feel the need to keep up the facade quite as well as before.

Olivia barely made any difference to her yarn project; she looked around the room, checked her phone, and added a stitch every so often. It was clear that something had changed, and Robin had the unsettling impression that both women were putting on an act, but were waiting for the other to break character first. 

Marianne finally announced the end of the class, and the usual noises ensued; people began to chat, bags were packed and zipped, and the cardboard box in the centre was filled yet again with its odd assortment of items. Robin's eyes followed Olivia as she waved a vague goodbye and headed out of the door, clearly intent on leaving before the general rush. Robin waited until she'd passed through the open doorway, and then jumped to her feet and followed.

The corridor beyond was short, but Robin could hear Olivia talking from the exit, which she knew was the next left turn. The best position from which to eavesdrop was surely right here, but Robin didn't want to draw the attention of the class she'd just left. Her only option was to walk straight ahead, hoping Olivia wouldn't see her, and then conceal herself in the doorway to the bathrooms. She took a deep breath and set off at a brisk march; thankfully, as she passed the exit, she could see that Olivia was engrossed in a phone call.

"No need," Olivia was saying. She paused for a few seconds, listening to whomever was on the line.

"We don't need to worry about her," she continued. "She doesn't know anything, and she's bloody dull as dishwater. She wouldn't be -"

Olivia turned slightly, and Robin sank further back into her alcove.

"I don't know why she was there, but she clearly hasn't found it, or she'd have ratted on us. She's got nothing."

Olivia paused to listen once more, and her hand came up to smooth her hair. She scratched at her hairline; it moved by a millimetre.

"Him? I've got no idea, but he can't follow us anyway. It's done. You pick a different gym and that's it, it's over. We carry on with everything else."

She hung up the phone.

Robin held her breath, trying not to make a sound. She waited, hearing nothing; but all at once, the class came out of the crochet room, and soft footsteps came towards her from the exit. Robin cursed silently, and then made a snap decision: she pushed blindly through the door at her back, backing up until she found a cubicle. She locked herself inside and sat down on the closed toilet lid, checking that her recording had saved properly.

It was only a few minutes later when her brain registered that she'd passed urinals on her way; she realised with some amusement that she'd barricaded herself in the men's toilets.

*

Robin took the stairs two at a time, not bothering to pause at the first landing. She burst into the tiny flat, breathing hard, and Strike looked up, surprised.

"I was right."

Robin took a step forwards and closed the door behind her, still breathless. She crossed to a dining chair, her hand pulling at its back, but then changed her mind and began to pace around the kitchen area.

"I thought I was seeing coincidences where there weren't any, but I was right all along. She must have known right from the first time I - she lured me out of the way. Why would an artist be terrible at crochet? And she wasn't a smoker, I told you that. She's using multiple fake names -"

"Robin, slow down." Strike stood up and rounded the table, approaching her with almost exaggerated caution. "Olivia's a fake name?"

"They're both fake, don't you see? There's something dodgy about Jade's business. She's keeping George around for some reason that benefits her, but he's snooping and as soon as he finds out too much he's in danger."

"What - in danger? From Olivia? Olivia knows Jade -?"

"Yes, in danger! From her and from all these men at her beck and call! Can't you see it?"

She leant forward, planting both palms on the dining table.

"Olivia is Jade! They're the same person."

Silence fell, and as Robin finally yanked out a chair to sit down, the sharp scrape of wood echoed through the flat like a gunshot.

Chapter Text

Strike grabbed a handful of cutlery from the top drawer and then joined Robin at the kitchen table, where she was tipping Szechuan king prawns onto plates already loaded with crispy beef, fried rice and seaweed. She looked almost sadly at the food.

"I swore I wasn't going to have any more takeaways this month."

"Well, I didn't," said Strike, swiping a spring roll from a bag in the middle of the table. "And anyway, we need the energy. We're going to be here 'til Christmas working out what the hell to do with this case."

He sat down, handing a fork to Robin as she joined him. For a while they ate in silence, reflecting on the revelations Robin had brought to Strike's door.

"So… run it by me again," said Strike, chewing.

"Jade and Olivia are the same person. Jade must have seen me following her; it's the only explanation that makes any sense. She sees me, recognises me, gets suspicious; maybe she looks me up online. She gets her mate to call you and set up another case. She must have known I'm - I work for a -"

"Yeah, she had to know you're a detective. But she's obviously doing something dodgy, to be this paranoid."

"She is. Olivia said on the phone, 'she hasn't found it.' So there's obviously something she wants to keep hidden, something she wouldn't want a detective to know about."

Robin took a sip of beer and then reached over for a spring roll. She took it and leaned back, pulling at a fragment of filo that had come away from the whole.

"It's got to be at the supermarket. She told whoever she was talking to that they need to switch gyms, but everything else stays the same. There's a reason why she spent so long at the supermarket that time but didn't have any shopping when she left. It hit me the other day, when I was thinking about the crochet class. They store everything there. Jade's storing something at the supermarket."

Robin ate the spring roll slowly, and Strike tried hard not to watch her mouth as she did so. His head was spinning; two cases had collided and were now one. The boring, predictable woman they'd been tasked with watching on behalf of a meek marketing executive had suddenly turned out to be a potentially dangerous, and certainly criminal, person of interest. Strike wondered whether George knew what he'd got himself into.

"But we don't have any evidence of criminal activity at all," Strike thought out loud.

"Yeah, we do."

"Yeah?"

"Who uses fake names, and wigs? Who looks over their shoulder for people watching them? Who sets traps for people to check what they -"

"Us?" interrupted Strike. Robin laughed.

"Yeah, but… she's not doing what we do. She's looking out for herself. You'll see that I'm right, again," she finished, muttering.

