Page 102 of Troubled Blood

“Hey, Oggy,” said Ilsa.

“What can I get Robin for Christmas?” he said. It was becoming difficult to talk: his throat felt raw.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fantastic. Give me an idea. I’m in Liberty.”

“Um…” said Ilsa. “Let’s th… ooh, I know what you can get her. She wants some new perfume. She didn’t like the stuff she—”

“I don’t need backstory,” said Strike ungraciously. “That’s great. Perfume. What does she wear?”

“I’m trying to tell you, Oggy,” said Ilsa. “She wants a change. Choose her something new.”

“I can’t smell,” said Strike, impatiently, “I’ve got a cold.”

But this basic problem aside, he was afraid that a perfume he’d personally picked out was too intimate a gift, like that green dress of a few years back. He was looking for something like flowers, but not flowers, something that said “I like you,” but not “this is what I’d like you to smell like.”

“Just go to an assistant and say ‘I want to buy a perfume for someone who wears Philosykos but wants a—’”

“She what?” said Strike. “She wears what?”

“Philosykos. Or she did.”

“Spell it,” said Strike, his head thumping. Ilsa did so.

“So I just ask an assistant, and they’ll give me something like it?”

“That’s the idea,” said Ilsa patiently.

“Great,” said Strike. “Appreciate it. Speak soon.”

The assistant thought you’d like it.

Yeah, he’d say that. The assistant thought you’d like it would effectively de-personalize the gift, turn it into something almost as mundane as flowers, but it would still show he’d taken some care, given it some thought. Picking up his carrier bags again, he limped toward an area he could see in the distance that looked as though it was lined with bottles.

The perfume department turned out to be small, about the size of Strike’s office. He sidled into the crowded space, passing beneath a cupola painted with stars, to find himself surrounded by shelves laden with fragile cargos of glass bottles, some of which wore ruffs, or patterns like lace; others which looked like jewels, or the kind of phial suitable for a love potion. Apologizing as he forced people aside with his Nerf guns, his gin and his golf balls, he met a slim, black-clad man who asked, “Can I help you?” At this moment Strike’s eye fell on a range of bottled scents which were identically packed with black labels and tops. They looked functional and discreet, with no overt suggestion of romance.

“I’d like one of those,” he croaked, pointing.

“Right,” said the assistant. “Er—”

“It’s for someone who used to wear Philosykos. Something like that.”

“OK,” said the assistant, leading Strike over to the display. “Well, what about—”

“No,” said Strike, before the assistant could remove the top of the tester. The perfume was called Carnal Flower. “She said she didn’t like that one,” Strike added, with the conscious aim of appearing less strange. “Are any of the others like Philo—”

“She might like Dans Tes Bras?” suggested the assistant, spraying a second bottle onto a smelling strip.

“Doesn’t that mean—?”

“‘In your arms,’” said the assistant.

“No,” said Strike, without taking the smelling strip. “Are any of the others like Phi—?”

“Musc Ravageur?”

“You know what, I’ll leave it,” said Strike, sweat prickling anew beneath his shirt. “Which exit is nearest the Shakespeare’s Head?”

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