Page 126 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

… we shall be

But closer linked—two creatures whom the earth

Bears singly—with strange feelings, unrevealed

But to each other…

Robert Browning Pauline

The Old Forge’s kitchen contained an Aga set into a brick wall, and had enough seating for eight people. Wooden model lighthouses stood on the window sills, but the depth of the darkness outside obscured any view of coast or sea.

Robin had been cooking and drinking wine for ten minutes when her mobile buzzed and she guessed it was going to be Murphy. Taking her carbonara sauce off the heat, she reached for it and read:

Maybe this is insecurity, but it’s the truth.

You say you love me, but I feel like you withhold part of yourself from me.

Sometimes I even feel like you’re humouring me.

I’ve felt all along like I’m dragging you into living together, but I can’t remember you ever showing real enthusiasm for it and when I told you we’d been gazumped, I couldn’t hear any disappointment.

What you said about the baby earlier: you’re wrong. It isn’t that I want you to act like I think women should act, it’s that you’ve never once acknowledged that it was our kid you lost. I’ve felt like I can’t show any sadness about the baby because it’ll make you feel pressured.

There’s a distance between us sometimes and I don’t know if that’s just who you are, and this is how you love, or whether you’re fooling both of us about what you really feel. And if it’s the second one, I’d rather know now.

Robin stood staring at this message, so shocked she was only recalled to her surroundings when she realised the cheese sauce was starting to spit in the pan, and turned hastily back to attend to it.

Cold waves of panic and fear were breaking over her.

So Murphy knew… what? She loved him, didn’t she?

Yes, she thought – knew – she did. But he’d sensed…

Strike entered the kitchen, still leaning on his stick but feeling better for having showered, his wet hair looking little different than it usually did.

‘Smells great,’ he said, and he set about laying the smaller of the two tables in the room.

‘How’s the face?’ asked Robin.

‘Had worse,’ grunted Strike.

‘There are alcohol wipes at the bottom of the bag if you need them.’

When she’d tipped the spaghetti into a large dish and placed it on the table, Robin said,

‘Give me a mo – dig in, don’t wait,’ and headed out into the hall, picked up her holdall and took it upstairs, choosing the nearest bedroom at random, which was decorated in yellow and contained three beds, including a double: designed, as she dimly registered, for a family…

Sitting on the bed, she read Murphy’s message again, then typed out her answer, sentence by painful sentence.

You know I love you.

Did she, though? Really? Trying to tamp down yet another upsurge of anxiety and guilt Robin continued,

I don’t know what you mean about distance.

Didn’t she? Perhaps she did – but wouldn’t any couple be feeling some strain, after her long stay at Chapman Farm, Murphy’s terrible shooting case, the hassle of house hunting, and, of course, the ectopic pregnancy?

Robin typed on:

I was sad about the baby, I’ve cried about it, but finding out I can’t have kids naturally was horrible.

I’m still processing it, and you pressuring me to talk about it, and make decisions about my eggs, isn’t helping.

Please understand that I need time to get my head around what happened and what I’m going to do next.

That, at least, was honest.

Can we please talk about this properly once I’m home? I’m with Strike, we’re still working, and I can’t have a conversation about this without him hearing.

She hesitated, reminding herself of the good times she’d had with Murphy. She knew him to be a good, kind man, didn’t she? So she ended:

I really do love you xxxxx

She pressed send, feeling a hollowness that had nothing to do with hunger. Her phone buzzed; she was afraid of what she was about to read, but looking down, saw only another text from Wynn Jones.

So is the only way I get to speak to you being interviewed?

Yes , Robin texted back automatically. Then, not wanting to stay upstairs for too long in case Strike asked whether everything was all right, she headed back down the wooden staircase.

‘Sorry,’ said Strike as she walked back into the kitchen, his mouth full of spaghetti, ‘starving.’

‘It’s fine, I told you not to wait,’ said Robin, with forced cheeriness, topping up her wine glass. ‘I think I’m getting close to talking to Wynn Jones. He’s just texted me again.’

Strike swallowed.

‘Great. This is fantastic, by the way.’

‘Good,’ said Robin, sitting down opposite him.

‘So, did you find out how Dirk is?’

‘Wh – oh, my nephew? Yes,’ said Robin, who had indeed called her mother on the way to the supermarket that afternoon. ‘They’re happy with him. They’re still hopeful his palsy thing will clear up.’