"I believe you, Robin. I'm just - we need hard evidence."

"And we'll get it."

Robin stood, taking her plate to the sink and rinsing the dregs of her Szechuan sauce down the drain. She took a glass from the draining board, filled it with water, and then returned to her seat. It was only once she'd taken a few gulps that she realised what she'd just done; she'd treated his home as if it were her own, and Strike hadn't batted an eyelid.

She looked over at him; he was staring keenly at her, his gaze narrowing.

"No more secrecy. You tell me what you're up to this time."

His tone was even, but Robin felt the determination behind his words. She looked at him, and his eyes were somehow more intense than Robin had ever seen them. She felt a little flustered.

"Okay," she agreed. "I'm going back to the supermarket."

"You're not going alone."

Robin glared at him.

"You think she's doing something criminal. We know there are a couple of men she seems to be working with."

"But we don't know whether they're -"

"There's another problem, too," interrupted Strike.

Robin glanced up at him, suspicious.

"You're obviously just as recognisable as I am," grinned Strike. Robin snorted. But then she weighed his words, realising that he was right.

"I thought I could get away with going undercover for a bit longer," she mused.

"Well, that ship's sailed, famous detective." 

Robin laughed again, but her cheeks were tinged with pink; behind her water glass, she looked secretly pleased.

*

On Monday morning, Strike arrived early at the office and tried his best to occupy himself with filing expenses. Robin had told him she wouldn't be in until later, and she had been evasive on the phone. Strike knew her outstanding cases; although it could well have been the banker they were tailing on his wife's behalf, Strike knew in his gut that Robin was in fact following Kylie again. He knew she would be careful - they'd discussed disguises, and Robin was fairly adept these days at using makeup to conceal her true identity - but still he worried. Kylie had proven herself to be one step ahead of them all this time, and Robin had a tendency to make rash decisions.

Strike fumbled with his cigarette packet, turning it idly in his fingers as he ruminated on the other thing that had been bothering him. Why hadn't Robin wanted to talk to him about her theories? This was a new development, and one that unsettled him. She was normally happy to use him as a sounding board, and in turn she often acted as a useful one herself; Strike had met nobody he enjoyed running a theory past more than Robin. He supposed it came down to confidence again; but when had he given her reason not to trust him?

His worry making room for a new dart of frustration, he picked up his phone and unlocked the screen. As he registered that it wasn't even nine o'clock yet, footsteps outside heralded the arrival of Barclay, pink-cheeked and smiling affably.

"Weather's pickin' up," he called, by way of a greeting. "Gonna be floods next week."

"Yeah," replied Strike. "You in for the meeting?"

"Yeah. Wanted to update the Donald file before it starts. Robin not in?"

Strike glanced up; Barclay had the same expression of quiet amusement that he seemed to sport whenever he mentioned Robin to Strike.

"No. You heard from her?"

Barclay sat down on the sofa, his legs spread wide, one arm laid across the back cushions.

"She rang me yesterday. Wanted to ken if I still 'ad the bolt cutters I 'ad when we found Margot."

Strike sighed.

"Ah told her yes, I'd bring 'em today. Said I'd leave 'em with you if she's oot, and she was fine with it," said Barclay kindly. 

"Cheers, Barclay."

Strike got up and walked into the inner office, closing the door behind him and leaving Barclay grinning on the sofa. Strike wasn't sure exactly what Barclay knew of the situation between himself and Robin, but the subcontractor wasn't stupid. There was a reason why Barclay had ventured additional details to assuage Strike's worry, and while he was grateful for the information, Strike would have preferred his concern for her not to be quite so obvious to the staff.

Strike settled into his desk chair and faced the facts: Robin was planning something risky, and she wasn't planning on telling him about it. He picked up the phone with a renewed sense of irritation.

*

Robin pulled herself over the low brick wall and dropped down into a crouch. The wall formed one side of a public walkway that ran alongside the supermarket building, but which didn't seem to be used much for its intended purpose; the alleyway was scattered with detritus that included glass bottles, nitrous oxide canisters, and at least one condom. 

From her concealed position, Robin could see several doorways and delivery entrances. This side of the supermarket seemed to be reserved for lorries and warehouse workers, who crossed back and forth, guiding in drivers and shouting instructions. As she watched, Robin recognised one of the men who had spoken to Kylie at the gym; he walked straight through the main delivery entrance and through a door at the back, where he disappeared from view.

Robin hauled herself back over the wall and followed the length of the building, until she found a small, grubby yard that led to the back of the warehouse. She kicked her way through the sprawling bushes and approached a set of wooden doors that had been propped open with an old paint can. The air was still and quiet; Robin could hear the faint sounds of the warehouse in the distance, but she seemed to have found a part of the complex that was disused and almost abandoned.

She peered slowly around the door, her eyes adjusting to the darkness and then widening as she took in the scene. Robin wasn't easily repulsed, but the sight before her caused bile to rise up in her throat; she remembered the mud on the back of the Focus estate, and the grille that separated the boot from the back seat. A wave of reckless anger washed over her; she grabbed the door and wrenched it open, striding forwards into the warehouse beyond.

A shrill beep echoed in the cavernous space, and Robin cursed under her breath. Retreating to the doors and the abandoned yard, Robin pulled her phone from her back pocket and checked the screen: Strike was calling. She backed out, crouched behind a bush, and answered.

"Yeah?" she murmured. 

"Where are you, Robin?"

"I'm -"

"You're at the supermarket, aren't you?"

"Yes. Keep your voice down," she whispered.

"What the fuck's happening?"

"Nothing. I've just found - hang on," said Robin, pressing a hand against the phone to muffle the sound. Footsteps were approaching from inside the building. Robin backed up some more.

