Page 180 of Troubled Blood

The third message continued:

the psychiatrist was pleased to see me crying because they like emotion. I don’t know what the whole address is but it’s called Symonds House. I love you don’t forget me whatever hpapens to me. I love you.

A fourth and final message read:

It’s Charlotte in case that isn’t obvious.

Strike read the entire thread through twice. Then he closed his eyes, and like millions of his fellow humans, wondered why troubles could never come singly, but in avalanches, so that you became increasingly destabilized with every blow that hit you.

43

And you faire Ladie knight, my dearest Dame,

Relent the rigor of your wrathfull will,

Whose fire were better turn’d to other flame;

And wiping out remembrance of all ill,

Graunt him your grace…

Edmund Spenser

The Faerie Queene

To Robin’s relief, her three guests got up early the next morning, because they wanted to spend a full day in London. All were subdued after what Robin thought of as the Nightmare Dinner. She dreaded a tearful plea for forgiveness from Courtney, who seemed especially low, so Robin faked a cheery briskness she certainly didn’t feel, making recommendations for cheap places to eat and good things to see before waving the students off. As Robin was due to run surveillance on Elinor Dean overnight, she’d given Jonathan a spare key, and wasn’t sorry that she’d probably still be in Stoke Newington when the students returned to Manchester, because they intended to catch a mid-morning Sunday train.

Not wanting to be alone with Max, in case he wanted a post-mortem on the previous evening, Robin made herself a voluntary prisoner in her own bedroom all day, where she continued to work on her laptop, attempting to block out waves of anger toward Strike, and a tearfulness that kept threatening to overcome her. Hard as she tried to concentrate on finding out who’d been living in Jerusalem Passage when Margot had disappeared, however, her thoughts kept returning to her partner.

Robin wasn’t in the least surprised not to have heard from him, but was damned if she’d initiate contact. She couldn’t in good conscience retract a word of what she’d said after watching him vomit in the gutter, because she was tired of being taken for granted in ways Strike didn’t recognize.

But as the afternoon wore on, and the rain continued to fall outside her window, and while she hadn’t been nearly as drunk as Strike, she developed a dull headache. Equal parts of misery and rage dragged at her every time she remembered last night’s dinner, and all the things she’d shouted at Strike in the street. She wished she could cry, but the tightness in her chest prevented her doing so. Her anger boiled anew every time she remembered the drunk Strike attacking her guests, but then she found herself re-running Courtney and Kyle’s arguments in her head. She was sure none of the students had ever brushed up against the ugliness Robin had encountered, not merely under that dark stair in her hall of residence, but during her work with Strike: battered women, raped girls, death. They didn’t want to hear Strike’s stories, because it was so much more comforting to believe that language alone could remake the world. But none of that made her feel more kindly to her partner: on the contrary, she resented agreeing with him. He’d been looking for someone or something to attack, and it was she who’d paid the price.

Robin forced herself to keep working, because work was her one constant, her salvation. By eight in the evening, Robin was as sure as a thorough perusal of online records could make her that nobody living in Jerusalem Passage had been there for forty years. By this time, she was so hungry that she really did need to eat something, which she feared meant facing Max, and discussing Strike.

Sure enough, when she reached the living area, she found Max sitting watching TV with Wolfgang on his lap. He muted the news the moment he saw her, and Robin’s heart sank.

“Evening.”

“Hi,” said Robin. “I’m going to make myself something to eat. D’you want anything?”

“There’s still a bit of casserole, if you want it.”

“Strike didn’t finish it all, then?”

She mentioned him first in the spirit of getting it over with. She could tell that Max had things to say.

“No,” said Max. He lifted the sleepy Wolfgang onto the sofa beside him, stood up and moved to the kitchen. “I’ll heat it up for you.”

“There’s no need, I can—”

But Max did so, and when Robin was settled at the table with her food and a drink, he sat down at the table with her with a beer. This was highly unusual and Robin felt suddenly nervous. Was she being softened up for some kind of unwelcome announcement? Had Max decided, after all, to sell up?

“Never told you how I ended up in such a nice flat, did I?” he said.

“No,” said Robin cautiously.

“I had a big payout, five years ago. Medical negligence.”