Page 393 of The Running Grave

‘Ha! You think I was in a cult, do you?’

‘No, but I’m saying… we’ve got to forgive who we were, when we didn’t know any better. I did the same thing, with Matthew. I did exactly that. Painted in the gaps the way I’d have liked them to be. Believed in Higher-Level Truths to explain away the bullshit. “He doesn’t really mean it.” “He isn’t really like that.” And, oh my God, the evidence was staring me in the face, and I bloody married him – and regretted it within an hour of him putting the ring on my finger.’

Hearing this, Strike remembered how he’d burst into her and Matthew’s wedding, at the very moment Robin had been about to say ‘I do’. He also remembered the hug he and Robin had shared, after he’d walked out of the reception, and she’d run out of her first dance to follow him, and he knew, now, there was no turning back.

‘So what did Amelia want?’ said Robin, bold enough to ask, now that Strike had told her this much. ‘Was she – she wasn’t blaming you, was she?’

‘No,’ said Strike. ‘She was carrying out her sister’s last wishes. Charlotte left a suicide note, with instructions to pass on a message to me.’

He smiled at Robin’s fearful expression.

‘It’s all right. Amelia burned it. Doesn’t matter – I could’ve written it myself – I told Amelia exactly what Charlotte wrote.’

Robin worried it might be indecent to ask, but Strike didn’t wait for the question.

‘She said that even though I was a bastard to her, she still loved me. That I’d know one day what I’d given up, that I’d never be happy, deep down, without her. That—’

Strike and Robin had once before sat in this office, after dark and full of whisky, and he’d come dangerously close to crossing the line between friend and lover. He’d felt then the fatalistic daring of the trapeze artist, preparing to swing out into the spotlight with only black air beneath him, and he felt the same now.

‘—she knew I was in love with you.’

A stab of cold shock, an electric charge to the brain: Robin couldn’t quite believe what she’d just heard. The passing seconds seemed to slow. She waited for Strike to say ‘which was her spite, obviously,’ or, ‘because she never understood that a man and a woman could just be friends’, or to make a joke. Yet he said nothing to defuse the grenade he’d just thrown, but simply looked at her.

Then Robin heard the outer door open, and Pat’s indistinct baritone, greeting someone with enthusiasm.

‘That’ll be Ryan,’ Robin said.

‘Right,’ said Strike.

Robin got to her feet in a state of confusion and shock, still clutching the cricketer’s folder in her hands, and opened the dividing door.

‘Sorry,’ said Murphy, who looked harried. ‘Did you get my text? I was late leaving and traffic’s bloody gridlocked.’

‘It’s fine,’ said Robin. ‘I was late back myself.’

‘Hi,’ said Murphy to Strike, who’d followed Robin into the outer office. ‘Congratulations.’

‘What for?’ said Strike.

‘The church case,’ said Murphy, with a half-laugh. ‘What, you’ve already moved on to some other world-shattering—?’

‘Oh that,’ said Strike. ‘Yeah. Well, it was mostly Robin.’

Robin took down her jacket.

‘Well – see you Monday,’ she said to Pat and Strike, unable to meet the latter’s eyes.

‘You taking that with you?’ Murphy asked Robin, looking at the folder in her hands.

‘Oh – no – sorry,’ said the flustered Robin. ‘This belongs here.’

She set the folder down beside Pat.

‘Bye,’ she said, and left.

Strike watched the glass door close, and listened to the pair’s footsteps dying away on the metal stairs.

‘They make a good couple,’ said Pat complacently.

‘We’ll see,’ said Strike.

Ignoring the office manager’s swift, penetrating look, he added,

‘I’ll be in the Flying Horse if you want me.’

Picking up his jacket and the folder Robin had left, he departed. Time would tell whether he’d just done something foolish or not, but Cormoran Strike had at last decided to practise what he’d preached to Charlotte, all those years ago. Happiness is a choice that requires an effort at times, and it was well past time for him to make the effort.