"Robin!"

"I'm still here," she muttered, listening. The footsteps grew louder.

"Get away from there. Come back to the office and let's talk about this, for fuck's sake."

"Yeah, ok - oh, shit -"

There was a loud, dull clanging noise, and Robin stood up, moving backwards as quickly as she dared. 

"Get out of there!"

"I'm going!" 

Robin hurried back towards the alleyway, followed by a cacophony of frenzied barking.

*

Robin had known that Strike wouldn't be pleased. But she'd expected rage and shouting; what she found was resignation and, if she wasn't mistaken, sadness. Her heart hammered in her chest as Strike gazed levelly at her from the sofa.

"I thought you were going to tell me your plans."

"I know. But I didn't know exactly when I was going, and this morning just seemed like -"

"Don't lie to me," he whispered throatily.

Robin felt his quiet sentence like a slap around the face. She felt her cheeks heat, and she waited a moment before she spoke again.

"Ok, you're right. I'm sorry."

The word hung heavily between them, and Strike cleared his throat.

"You know, you used to tell me what you were thinking, or doing. In terms of work, that is." Robin made to interrupt but Strike continued, his eyes fixed on the floor. "It's only since we've been together -"

"That's not why," interjected Robin.

"Isn't it?" He looked up at her. "So you're not worried that I'll disagree with you at work, so I'll somehow think less of you, and that will make things awkward with - us?"

Robin rocked her weight slowly from one foot to the other, anxiety warring with reason in her head. Spoken out loud, it seemed ridiculous.

"I admit I jumped to conclusions when I saw you with Matthew. You were so angry with me for not trusting you - but you were right! I fucked up. But then we worked it out, or at least I thought we did," said Strike. "But now here you are, not trusting me."

"This isn't about not tru -"

"Yeah, it is." Strike rubbed a hand across his forehead, discomfort clear on his face. "I understand how scary this is -"

Robin's eyes narrowed. "Don't patronise me."

"I'm not! I'm fucking scared too. Because I - this is new to me, as well. I've never had a work partner or colleague who I -"

He gestured widely into the space between them, trying to convey his meaning without words. Despite the tension, Robin almost wanted to laugh. From the grimace on his face, she might have force-fed him mushy peas.

"You do the same work as me, and I know the kind of situations I've found myself in. It fucking scares me that you might be in the same ones. Frankly, you've already been in worse. I don't know why you want to keep doing that to yourself -"

"You know that most days, I make it home perfectly safe," said Robin dryly.

"Yeah. But some days you haven't," said Strike, glaring at her, his forceful gaze piercing right through her. When he spoke again, his voice cracked.

"I think about that every fucking day," he said quietly.

"Cormoran," said Robin softly. She took a step closer, her chest constricting. That tiny, nagging, insecure part of her was still insisting that this was just a sop to her protests, that he was lying to her, that he was trying to confine her to the office because she was no good at the job - but she looked into his eyes, and finally, her heart knew that that wasn't the truth. 

"That's the only reason you try to stop me?" she murmured.

"Of course that's the only fucking reason, Robin. Otherwise… you're the best asset I've ever had."

Robin had heard him say it before. But today, with the weight of his affection behind it, she considered what it might actually mean.

"I should have told you," she admitted. "I should have kept you in the loop all along. I'm sorry I didn't."

Robin crossed the room towards him, smiling when Strike's eyes registered mild surprise. She approached the sofa tentatively, a peace offering: he turned towards her, and she perched herself gingerly by his side.

"I did worry that - that you might not value my opinion as much if I got it wrong."

Robin looked up at his face. He didn't speak; he just gazed at her softly, shaking his head.

"And I'm sorry I went there today -"

"No, you're not," grinned Strike. Robin looked at him for a beat, and then laughed.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you I was going there today."

"Okay, that I believe," said Strike. He was still smiling. "I know that the mad, risky stuff is necessary sometimes."

Robin raised her eyebrows, saying nothing. 

"But we'll do it together, okay?" 

"Okay."

Chapter Text

Strike and Robin strode together through the suburban streets, sounds of traffic waning as they headed further into the industrial estate.

"I still can't believe this," said Strike. "Dogs?"

"Yeah." Robin glanced over her shoulder and then crossed the empty road, Strike following. "It was the car that first made me suspicious. Dog owners are the only people I can think of who'd put grilles in to separate the boot and the back seat. And there was mud all along the bumper, but none on the tyres. It had to be from a dog's paws."

Strike hiked his rucksack up on his shoulder and picked up the pace. Robin was hurrying along, carrying her own rucksack; what she'd found in the warehouse had clearly incensed her, and while Strike would have preferred her to stay away entirely, he knew that wish was futile; he had to at least be glad that he'd insisted on coming too.

"What do you reckon, then? Puppy farm? Dog fighting ring?"

Robin winced; both ideas were horrifying.

"I don't think so. There were only two dogs, and they didn't seem well cared for. You'd think if she was breeding from them or making them fight, she'd want them healthier."

"Good point, as always," said Strike, and Robin felt a faint stab of annoyance that he seemed to be treating the dogs' predicament as a mildly interesting conundrum.

"I think they're guarding something else in there. They were right at the entrance. She's storing something she doesn't want anyone to find, so she puts the dogs out front, makes sure they're always hungry, and they're her first line of security."

The warehouse building loomed large in the distance, but the usual sound of lorries was thankfully absent. A week of surveillance along with a few surreptitious phone calls to suppliers had given the detectives a good idea of the delivery drivers' schedule, and they'd chosen late afternoon with privacy in mind.

