Page 13 of The Hallmarked Man (Cormoran Strike #8)

If you would have me better for your love,

Revert no more to these sad themes.

Robert Browning Paracelsus

At eight o’clock that evening, Robin’s doorbell sounded.

‘Hi,’ said Murphy’s voice over the intercom. ‘I’ve got chips.’

‘Oh, wonderful, I’m starving,’ said Robin, and she buzzed him inside.

‘Fuck’s sake,’ were Murphy’s first words after stepping over the threshold and kissing Robin hello. He was glaring at the ceiling, through which the upstairs neighbour’s music was still pounding. ‘Want me to go up there and tell him to knock it off?’

‘There’s no point,’ said Robin. ‘He turns it down for twenty minutes then it starts creeping up again. He thinks people won’t notice as long as he does it gradually.’

‘Twat… Sit down. We only need knives and forks, I’ve brought drinks.’

‘Ryan, this is lovely, thank you,’ said Robin five minutes later, once both were eating their fish and chips off their laps, a can of zero-alcohol beer and a Diet Coke on the coffee table. ‘How’re things at work?’

‘Same,’ said Murphy, clearly disinclined to go into the complexities of the gang shooting case. ‘How’re you feeling?’

‘A lot better,’ said Robin, who hoped that if she said it often enough, she’d start believing it.

They ate without talking for a few minutes, until Robin said,

‘Listen, d’you know anything about a murder that happened while I was at Chapman Farm, the one they thought was masonic?’

‘What, the body in the silver shop?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Yeah, an armed robber got bumped off,’ said Murphy through a mouthful of cod. He swallowed. ‘Alternatively, a male prostitute got murdered by the shop owner, who panicked and chucked the body in the vault because he couldn’t think what else to do with it.’

‘Was that an actual theory?’ said Robin, freezing with a chip halfway to her mouth.

‘Probably a joke. You know what it’s like. The dead guy was naked and fake tanned.’

‘You know someone who was on the case?’

‘Yeah. Why?’

‘Strike met a woman yesterday who’s convinced the man in the vault was really her boyfriend.’

‘She the type to date armed robbers?’

‘I wouldn’t think so. She’s quite posh, I think. Her boyfriend was a waiter – a posh waiter. We’re trying to find out for her whether it was ever confirmed beyond doubt that the man in the vault really was that armed robber.’

‘As far as I know, they’re happy with the ID,’ said Murphy.

‘A hundred per cent happy?’

‘Dunno,’ said Murphy. ‘Why? Strike fancies showing up the Met again, does he?’

‘What?’

Murphy reached for his no-alcohol beer and took a swig.

‘People have lost their careers after Strike’s come meddling, you know.’

‘Who?’ said Robin sharply. ‘Roy Carver, you mean? Strike tried to give him the solution and he wouldn’t listen. And if you’re going to blame the agency for solving things the police didn’t, you should be blaming me, too.’

Murphy ate a few more chips before saying,

‘The coppers who keep feeding Strike information aren’t winning many friends at work, I can tell you that. Eric Wardle ought to think about that, next time he accepts a free curry.’

‘We’ve given Wardle plenty of stuff in return,’ said Robin. ‘It’s been a two-way street, you know.’

She refrained from pointing out that Strike had handed Murphy the kudos of arresting a killer just a couple of months previously, and that the agency had given Murphy material assistance in another case.

She couldn’t help suspecting that the continuing coverage of the successful investigation of the UHC, versus Murphy’s so far unsuccessful attempts to catch the shooter of the two young boys, was exacerbating her boyfriend’s resentment.

They ate for a few more minutes, the only sound the pounding of the bass from upstairs.

‘Sorry,’ said Murphy abruptly. ‘Just not enjoying all the slagging off we’re getting in the press.’

He drained his can of beer and said,

‘How’s that Cochran woman settling in?’

‘Well,’ said Robin. Too well.

‘She had quite the rep at work, I hear.’

Robin really wasn’t in any mood to hear what a wonderful detective Kim had been, so she changed the subject to US president-elect Donald Trump’s latest public pronouncements on the subject of whether or not he’d pursue the imprisonment of his defeated opponent, Hillary Clinton.

There was one thing to be said for Trump’s shock election triumph, thought Robin: it always gave you something to talk about, if you wanted to avoid other, trickier, subjects.

After they’d finished eating, Murphy took the cutlery through to the kitchen and washed them up, instructing Robin to remain where she was, then returned with coffees. Seeing his tentative expression as he sat down again, Robin felt a prickle of dread.

‘So… how’re you feeling about…?’

‘I told you, a lot better. I’ll definitely be good to go back to work on Wednesday.’

‘I didn’t mean physically.’

Robin, who’d known exactly what Murphy had meant, said,

‘Well, I’m glad to be out of hospital, obviously… Mum just called me, by the way. They had to put Rowntree down. His liver packed up.’

‘Shit,’ said Murphy. ‘I’m sorry.’

Robin, who’d mentioned Rowntree’s death purely to change the subject, found herself temporarily unable to speak. Her throat had contracted and she was afraid she was going to cry, not least because she could tell Murphy wasn’t going to be deflected from what he really wanted to talk about.

‘Can’t we discuss it?’ he said quietly.

‘Discuss what?’ Robin said with difficulty.

‘What the doctor said.’

‘I told you, I’ve restarted the pill.’

‘No, not that. About freezing your eggs.’

