Page 242 of Troubled Blood

“Yeah,” said Matthew. “Well, so do I.”

Did the image of their own wedding flash across his mind, as it flashed across Robin’s? The church in Masham that both of them had attended since primary school, the reception in that beautiful hotel, with the swans in the lake that refused to swim together, and the disastrous reception, during which Robin had known, for a few terrifying seconds, that if Strike had asked her to leave with him, she’d have gone.

“How’re things with you?”

“Great,” said Robin.

She put up a good front. What you do, when you meet the ex, isn’t it? Pretend you think you did the right thing. No regrets.

“Well,” he said, as the traffic rolled past, “I need to…”

He began to walk away.

“Matt.”

He turned back.

“What?”

“I’ll never forget… how you were, when I really needed you. Whatever else… I’ll never forget that part.”

For a fraction of a second, his face worked slightly, like a small boy’s. Then he walked back to her, bent down, and before she knew what was happening, he’d hugged her quickly, then let go as though she was red hot.

“G’luck, Robs,” he said thickly, and walked away for good.

56

Whereas this Lady, like a sheepe astray,

Now drowned in the depth of sleepe all fearlesse lay.

Edmund Spenser

The Faerie Queene

At the precise moment Matthew turned to walk away from Robin in Holborn, Strike, who was sitting in his parked car three miles away, outside the familiar terraced house in Stoke Newington, decided to call his brother, lest Al sit in wait for him at the office all day. The detective’s anger was shot through with other, less easily identifiable feelings, of which the least painful to acknowledge was grudging admiration for Al’s persistence. Strike didn’t doubt that Al had come to the office for a last-ditch attempt to persuade Strike into some form of reconciliation with his father, preferably before or during the party to celebrate his father’s new album. Having always considered Al a fairly weak and sybaritic character, Strike had to admit he was showing guts, risking his older brother’s fury.

Strike waited until Elinor Dean had unloaded the foam and the cheap wood from her car and carried it all inside with the aid of her friend from Shifty’s gym, watched the front door close, then called Al’s number.

“Hi,” said Al, picking up after a single ring.

“Why are you in my office?” asked Strike.

“Wanted to see you, bruv. Talk face to face.”

“Well, I won’t be back there today,” lied Strike. “So I suggest you say whatever it is you’ve got to say now.”

“Bruv—”

“Who’s there with you?”

“Er—your secretary—Pat, is it?” Strike heard Al turn away from his mobile to check, and heard Pat’s caw of agreement, “and a bloke called—”

“Barclay,” said the Scot loudly, in the background.

“Right, well, go into my office for some privacy,” said Strike. He listened while Al told Pat what Strike had asked him to do, heard the familiar sound of his own office door closing, then said,

“If this is about what I think it’s about—”

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