"So how does Jade get past the dogs, then?" asked Strike. He knew virtually nothing about dog ownership, but he couldn't see a pair of lonely dogs making any distinction between strangers and an owner whose visits were sporadic and brief. Robin winced again.

"I don't know," she replied. Something about her tone made Strike glance at her; seeing her pinched face, he understood what she was thinking.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, and despite the bleakness of the situation, Robin was reassured to hear his distaste.

They approached the low wall, and Robin stopped in line with the scrubland she'd crossed on her previous visit. She looked back at Strike.

"You okay climbing over here?"

Strike nodded, and then stepped over the wall, rucksack swinging. Robin held out a hand as he pivoted on his real foot, and he used her to balance as he righted himself on the other side. Robin clambered over and they stood, facing each other, a brief moment of doubt passing over Strike's face. He chose his words carefully.

"If these dogs are here to deter people -"

"Yeah. They might be aggressive."

Strike fixed her with a level stare.

"And you're sure you can handle it?"

Robin stared back, steely focus in her blue eyes.

"I can handle it. If I can't, I'll back off straight away, I swear."

Strike disliked all of it: every cell in his body was screaming that this was a bad idea. He didn't doubt her theory, but he worried that Robin's anger was clouding her judgement. But he knew he couldn't stop her from going in, and his conscience wouldn't allow him to let her go alone.

"All right."

Robin nodded once, and then led the way towards the disused warehouse. Strike watched her as he followed, but he could see no tremble in her fingertips as she pushed open the broken door.

As his eyes adjusted to the dark interior, Strike began to see why Robin had become so angry. Two sad, emaciated Alsatians looked back at him, tied to the walls at either side of the room, their tethers just long enough to allow the dogs to cover the whole space between them. They barked ferociously as soon as they registered that they were not alone; but Strike thought that there was fear as well as hostility in the sound.

Robin started to speak. Strike couldn't hear the words, but her tone was soft, melodic; it was like she was crooning to a baby. She sat slowly on the floor, just out of the dogs' reach, while they strained to get at her. Strike itched to grab the ropes; what if they snapped? But Robin had been adamant that the dogs needed a gentle approach, and that she'd tamed her fair share of spooked horses; she'd made him promise not to interfere unless she asked.

Robin reached into her rucksack, still speaking quietly, and produced a plastic tub of cooked sausages. The barking amplified, and then stopped altogether as Robin threw the food at the dogs' feet. Mere seconds later, they were barking for more.

Robin kept feeding them: eventually, preoccupied by the meat, the first dog allowed her to approach. It mostly ignored her as she tied loops in its rope, shortening its lead and reducing its range. Robin refilled its water bowl and then dragged a familiar-looking blanket from her rucksack; Strike recognised it as the one they'd reclined on at the firework championships, but now he saw that Robin had cut it in two. As he watched her give half to the first dog and then cross the room to repeat the process with the other, for some reason, a lump rose in Strike's throat.

Ten minutes later, bags emptied of biscuits, Strike and Robin left the dogs and moved deeper into the warehouse. They passed shelves packed with tools, stacks of old furniture, and half a rusted car chassis; nothing seemed of particular interest. Strike's eyes darted back towards the entrance at the slightest sound; but the only things he could hear were the crunching sounds of teeth against kibble and the echo of their own footsteps in the cavernous space.

"There's nothing here," said Strike.

"There must be."

Robin's mouth was set in a grim line. If she was wrong about this, then two whole cases were wide open again; she'd alienated Olivia, she knew, and she'd drawn attention to herself in the gym. If her hunches about Jade turned out to be nothing more than wild and unfounded speculation, she would be left with no choice but to hand the cases over to someone else. The threat of humiliation spurred her on, and she told herself to keep looking. She overturned old buckets and shifted boxes with her foot. Strike stood a few feet away, examining the faded text on a pile of Haynes manuals. 

Robin wandered over to the back wall, where more tools hung on pegs along the brickwork. Light flared through holes in the steel roof, and Robin counted three birds' nests in the exposed rafters. She poked at the first in a series of black plastic storage boxes lined up along a wide workbench, assuming they would be, like everything else, covered in dust; but to her surprise, her fingertip came away clean.

"Strike," she murmured. She heard him drop the manual he'd been holding, and then the only sound was her own breathing.

"What have you found?" 

Strike walked over to her. Together they lifted the lids: the first plastic bin held bricks of greyish-white powder. The second was stuffed with cash. The third was full of handguns.

"Jesus Christ almighty," whispered Strike.

Robin pulled lids off more boxes; there were more underneath the table, and more stacked in a corner; suddenly, looking at the scene with fresh eyes, the nondescript black boxes seemed to be everywhere. Robin wondered just how much money was here, how much time this apparent empire had taken to build - and just how many lives had been ruined by the pursuit of money, and how many were scheduled for ruin with the next shipment.

"We need to call the police," said Strike. Robin rolled her eyes at the understatement. She bent over a pile of firearms; from her brief lesson at the range, she thought she could identify the safety catch on the top one. 

"Do you think they're stolen?"

"I don't know. Probably not. There's a black market for weapons wherever you go, but they'll be registered to someone. Police'll check all that."

He was already pulling out his phone. Robin reached out a hand, blocking a chink of bright light so she could read the side of a box of ammunition.

"I can't bloody see in here," said Strike, unlocking his phone. "Maybe we should - don't touch them!"

Robin pulled her hand back.

"I wasn't, I was looking at -"

She broke off, tension suddenly pounding in her chest: she'd heard a noise at the entrance. She focused, listening, but she couldn't hear anything, not even the dogs. She dropped her voice, whispering under her breath.

"Was that -"

The sound of sure footsteps cut through the silence, and then Jade Davenport was walking towards them, her gym-instructor friend right behind her. Robin swallowed as she registered the revolver, pointing steadily at her from Jade's outstretched arm.

