Page 263 of Troubled Blood

And left him now as sad, as whilome iollie,

Well warned to beware with whom he dar’d to dallie.

Edmund Spenser

The Faerie Queene

Blinking in the bright light, Robin reached again for the ice pack.

“Strike hit me. Accidentally.”

“Jesus,” said Barclay. “Wouldnae wanna see what he can do deliberately. How’d that happen?”

“My face got in the way of his elbow,” said Robin.

“Huh,” said Barclay, hungrily eyeing the almost empty curry cartons, “what wus that? Compensation?”

“Exactly,” said Robin.

“Tha’ why neither of yiz have been answerin’ yer phones fer the last three hours?”

“Shit, sorry, Sam,” said Robin, pulling out her mobile and looking at it. She’d had fifteen missed calls from Barclay since muting her mother in the American Bar. She was also pleased to see that she’d missed a couple of texts from Morris, one of which seemed to have a picture attached.

“Beyond the call of duty to come in person,” said the slightly drunk Strike. He wasn’t sure whether he was more glad or annoyed that Barclay had interrupted, but on balance, he thought annoyance was uppermost.

“The wife’s at her mother’s wi’ the bairn overnight,” said Barclay. “So I thought I’d come deliver the good news in person.”

He helped himself to a poppadum and sat down on the arm of the sofa at the other end to Strike.

“I’ve found oot what SB gets up tae in Stoke Newington. All down tae Robin. You ready for this?”

“What?” said Strike, looking between Barclay and Robin. “When—?”

“Earlier,” said Robin, “before I met you.”

“Rang the doorbell,” said Barclay, “said I’d bin recommended by SB, wondered whether she could help me oot. She didnae believe me. I had to get a foot in the door to stop her slammin’ it on me. Then she says SB told her a Scottish guy talked him doon off Tower Bridge the other day.

“So I decide it’s cut our losses time,” said Barclay. “I said, yeah, that wuz me. I’m a friend. We know what ye’re up to in here. You’re gonnae wanna talk to me, if ye care aboot your client.

“So she let me in.”

Barclay ate a bit of poppadum.

“Sorry, starvin’. Anyway, she takes me in the back room, and there it all is.”

“There what all is?”

“Giant playpen she’s knocked up, out o’ some foam an’ MDF,” said Barclay, grinning. “Big old changin’ mat. Stack of adult nappies. Johnson’s baby powder.”

Strike appeared to have been struck momentarily speechless. Robin began to laugh, but stopped quickly, because it made her face hurt.

“Poor old SB gets aff on bein’ a baby. She’s only got one other client, that guy at the gym. Doesnae need any more, because SB pays her so much. She dresses ’em up. Changes ’em. Powders their fucking arses—”

“You’re having a laugh,” said Strike. “This can’t be real.”

“It is real,” said Robin, with the ice pack pressed to her face. “It’s called… hang on…”

She brought up the list of paraphilias on her phone again.

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