Page 163 of Troubled Blood

“Shit,” muttered Strike, sinking down onto his bed. “Right, Ted, I’m coming.”

“You can’t,” said his uncle. “We’re surrounded by flood water. It’s dangerous. Police are telling everyone to stay put, not to travel. Kerenza can… she says she can manage her pain at home. She’s got drugs they can inject… because she’s not eating a lot now. Kerenza doesn’t think it’s… you know… she thinks it’ll be…”

He began to cry in earnest.

“… not immediate, but… she says… not long.”

“I’m coming,” said Strike firmly. “Does Lucy know how bad Joan is?”

“I called you first,” said Ted.

“I’ll tell her, don’t worry about that. I’ll ring you when we’ve put a plan together, all right?”

Strike hung up and called Lucy.

“Oh God, no,” his sister gasped, when he’d given her an unemotional summary of what Ted had said. “Stick, I can’t leave right now—Greg’s stuck in Wales!”

“The hell’s Greg doing in Wales?”

“It’s for work—oh God, what are we going to do?”

“When’s Greg back?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“Then we’ll go down Sunday morning.”

“How? The trains are all off, the roads are flooded—”

“I’ll hire a jeep or something. Polworth’ll meet us the other end with a boat if we have to. I’ll ring you back when I’ve got things sorted.”

Strike dressed, made himself tea and toast, carried them downstairs to the partners’ desk in the inner office and called Ted back, overriding his objections, telling him that, like it or not, he and Lucy were coming on Sunday. He could hear his uncle’s yearning for them, his desperate need for company to share the burden of dread and grief. Strike then called Dave Polworth, who thoroughly approved of the plan and promised to be ready with boat, tow ropes and scuba equipment if necessary.

“I’ve got fuck all else to do. My place of work’s underwater.”

Strike called a few car hire companies, finally finding one that had a jeep available. He was giving his credit card details when a text arrived from Robin.

Really sorry, I lost my purse, just found it, on my way now.

Strike had entirely forgotten that they were supposed to be catching up on the Bamborough case before the team meeting. Having finished hiring the jeep, he began to assemble the items he’d intended to discuss with Robin: the blood-smeared page he’d cut out of The Magus, which he’d now put into a plastic pouch, and the discovery he’d made the previous evening on his computer, which he brought up on his monitor, ready to show her.

He then opened up the rota, to check what shifts he’d have to reallocate now that he was heading back to Cornwall, and saw “Dinner with Max” written in for that evening.

“Bollocks,” he said. He didn’t suppose he could get out of it now, having agreed to it the previous day, but this was the last thing he needed.

At that very moment, Robin, who was climbing the escalator at Tottenham Court Road two steps at a time, heard her mobile ringing in her bag.

“Yes?” she gasped into the phone, as she emerged into the station, one among many bustling commuters.

“Hey, Robs,” said her younger brother.

“Hi,” she said, using her Oyster card at the barrier. “Everything OK?”

“Yeah, fine,” said Jonathan, though he didn’t sound quite as cheerful as the last time they’d spoken. “Listen, is it all right if I bring another guy with me to crash at yours?”

“What?” said Robin, as she emerged into the blustery rain and controlled chaos of the intersection of Tottenham Court Road and Charing Cross Road, at which there had now been building works for three and a half years. She hoped she’d misheard what Jonathan had said.

“Another guy,” he repeated. “Is that OK? He’ll sleep anywhere.”

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