Chapter Text

"Hello, Jade, is it?" said Strike, nodding at the short woman. His eyes slid up and back to the tall man standing behind her. "Nice to see you again, Mark. Those mobility problems not too troublesome today, then?"

Despite his casual tone, Strike's heart hammered. He shifted slightly, moving to position himself in front of Robin. Jade's eyes followed his movement. 

"What?" asked Robin. "You know him?"

"Yeah, he's the one who called about surveillance on Olivia. Do you?"

The man smiled, and Strike found himself repelled by the creeping oiliness of his smirk.

"We've had the pleasure of meeting a couple of times, haven't we, darling?"

"He's the gym guy," said Robin. "He's… a Greek god."

A split second of surprise, and then Strike suddenly remembered his own comment months ago, on their night on the sprawling heath: "most people in ancient mythology are dicks, on some level." Mark attempted a look of polite surprise, but he failed to cover his self-satisfaction at what he thought was a compliment to his looks; Strike had a sudden urge to laugh, and he had to fight to keep his face impassive. He sneaked a curious look at Robin; she was glaring at Jade, giving nothing away. Mark stepped out from behind Jade and addressed Strike.

"I saw your friend the first time she wandered into my gym, pretending to sign up to spinning class. Forgive me for saying so, but your recruitment needs work," he said with another smirk. He wrinkled his nose and stage-whispered. "She's a bit obvious."

Strike shrugged.

"Well, that wasn't the first time she'd been to the gym, so she's not doing too badly in my book."

"Really?" Mark laughed. "Let me show you something. I told you that I was terrible at technology, didn't I? Have you ever noticed that when someone says they're terrible at something, they're nearly always being modest? This whole place is covered in CCTV, and here she is, sneaking around in broad daylight."

Mark held his phone up so that the partners could see. Robin cringed as she watched her grainy self approach the warehouse, peer tentatively around the doors, and then back off, horrified, as her phone rang in the emptiness. She felt Strike's eyes burning into the side of her head, but she refused to look at him.

"We wouldn't have known about the dogs," she muttered. "We wouldn't have known about all this stuff in here."

Strike knew she was right; there had been no other choice. If they'd called the police with no evidence of criminality at all… the police would have laughed, and the goods would have been gone.

"Well, now that you know, what are you going to do with the information?"

Jade's voice, echoing around the empty space for the first time, was surprisingly calm. Robin wondered how many times she'd used that revolver in her hand.

"You've been a pain in my neck for weeks," said Jade, addressing Robin. "I thought you might be a cop, but you weren't smart enough. You hadn't got a clue what I was doing, or what I was talking about at that inane bloody class."

"I knew you were the same person, almost straight away," said Robin quietly.

Jade laughed. "How?"

"I wear wigs myself. Yours is better quality than mine, but you're terrible at putting it on."

"Robin," hissed Strike.

"Your parting kept shifting," said Robin, her voice growing bolder. "You also told me you were a smoker, but you'd clearly never smoked. Your hands are immaculate. Clearly, you get him to shift all these boxes for you." She indicated the black plastic bins behind her.

"Does it matter?" said Jade, narrowing her eyes at Robin. "I was serious when I spoke about doing everything I can to get ahead. I'll do whatever it takes to keep my business running, including getting rid of you two. Do you think you're the only people who've ever got in my way?"

A gust of wind whistled through one of the gaps in the roof, and Strike turned his head to glance at Robin. She was looking steadfastly back at Jade, her hands behind her back, her stance calm and ready. Options flew through Strike's mind; could they get out? Could he count on her help?

"Now, why don't you hand me that phone so that I can check you've not called in some actual detectives?" said Jade, and she held out her other hand, palm up, for the phone Strike was still clutching.

Robin watched as Strike raised his hand, lifting the phone slowly into plain view. Mark stepped forward to take the phone, and Robin was disappointed to see its blank screen as it was whipped away.

"And now yours," said Jade, her voice almost bored.

"No," replied Robin.

Strike froze in front of her. 

"Excuse me?"

"I'm not giving you my phone."

Robin swallowed, her heart in her mouth.

"Give her the fucking phone, Robin," said Strike. He was finally looking at her, his expression incredulous.

Robin stepped out from behind Strike, and Jade pointed the gun straight at her. Robin shoved Strike's protective arm away as she spoke, anger spiking through her voice. 

"I'm not giving you anything. You're a sick woman, exploiting people like this, and treating those poor dogs that way!"

"Robin!"

"You'd better believe that I knew what you were up to, and I'll do everything I can to make sure you're locked up for a very long time."

Jade laughed, but Robin ignored her; her voice was high and loud.

"We've already called the police and you can believe that or not, but you're not getting away with doing that to a defenceless -"

"Robin, we can debate animal rights another time, do you want a bullet in the head?" bellowed Strike.

Robin turned to face him. 

"You stay out of it!" she screeched. From the corner of her eye, she saw Jade and Mark exchange glances. "I'm talking to Kylie. You can talk to him. Do you understand me?"

For a split second, they stared at each other, their thoughts spiralling together amidst the adrenaline. Come on, Strike. Hear what I'm saying.

Trust me.

"Give me the damn phone, Robin," said Strike loudly.

A few feet away, Jade's soft voice said, "Kylie? Who the fuck is Kylie?"

As she turned away to look at her comrade, who gave a puzzled shrug, Robin threw the object in her hand to Strike, who caught it deftly; there was a flash of metal as he aimed it at Mark. Jade realised her mistake too late; as she wheeled around, Robin's other hand flew forward with a second gun, and the detectives shot together.

