Page 204 of Troubled Blood

The sun at length his joyous face doth clear;

So whenas fortune all her spite hath shown,

Some blissful hours at last must needs appear;

Else would afflicted wights oft-times despair…

Edmund Spenser

The Faerie Queene

At 8 a.m. on the morning she should have been meeting her estranged husband for mediation, Robin emerged from Tottenham Court Road station beneath a cerulean sky. The sunshine felt like a minor miracle after the long months of rain and storms and Robin, who had no surveillance to do today, had put on a dress, glad to be out of her everlasting jeans and sweatshirts.

Angry as she felt at Matthew for calling off the session with only twenty-four hours’ notice (“My client regrets that an urgent matter of a personal nature has arisen. Given my own unavailability for the latter part of March, I suggest we find a mutually convenient date in April”), suspicious as she was that Matthew was dragging out the process merely to demonstrate his power and add pressure to give up her claim on their joint account, her spirits were raised by the dusty glow of the early morning sunshine illuminating the eternal roadworks at the top of Charing Cross Road. The truth, which had been borne forcibly upon Robin during the five days off that Strike had insisted she take, was that she was happier at work. With no desire to go home to Yorkshire and face the usual barrage of questions from her mother about the divorce and her job, and insufficient funds to get out of London to take a solitary mini-break, she’d spent most of her time taking care of her backlog of chores, or working on the Bamborough case.

She had, if not precisely leads, then ideas, and was now heading into the office early in the hope of catching Strike before the business of the day took over. The pneumatic drills drowned out the shouts of workmen in the road as Robin passed, until she reached the shadowy calm of Denmark Street, where the shops hadn’t yet opened.

Almost at the top of the metal staircase, Robin heard voices emanating from behind the glass office door. In spite of the fact that it was not quite eight-fifteen, the light was already on.

“Morning,” said Strike, when she opened the door. He was standing beside the kettle and looked mildly surprised to see her so early. “I thought you weren’t going to be in until lunchtime?”

“Canceled,” said Robin.

She wondered whether Strike had forgotten what she’d had on that morning, or whether he was being discreet because Morris was sitting on the fake leather sofa. Though as handsome as ever, Morris’s bright blue eyes were bloodshot and his jaw dark with stubble.

“Hello, stranger,” he said. “Look at you. Proper advert for taking it easy.”

Robin ignored this comment, but as she hung up her jacket, she found herself wishing she hadn’t worn the dress. She greatly resented Morris making her feel self-conscious, but it would have been easier just to have worn jeans as usual.

“Morris has caught Mr. Smith at it, with the nanny,” said Strike.

“That was quick!” said Robin, trying to be generous, wishing Morris hadn’t been the one to do it.

“Red-handed, ten past one this morning,” said Morris, passing Robin a night vision digital camera. “Hubby was pretending to be out with the boys. Nanny always has a night off on Tuesdays. Silly fuckers said goodbye on the doorstep. Rookie error.”

Robin scrolled slowly through the pictures. The voluptuous nanny who so resembled Strike’s ex Lorelei was standing in the doorway of a terraced house, locked in the arms of Mrs. Smith’s husband. Morris had captured not only the clinch, but the street name and door number.

“Where’s this place?” Robin asked, flicking past pictures of the clinch.

“Shoreditch. Nanny’s best mate rents it,” said Morris. “Always useful to have a friend who’ll let you use their place for a sneaky shag, eh? I’ve got her name and details, too, so she’s about to get dragged into it all, as well.”

Morris stretched luxuriously on the sofa, arms over his head, and said through a yawn,

“Not often you get the chance to make three women miserable at once, is it?”

“Not to mention the husband,” said Robin, looking at the handsome profile of the commodity broker’s husband, silhouetted against a streetlamp as he made his way back to the family car.

“Well, yeah,” said Morris, holding his stretch, “him too.”

His T-shirt had ridden up, exposing an expanse of toned abdomen, a fact of which Robin thought he was probably well aware.

“Don’t fancy a breakfast meeting, do you?” Strike asked Robin. He’d just opened the biscuit tin and found it empty. “We’re overdue a Bamborough catch-up. And I haven’t had breakfast.”

“Great,” said Robin, immediately taking down her jacket again.

“You never take me out for breakfast,” Morris told Strike, getting up off the sofa. Ignoring this comment, Strike said,

“Good going on Smith, Morris. I’ll let the wife know later. See you tomorrow.”

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