Page 333 of Troubled Blood

Opening the lid, she pulled out a balloon in the shape of a donkey’s head, tied by a thick ribbon to a weighted base. Grinning, she set it down on the table, made herself tea and breakfast, then texted Strike.

Thanks for the balloon donkey. Perfect timing. My old one’s nearly deflated.

She received an answer sixty seconds later.

Great. I was worried it was so obvious, everybody would’ve got you one. See you at 5.

Light-hearted now, Robin drank tea, ate her toast and returned downstairs to open her family’s presents. Everybody had bought her slightly more expensive versions of last year’s gifts, except for her parents, who’d sent a beautiful pendant: a single round opal, which was her birthstone, shimmering green and blue, surrounded by tiny diamonds. The accompanying card read: “Happy thirtieth, Robin. We love you, Mum and Dad x.”

Robin felt her luck, these days, at having two loving parents. Her work had taught her how many people weren’t that fortunate, how many people had families that were broken beyond repair, how many adults walked around carrying invisible scars from their earliest childhood, their perceptions and associations forever altered by lack of love, by violence, by cruelty. So she called Linda to thank her, and ended up talking to her mother for over an hour: inconsequential chatter, most of it, but cheering, nevertheless. It was easier to ring home now that her divorce was over. Robin hadn’t told her mother that Matthew and Sarah were expecting a baby: she’d let Linda find that out in her own time, and work off her initial outrage out of Robin’s earshot.

Toward the end of the call, Linda, who’d disapproved of Robin’s dramatic change of career ever since her first injury incurred on the job, mentioned the continuing press coverage concerning Margot Bamborough.

“You really did an incredible thing, there,” said Linda. “You and, er… Cormoran.”

“Thanks, Mum,” said Robin, as surprised as she was touched.

“How’s Morris?” her mother asked, in a would-be casual tone.

“Oh, we sacked him,” said Robin cheerfully, forgetting that she hadn’t told her mother that, either. “His replacement’s starting next week. Woman called Michelle Greenstreet. She’s great.”

After showering, Robin returned to her bedroom to blow dry her hair properly, ate lunch watching TV, then returned downstairs to change into the figure-hugging blue dress that she’d last worn when persuading Shifty’s PA to give up her secrets. She added the opal necklace, which, since she’d left her engagement ring behind when leaving Matthew, was now the most valuable piece of jewelry she owned. The beautiful stone, with its iridescent flecks, lifted the appearance of the old dress, and for once pleased with her appearance, Robin picked up the second of her handbags, which was slightly smarter than the one she usually took to the office, and went to pick up her mobile phone from her bedside table.

The drawer of the bedside table was slightly open and, looking down, Robin glimpsed the Thoth tarot pack, sitting inside. For a moment, she hesitated; then, under the smiling eyes of the balloon donkey she’d installed in the corner of her bedroom, she checked the time on her phone. It was still early to leave the house, if she wanted to meet Strike in Marlborough Street at five. Setting down her bag, she took out the tarot pack, sat down on her bed and began shuffling the cards before turning the first card over and laying it down in front of her.

Two swords intersected a blue rose against a green background. She consulted the Book of Thoth.

Peace… The Two of Swords. It represents a general shaking-up, resulting from the conflict of Fire and Water in their marriage… This comparative calm is emphasized by the celestial attribution: the Moon in Libra…

Robin now remembered that this first card was supposed to represent “the nature of the problem.”

“Peace isn’t a problem,” she muttered, to the empty room. “Peace is good.”

But of course, she hadn’t actually asked the cards a question; she’d simply wanted them to tell her something today, on the day of her birth. She turned over the second card, the supposed cause of the problem.

A strange green masked female figure stood beneath a pair of scales, holding a green sword.

Adjustment… This card represents the sign of Libra… she represents The Woman Satisfied. Equilibrium stands apart from any individual prejudices… She is therefore to be understood as assessing the virtue of every act and demanding exact and precise satisfaction…

Robin raised her eyebrows and turned over the third and last card: the solution. Here again were the two entwined fish, which poured out water into two golden chalices floating on a green lake: it was the same card she’d turned over in Leamington Spa, when she still didn’t know who’d killed Margot Bamborough.

Love… The card also refers to Venus in Cancer. It shows the harmony of the male and the female: interpreted in the largest sense. It is perfect and placid harmony…

Robin took a deep breath, then returned all the cards to their pack and the pack to her bedside drawer. As she stood and picked up her raincoat, the balloon donkey swayed slightly on its ribbon.

Robin could feel the new opal resting in the hollow of the base of her throat as she walked toward the Tube station along the road, and having slept properly for once, and having clean hair, and carrying a feeling of lightness with her that had persisted ever since she took the balloon donkey out of his box, she attracted many pairs of male eyes in the street and on the train. But Robin ignored all of them, heading up the stairs at Oxford Circus, and then proceeded down Regent Street and, finally, to the Shakespeare’s Head where she saw Strike standing outside, wearing a suit.

“Happy birthday,” he said, and after a brief hesitation he bent down and kissed her on the cheek. He smelled, Robin noticed, not only of cigarettes, but of a subtle lavender aftershave, which was unusual.

“Thanks… aren’t we going into the pub?”

“Er—no,” said Strike. “I want to buy you some new perfume.” He pointed toward the rear entrance of Liberty, which lay a mere ten yards away. “It’s your real birthday present—unless you’ve already bought some?” he added. He really hoped not. He couldn’t think of anything else to offer her that didn’t take them back into the realm of awkwardness and possible misunderstanding.

“I… no,” said Robin. “How did you know I’ve…”

“Because I phoned Ilsa, last Christmas…”

As he held open the glass door for her, which led to a chocolate department now full of Hallowe’en treats, Strike explained about his failed attempt to buy Robin perfume, the previous December.

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