The gunshots set off a round of frenzied barking. Robin hurried forward to seize Strike's phone, cracked from its fall to the hard stone ground. Jade made a faint sound of dismay, her eyes staring up at the figure now tying her wrists and pressing a wad of fabric against the bullet wound in her shoulder. Mark made no sound.

Strike stood for a second, his mind overwhelmed, staring at the empty ammunition box, lying on the floor where Robin had been standing just a second earlier.

Chapter Text

The weather was fast becoming icy. Mere hours had turned the streets to dullened steel; the skies and pavements were covered in gunmetal grey, and not even a hint of warmth was left in the London air.

Inside New Scotland Yard, Strike and Robin sat side by side at a wide plastic table, faced by a pair of detectives, the more senior poised with a pen in his hand, listening with increasing disbelief. Robin had been speaking for ten minutes, explaining their first introduction to their mysterious client, and the confusing web of events that had happened since. Strike looked around the little room, occasionally fixing the police detective with a pointed glare when the man asked a question Strike felt was impertinent. 

"So, let's revisit the first time you went to the warehouse, Ms Ellacott."

Strike glanced sideways at Robin. She was looking straight ahead, as focused as ever. Strike wondered when she would finally look at him.

"I saw the dogs. They barked and lunged at me, as you can imagine, and then Mr Strike called me. I backed away, and then I left. You can see it all on the CCTV."

"Yes," said the detective, scratching his chin. "But why didn't you call the police at that time?"

"DS Wyatt, I had no evidence whatsoever. I didn't even have anything that could be considered a reasonable suspicion."

DS Wyatt's eyebrows shot up. Strike smirked.

"I had a handful of inklings. I've had past experience that tells me you wouldn't take kindly to my hunches," said Robin firmly.

Wyatt had the grace to look embarrassed. 

"I wanted to go back to make sure, and as it turned out, I was right. She's buying and selling stolen goods on a pretty big scale. And she's treating those dogs appallingly."

Strike looked at Robin again, and this time, fleetingly, she caught his eye. She'd explained, in the hurried conversation they'd had between calling the police and being hauled in for interview, that her concern for the animals' welfare hadn't only been a decoy; she really did detest anyone who mistreated a pet. Strike had almost laughed; it was like her to focus on what he would consider a peripheral issue, but to Robin was an important mark of character. Relieved that the ordeal was over without either of them getting hurt, Strike had held her hand in the back of the police car.

"Ms Ellacott, the dogs have been taken to a rehabilitation unit run by the RSPCA," said Wyatt. "In a couple of weeks, all being well, they'll start trying to re-home them."

"Thank you."

"What I don't understand -" Wyatt glanced at his colleague, who looked almost bored, "- is how you knew that Jade Davenport and Olivia Lindsay were the same person?"

"Well, there were a few reasons, but the main one was the names she chose. It's easier to choose an alias that's close to your own name, or something that's familiar to you. I often use -"

Strike saw a tiny spot of pink appear on Robin's cheek. As though she could feel him looking, she shook her head infinitesimally, and Strike knew she didn't want to share her middle name with DS Wyatt. Strike grinned.

"Anyway, that doesn't matter. Jade and Olivia - jade and olive are both shades of green, you see?"

"Okay," said Wyatt, unconvinced.

"It's a link," snapped Robin. "As I said, there were other reasons."

"You've been quiet, Mr Strike," said Wyatt's colleague suddenly. The man had been introduced as DC Fairclough but had so far remained silent. "What do you think about all this?"

"What do I think?" said Strike, fixing his gaze on the more junior detective. "I think we've brought you evidence of a stolen goods operation, along with names and addresses of almost everyone involved, and we've given you a detailed explanation of our involvement. We've apprehended your suspects -"

"Neither of whom have been seriously injured, by the way."

"- and we've even saved some dogs. Now I want a cigarette and a beer, and maybe a hot shower. So unless there's anything else, I'd quite like to leave now. That's what I think."

Robin's head turned slowly towards his, and Strike said nothing as he met her gaze. She looked as though she was fighting a smile, and Strike would have given anything to be able to read her thoughts.

Wyatt gathered up his notes and stuffed them into a slim leather case.

"All right, that's about enough for now. You're right, you've given us the details we've asked for. But I might need to question you again, once we've sorted through some of this evidence."

Robin murmured, "of course," and Strike nodded.

"So for now," Wyatt stood and reached out a hand towards Robin, "thank you for your help, Ms Ellacott."

"No problem," replied Robin quietly, shaking hands.

The men shook hands, and then Strike and Robin left the building, emerging into chilly daylight, Robin wrapping her arms around herself, wishing she had a coat. Strike looked down at her.

"Impressive," he said.

"What?"

By unspoken agreement, they crossed over the road, to where an RAF memorial sat on the riverside. They started walking up the embankment, no clear destination in mind. "I think you handled him well."

"Did I?" asked Robin. Her arm brushed against Strike's as they walked, and she saw his eyes flick down at her and then back up again. "Nothing to be handled, really. I was just telling our side of the story."

"No, but you batted his questions back like a pro. Which you are, obviously."

He grinned at her, and his eyes sparkled. She couldn't help but smile back.

"So, shades of green, eh?" he said quietly. It was something that, in the confusion of events leading up to today, she hadn't told him. He tried not to let it bother him. They'd already discussed this. It was water under the bridge.

"Yep. And Denbigh, too."

"Denbigh?"

"Yeah, from Mark's email address. It's a town in Wales, which obviously had no significance, but it's also a street in Pimlico. Right where Jade lives. We thought all along that George was obsessed with Jade, but I'd hazard a guess that actually, Mark's the one in love with her."

"Well, what does it matter, anyway? They're both going to jail," said Strike.