‘What was the issue?’

‘It was a difficult birth,’ said Robin. A lump seemed to have lodged in her throat again. You’ve been left with quite a lot of damage… She took another swig of wine. ‘His nerves were torn, and he was premature, as well.’ The embryo couldn’t get past the scarring, you see…

‘Smaller than the eleven-pounder, then?’

‘Much,’ said Robin with difficulty, remembering the bumpy ride on the gurney, and the icy feeling of the ultrasound wand.

Strike took another large mouthful of spaghetti.

Notwithstanding the throbbing of his face and leg, he knew that the moment was fast approaching when he was going to tell her he loved her.

What was required now was a bit of easy conversation, hopefully involving a few laughs, and more wine, to loosen inhibitions.

He might initiate a bit of subtle probing about the state of her relationship with Murphy, and then…

‘So, from what you’ve seen, would you fancy living on Sark?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know,’ said Robin, who was having difficulty dispelling thoughts of Murphy’s text, and finding it hard to swallow her pasta, because of the lump in her throat. ‘It’s very pretty.’

‘I thought we’d see more horses.’

‘They probably only get the carts out in summer,’ said Robin. ‘For tourists.’

‘Yeah. I’d be all right if they let me have my own tractor, but—’

Strike suddenly realised, to his great consternation, that Robin was crying, though trying to conceal the fact. He swallowed hastily.

‘What’ve I—?’

‘It’s nothing, it’s not you,’ said Robin in a high-pitched voice. She got to her feet, stumbled towards the kitchen roll and tore off a few sheets. ‘Ignore me, just ignore me, I’m sorry.’

‘Why—?’

‘It’s n-nothing,’ said Robin again, leaning up against the side, but she couldn’t stop crying.

‘Don’t give me that, what—?’

‘I… lost a baby.’

‘ What? ’ said Strike, horror-struck.

Unable to keep it in any longer, unable to pretend, unable to cope alone with the burden of her own confusion and guilt, Robin blundered back to the table, sat down, and told the short and brutal story of her accidental pregnancy, through sobs.

‘Shit,’ said Strike. ‘I’m… sorry.’

He had no idea what else to say. He didn’t know what this meant, for Robin or for her relationship, didn’t know whether she was mourning the loss of the child, whether she’d wanted the baby. He watched helplessly as Robin fought unsuccessfully to regain control of herself.

‘I don’t know why I’m so – oh God .’

Unable to stop herself crying, she slumped forwards on the table, just as Danny de Leon had done earlier, face hidden in her arms, her hair falling into her plate of spaghetti.

Her loyalty to Murphy mingled with her conflicted feelings about the text he’d just sent her, and she was battling a powerful urge to let out the things she hadn’t dared say to any other human being.

Strike could think of nothing to do except reach across the table and lay a large hand on her shoulder while she cried. He’d rarely been at such a loss, or so afraid of saying the wrong thing.

‘Did you… want it?’

‘No,’ said Robin, her voice halfway between a squeak and a moan. ‘It was a complete accident. I didn’t even know – until it was all – all over… oh God, I’m sorry…’

‘Stop apologising,’ said Strike. In his total ignorance of what might be involved in ectopic pregnancy, he said, ‘What… how long were you in hospital?’

‘Only a couple of nights,’ said Robin, raising her wet face, still trying to regain control.

‘It wasn’t a big – not a big deal. It’s just that it happened because…

the rapist… when I was nineteen… he gave me an infection and that’s why I can’t…

I don’t know why I’m doing this!’ she said a little hysterically, as more unquenchable tears fell, and she frantically wiped her face.

‘Does Murphy – Ryan—?’

‘He’s been great, but he really wants kids.’ Robin blew her nose on the kitchen roll, then took a deep breath. ‘I can’t fault him, he says he wants me, whether or not I can have them, and he’s been really kind since it happened…’

‘Good,’ Strike forced himself to say, although it was possibly the most insincere monosyllable that had ever passed his lips. ‘’Course,’ he added, ‘he’s not stupid. He knows he won’t ever find anyone like you again.’

‘Thank you,’ Robin mumbled, mopping her eyes with her left hand, but her right found Strike’s, and squeezed it.

‘And by the sounds of it,’ said Strike, ‘you could still – if you wanted—’