Page 37 of Troubled Blood

“Happy birthday,” he said, over the sound of what Robin could tell was a train.

“Thanks.”

“I’ve got something for you, but I won’t be back for an hour, I’ve only just got on the train back from Amersham.”

Have you hell got something, thought Robin. You forgot. You’re just going to grab flowers on the way back to the office.

Robin was sure Ilsa must have tipped Strike off, because Ilsa had called her just before the client had arrived, to tell Robin that she might be unavoidably late for drinks. She’d also asked, with unconvincing casualness, what Strike had bought her, and Robin had answered truthfully, “Nothing.”

“That’s nice, thanks,” Robin said now, “but I’m just leaving. Going out for a drink tonight.”

“Oh,” said Strike. “Right. Sorry—couldn’t be helped, you know, with coming out here to meet Gupta.”

“No,” said Robin, “well, you can leave them here in the office—”

“Yeah,” said Strike, and Robin noted that he didn’t dispute the word “them.” It was definitely going to be flowers.

“Anyway,” said Strike, “big news. George Layborn’s got hold of a copy of the Bamborough file.”

“Oh, that’s great!” said Robin, enthusiastic in spite of herself.

“Yeah, isn’t it? He’s going to bring it over tomorrow morning.”

“How was Gupta?” asked Robin, sitting down on her side of the partners’ desk which had replaced Strike’s old single one.

“Interesting, especially about Margot herself,” said Strike, who became muffled as, Robin guessed, the train went through a tunnel. Robin pressed the mobile closer to her ear and said,

“In what way?”

“Dunno,” said Strike distantly. “From the old photo, I wouldn’t have guessed an ardent feminist. She sounds much more of a personality than I’d imagined, which is stupid, really—why shouldn’t she have a personality, and a strong one?”

But Robin knew, somehow, what he meant. The hazy picture of Margot Bamborough, frozen in blurry time with her seventies middle parting, her wide, rounded lapels, her knitted tank top, seemed to belong to a long-gone, two-dimensional world of faded color.

“Tell you the rest tomorrow,” said Strike, because their connection was breaking up. “Reception’s not great here. I can hardly hear you.”

“OK, fine,” said Robin loudly. “Speak tomorrow.”

She opened the door into the outer office again. Pat was just turning off Robin’s old PC, electronic cigarette sticking out of her mouth.

“Was that Strike?” she asked, crow-like, with her jet-black hair and her croak, the fake cigarette waggling.

“Yep,” said Robin, reaching for her coat and bag. “He’s on his way back from Amersham. Lock up as usual though, Pat, he can let himself in if he needs to.”

“Has he remembered your birthday yet?” asked Pat, who seemed to have taken sadistic satisfaction in news of Strike’s forgetfulness that morning.

“Yes,” said Robin, and out of loyalty to Strike she added, “he’s got a present for me. I’ll get it tomorrow.”

Pat had bought Robin a new purse. “That old one was coming apart at the seams,” she said, when Robin unwrapped it. Robin, touched in spite of the fact that she might not have chosen bright red, had expressed warm thanks and at once transferred her money and cards across into the new one.

“Good thing about having one in a nice bright color, you can always find it in your bag,” Pat had said complacently. “What’s that Scottish nutter got you?”

Barclay had left a small wrapped package with Pat to give to Robin that morning.

“Cards,” said Robin, smiling as she unwrapped the package. “Sam was telling me all about these, look, when we were out on surveillance the other night. Cards showing Al-Qaeda’s most wanted. They gave packs out to the American troops during the Iraq War.”

“What’s he given you those for?” said Pat. “What are you supposed to do with them?”

“Well, because I was interested, when he told me,” said Robin, amused by Pat’s disdain. “I can play poker with them. They’ve got all the right numbers and everything, look.”

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