"They're made for each other."

Strike snorted.

"And on the subject of Mark," said Robin, stopping.

Strike halted abruptly and pivoted; she'd turned to face him squarely in the middle of the path. A sightseeing boat floated slowly along behind her, and Strike waited until it had passed before saying, "yeah?"

"You should never take on a client without me seeing them, too. I'd have figured this out sooner if -"

"Hang on, what happened to my two minutes to enjoy not being dead, before you start?"

Robin laughed. "That's different."

"Why?"

"I don't know," she said, smiling.

"Some advice in exchange," murmured Strike, taking a step towards her. Robin's chin lifted, and suddenly she was looking into his eyes with a lump in her throat. The day had been a whirlwind of adrenaline and doubt, and now she wanted him, needed him, to be her anchor. His eyes melted into hers.

"If you don't want people to know your middle name," he said softly, "keep it off your next wedding invitation."

Robin just about managed to mumble, "oh, shut up," before Strike wrapped an arm around her back, pushed the other up into her hair, and kissed her.

*

"Don't tell me," said Robin. "Late?"

"Yeah," said Strike. He tried not to pant too much as he walked, but the cold weather always exacerbated the pain in his knee, and he was finding it difficult to pretend. Robin rarely commented, but he knew that she noticed, and for various reasons, he would prefer her to think of him as able-bodied and virile.

"I'm still on Travolta. He's not done anything dodgy yet."

"Shame. At least there's that bench to sit on, opposite his house," said Robin.

"He's not at home, that's why I'm still on him. He's buggered off to some trendy bar. I'm just following him until I see who he's meeting, and then I'll clock off."

"Anything I can do to help?"

Strike grinned. How many times, to how many women, had he made this phone call? Over the years he'd received a myriad of responses, from graceful acceptance to screaming abuse, but he'd never before been in a position to share the load, or even to expect an offer of help. He felt a sudden surge of warmth towards Robin.

"No, it's fine. But thanks. I should only be an hour, tops, depending on the tube."

"All right. I'll see you then."

"See you," said Strike, and he hung up, trying to refocus on his unknowing target, who'd just slowed in front of a heaving bar and pulled out his own phone. Strike backed into a doorway and activated his camera, waiting.

*

Robin had decided to spend her extra hour cleaning. Despite the ordeal of being held at gunpoint just two weeks ago, she and Strike had decided to keep working at their usual pace. They both found solace in keeping busy, and at any rate, the case wasn't closed; George was away visiting his sick mother and couldn't find time to meet with them for yet another week. Robin figured that maybe they'd take some leave after that, when they could finally say that all the loose ends had been tied up.

As a result, Robin had found little time to keep on top of housework, and barely any to see Strike. They'd both been so busy with surveillance shifts that this was only the second evening they'd managed to carve out to spend together since their interview in New Scotland Yard. Robin spent ten minutes wistfully reminiscing on the first of those evenings, on which they'd spent a thoroughly pleasant few hours drinking whisky in the West End, kissing across the table like teenagers, laughing at disapproving looks from stern theatregoers. 

Jolting herself out of her reverie, Robin grabbed a cloth and filled the sink with hot, soapy water. But it soon transpired that there wasn't much to do; Max was a scrupulously clean housemate. She washed the few dishes that were on the counter, and five minutes later, she heard the front door opening.

"It's me," called Strike from the hall. Robin swung around and looked at the clock, frowning.

"That was quick," she called back.

"I know," said Strike, and his uneven gait preceded his entrance into the kitchen. He gave her a lopsided smile and pulled off his coat, draping it over the back of a dining chair.

"Did you find out who - oh!"

Strike crossed the room in two big strides, grabbed Robin by the hips, and lifted her. He boosted her up onto the kitchen counter, his elbow knocking the cups from the draining board and back into the soapy water. Robin giggled as water splashed up and onto them both, and she wiped suds from Strike's cheek, watching mischief dance in his eyes. He kissed her, his lips pressing into hers for a lingering minute, and she was breathless when he pulled away.

"I didn't want to wait any longer, so I left. Got a taxi."

"That's not like you," said Robin playfully. "You've usually got iron-clad focus."

"Yeah, well, it's your fault."

Strike dropped his head to Robin's shoulder and traced tiny spirals there with his tongue. Her head fell back as she sighed, and Strike's big hand cradled her head, his mouth moving decadently up the side of her neck. Robin moaned quietly. 

"Max is in his room," she whispered.

"Be quiet, then," said Strike wickedly. 

Robin swatted him on the arm, and Strike laughed into her skin. His fingers tangled into her hair and he turned her head gently, his lips ghosting over her jawline and across to her ear. Robin gripped his biceps, her eyes closed, tiny gasps spilling from her lips.

"Robin," said Strike in her ear.

"Hmmm."

"I love you, you know."

Chapter Text

Soft light slanted through the gap in the curtains. Robin lifted her head, one eye screwed shut, and looked around the familiar room. Her jeans and jacket were on a hook on the back of the door, her phone and keys on the bedside table.

Her partner was curled up beside her.

In the time since Strike had told Robin that he loved her, they hadn't spent a single night apart. Robin knew that she needed to go home eventually, that this wasn't sustainable so soon; but Strike hadn't shown any displeasure, so Robin had happily stayed, telling herself each night that one more wouldn't hurt.

Each night they discussed cases over dinner, sharing evidence and swapping theories. Robin supposed that most people would advise them to leave work at the office, but she knew different: work tied them together, and their relationship didn't dim their shared passion. Robin felt a rush of belonging whenever she brought up a case that was playing on her mind, only to find that it was lingering in Strike's too. 

