Page 266 of Troubled Blood

“He grabbed me,” she said, as Barclay emerged from the inner room behind Strike. “I didn’t hear him coming.”

“It—was—a—fucking—joke,” said Morris, examining the blood smeared on his hands. “I only meant to make you jump—fuck’s sake—”

But adrenaline and whisky had suddenly unleashed an anger in Robin such as she hadn’t felt since the night she’d left Matthew. Light-headed, she advanced on Morris.

“Would you sneak up on Strike and grab him round the waist? D’you creep up on Barclay and hug him? D’you send either of them pictures of your dick?”

There was a silence.

“You bitch,” said Morris, the back of his hand pressed to his nostrils. “You said you wouldn’t—”

“He did what?” said Strike.

“Sent me a dick pic,” snapped the furious Robin, and turning back to Morris, she said, “I’m not some sixteen-year-old work experience girl who’s scared of telling you to stop. I don’t want your hands on me, OK? I don’t want you kissing me—”

“He sent you—?” began Strike.

“I didn’t tell you because you were so stressed,” said Robin. “Joan was dying, you were up and down to Cornwall, you didn’t need the grief, but I’m done. I’m not working with him any more. I want him gone.”

“Christ’s sake,” said Morris again, dabbing at his nose, “it was a joke—”

“Ye need tae learn tae read the fuckin’ room, mate,” said Barclay, who was standing against the wall, arms folded, and seemed to be enjoying himself.

“You can’t fucking fire me over—”

“You’re a subcontractor,” said Strike. “We’re not renewing your contract. Your non-disclosure agreement remains in operation. One word of anything you’ve found out working here, and I’ll make sure you never get another detective job. Now get the fuck out of this office.”

Wild-eyed, Morris stood up, still bleeding from his left nostril.

“Fine. You want to keep her on because you’ve got a hard-on for her, fine.”

Strike took a step forwards; Morris nearly fell over the sofa, backing away.

“Fine,” he said again.

He turned and walked straight out of the office, slamming the glass door behind him. While the door vibrated, and Morris’s footsteps clanged away down the metal stairs, Barclay pushed himself off the wall, plucked the knife Robin was still holding out of her hand and went to drop it into the sink with the dirty crockery.

“Never liked that tosser,” he said.

Strike and Robin looked at each other, then at the worn carpet, where a couple of drops of Morris’s blood still glistened.

“One all, then,” said Strike, clapping his hands together. “What say, first to break Barclay’s nose wins the night?”

PART SIX

So past the twelue Months forth, and their dew places found.

Edmund Spenser

The Faerie Queene

60

Fortune, the foe of famous cheuisaunce

Seldome (said Guyon) yields to vertue aide,

But in her way throwes mischiefe and mischaunce,