‘I haven’t thought about it,’ said Robin.

‘Don’t you think it might be a good idea? To be on the safe side?’

‘What safe side?’ said Robin, her voice suddenly ragged. ‘I’ve looked up what it involves. You have to be pumped full of hormones and go under a general anaesthetic, and sometimes you have to do it multiple times, if they don’t get enough eggs, or they aren’t viable.’

‘Why wouldn’t they be viable? You’re only thirty-two.’

Shocked by her own anger, Robin was avoiding eye contact again. Don’t cry.

‘I feel like you’re blaming me,’ said Murphy.

‘I’m not blaming you, I just – you’re talking about egg freezing as though it’s nipping down to the shops. It isn’t. It’s invasive and time intensive, I might need time off work—’

‘Can you not forget about work for two minutes?’

‘That’s rich coming from you! You’ve been working round the clock lately!’

‘I’m sorry I’ve left you alone today – d’you think I wanted to? You were the one who didn’t want your parents to know!’

‘This isn’t about being left alone, I’m fine on my own, I’m just pointing out it’s apparently OK for you to put work first, but not me!’

‘That’s different, I’ve got to do what I do—’

‘Someone put a gun to your head and made you join the police, did they?’

‘Come on, you know what I mean!’

‘Yes, that my work’s so trivial it doesn’t matter if I don’t turn—’

‘I never said it was trivial!’

‘You want me to “forget about work”. Well, I don’t want to forget about it. I happen to love my work, and I’m also damn good at it,’ Robin added, in a shaking voice.

‘Bloody hell, I know you are! I’m just asking you to put yourself first for a bit!’

‘No, you’re asking me to put my eggs first. My eggs and I are not the same thing.’

A silence followed.

‘I’m trying to tell you,’ said Murphy, at last, ‘that if you want to do the egg thing, I’d support you through it, I’d be with you—’

‘What d’you mean “with me”? Will you have to be prodded and poked and fiddled about with, Ryan? Will you have to have things inserted inside you, and swallow drugs, and suffer any pain or discomfort at all ?’

‘No,’ said Murphy, looking unnerved.

‘We’ve never talked about children,’ said Robin. ‘You’ve never even asked if I want them.’

‘I assumed – you like kids. Your niece, your god-kids—’

‘I do like them, I love them, of course I do. That’s not the – look,’ said Robin, still fighting tears she was determined not to shed, ‘this isn’t the way I ever wanted to have this conversation, but if you’re asking, I don’t know whether I want kids of my own, OK?

But even if I don’t, it wasn’t easy – having that surgeon – tell me – out of the blue – that that fucking rapist did this to me and – no! ’

Murphy, who’d risen to hug her, recoiled.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Robin. ‘I’m still sore. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise.’

Murphy dropped to his knees beside the sofa and reached for her hand instead.

‘What can I do?’ he said humbly.

‘Stop bitching about my work, and Strike, and the agency,’ said Robin angrily, wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

‘I’ve had enough of that from Matthew and my bloody mother.

Nobody’s trying to show anyone up, we’re just trying to find out whether we can help that woman.

She’s just given birth to her boyfriend’s baby and doesn’t know where he’s gone. It must be awful.’

‘I’ll stop bitching,’ said Murphy quietly. ‘I was being a dick. What can I do to make you feel better? Name it. Ice cream? Weekend in Paris?’

A reluctant laugh escaped Robin.

‘Dog? D’you want a puppy?’

‘Ryan, you sound like you’re trying to lure me into a van.’

He laughed, and Robin did too, even though it hurt.

‘Come on, I’m serious,’ he said. ‘Anything. Name it.’

‘Anything?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘OK,’ said Robin, taking a deep breath, ‘find out how certain the police are that it was the armed robber in that vault.’

Murphy sat back on his heels, his expression so strangely blank that Robin said,

‘Sorry, forget it. I don’t want you to do anything—’

‘It’s not that,’ said Murphy.

He rubbed a hand across his face.

‘The woman I know, who’s on the case… I had a drunken grope with her, about six years ago.’

‘Oh,’ said Robin.

‘No sex. Lizzie had just left. I was shitfaced. It happened down the pub.’

‘Right,’ said Robin.

Murphy sighed.

‘I could ask her, if it’s really that important to you. She knows I’ve got a girlfriend now.’

‘She does?’

‘Yeah,’ said Murphy, ‘because every time I run across her she makes it clear she wouldn’t mind a replay, so I mention you a fair bit… but if it’s that important to you, I could try and get her talking.’

Robin hesitated. She was aware of a need to word what she said next extremely carefully, but also dimly aware that what she currently felt wasn’t what many women would feel, faced with the prospect of their highly eligible boyfriend seeking out a woman with whom he’d previously had an amorous encounter, drunk or not.

‘Well, I trust you,’ she said slowly, ‘but I don’t love the idea of some woman trying to lure you away…’

She’d said the right thing; Murphy looked happier at that. His fingers tightened on hers.

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thank you,’ said Robin, returning the pressure.

‘D’you only love me for my intel?’

‘No,’ said Robin. ‘I also like the chips… and quite a lot of other stuff.’

He pulled her into a hug, and this time, Robin didn’t fend him off.

The realisation that she wanted the information, even if it meant Murphy having to buy drinks for a woman who clearly fancied him, was slightly disconcerting, but given how many other things she had to worry about at the moment, there was no need to start analysing that, as well.