Robin propped herself up on her elbow. Strike was on his side, one arm stretched out underneath his head, one leg bent towards her. Robin watched his broad chest rise and fall, wondering what was on his mind now, and whether he might be dreaming of her. She sighed. She could live without dreams if real life would always be like this.

"Morning," mumbled Strike.

"Good morning."

Strike opened his eyes. He draped an arm across Robin's waist, smiling as his fingers stroked her hip, teasing early-morning feelings out of Robin that she hadn't thought possible before these last few weeks.

"You were doing it again," said Strike.

"What?"

"Looking at me."

Robin laughed softly. "Sorry." 

"Don't apologise." Strike grinned.

He leaned in, and sweet anticipation wiped Robin's mind blank. Strike's mouth touched hers with the softness of silk, and she closed her eyes, letting his lips caress her senses.

"Cormoran," she whispered against him.

"Listen," he said. "We had a good run of interesting dates. If you want to carry on with them, I've got a plan."

He ran a finger idly down her arm, his thigh nudging between hers. Robin tried to concentrate on what he was saying, but his proximity was distracting. She inched herself closer, her toes brushing his leg. 

"You'll need trainers, and something warm. We can get breakfast and be out in an hour -"

"Cormoran," said Robin, a little louder.

"What?"

"That sounds great, but -"

Robin wrapped a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer. He took the hint and rolled, covering her with his torso, his arm braced by her shoulder. Robin looked up at him, inhaling his scent, her hand drifting down the planes of his back. She loved his brain; she loved hearing his thoughts and ideas, and knowing that he'd made plans for her made her skin tingle. But right now, she needed him to shut up.

"Later, okay?" she whispered.

Strike smiled again, a hint of sinfulness touching his eyes. Heat spread deliciously through Robin's veins.

"Okay."

*

"I don't understand," said George, naked shock on his face. "Is it work-related misconduct?"

"No. I'm afraid she's been buying and selling drugs and weapons, alongside people she knew from the gym. The good news is that your instincts were good," said Robin, smiling encouragingly. "You thought there was something off, and you were right."

George didn't smile; his eyes darted around the room as though looking for evidence of trickery.

"The bad news, as you might have gathered," said Robin cautiously, "is that you've probably been laundering her money for her."

George's face moved slowly from white to puce.

"Well - I certainly - I hope you're not suggesting -"

Strike raised a big hand, cutting him off.

"If it comes to it, we'll testify that you had no idea. But that's why she was keen to maintain contact; to keep you sweet so you wouldn't ask questions about her invoices. She wanted you to think she was offering you lower prices because of your relationship, and she hid official correspondence amongst personal messages so you wouldn't query any missing paperwork."

"That is - it's -"

"I know," said Strike sympathetically. "She manipulated you, and I'm sorry. But as Robin says, your intuition was very good."

George exhaled roughly and spoke to the floor.

"I knew there was something fishy going on when she said - she liked me, she wanted to see more of me."

Robin and Strike avoided looking at each other.

"It didn't make sense. She's her and I'm, well, me," said George, shrugging.

"I wouldn't put any value in that," said Strike brusquely. "She's a drug dealer and an animal abuser, and you're clearly smarter than her - she's in jail because you saw through her. Looks aren't everything."

"I suppose that's true."

"I'll keep you posted on the case against her, if you like, but I'll be honest: there's a good chance you'll have to give evidence, and I'd advise you to get a lawyer before that happens."

"You think charges may be brought against me?"

"It depends on what she tells the police, but it's a possibility."

Strike gave a brief explanation of what he expected to happen next, until finally George stood to leave. His face had almost returned to its normal colour by the time he had shaken hands and left the office. Strike and Robin waited until the outer door had closed before they sighed heavily, leaning back in their chairs.

"He took it better than I thought he would," said Strike.

"Yeah," mused Robin. "You handled it well."

Strike looked at her, eyes sparkling.

"Clients often seem to think they've hired a detective and an agony aunt all in one."

"Well, you were great. You could retrain," teased Robin, and Strike laughed.

"So could he," said Strike, nodding at the chair George had vacated. "Hard worker, doesn't give us much grief, and can see through a lie like Mystic Meg? We should offer him a job."

Robin laughed, and Strike took her hand, grinning. He pulled it up to his lips and kissed her palm, his stubble tickling her wrist.

"Now, about that date…"

*

Robin sat on her sofa, the paper clamped in her hand, wondering whether to laugh or cry. She grabbed her phone, then changed her mind and tossed it aside. She'd call him in a minute; she wanted to read the letter one more time.

Dear Ms Ellacott,

I hope I find you well. We spoke previously regarding our proposition to interview your colleague for the magazine. You kindly provided his details but unfortunately, Mr Strike declined to participate. I am contacting you now because, as I'm sure you're aware, he has been in touch to explain that he is now interested, under certain conditions.

His main condition is that we also feature you. I apologise for my oversight, but we were not previously aware of your work. Mr Strike sent us several reports of your achievements and explained your progression from novice to accomplished detective in a very short time, with no prior experience. We believe your story would fit well in our inspirational women series, and so, if you are agreeable, we would like to interview you.

Mr Strike suggested that, in lieu of his fee, we support a women's charity. While the charities we support are normally subject to a strict selection process, this suggestion complements our equality vision: we have pledged to spend £4 million on providing opportunities for women in business by 2020. Therefore, subject to directorial agreement, we would like to set up a scholarship in your name for two female students per year, to facilitate their joining the police or other investigative careers. 

You should know that Mr Strike instructed me quite firmly that his participation is dependent on your agreement. Therefore, if you are interested, please contact me at your earliest convenience, and I will be happy to discuss further.

With warm regards,

Emma Keenan

Features Editor

Time Magazine