Page 167 of Troubled Blood

“It might not be relevant, but Elinor took an Amazon delivery yesterday morning. Two massive boxes. They looked quite light, but—”

“We should open a book,” Morris told Strike, talking over Robin. “Twenty on dominatrix.”

“Never seen the appeal in bein’ whipped,” said Barclay thoughtfully. “If I want pain, I jus’ forget to put the bins oot.”

“Bit mumsy-looking, though, isn’t she?” said Hutchins. “If I had SB’s money, I’d go for something a bit more—”

He sketched a slimmer figure in mid-air. Morris laughed.

“Ach, there’s no accountin’ for taste,” said Barclay. “Army mate o’ mine wouldnae look at anythin’ under thirteen stone. We usedtae call him the Pork Whisperer.”

The men laughed. Robin smiled, mainly because Barclay was looking at her, and she liked Barclay, but she felt too tired and demoralized to be truly amused. Pat was wearing a “boys will be boys” expression of bored tolerance.

“Unfortunately, I’ve got to go back to Cornwall on Sunday,” said Strike, “which I appreciate—”

“The fuck are ye gonna get tae Cornwall?” asked Barclay, as the office windows shook with the wind.

“Jeep,” said Strike. “My aunt’s dying. Looks like she’s got days.”

Robin looked at Strike, startled.

“I appreciate that leaves us stretched,” Strike continued matter-of-factly, “but it can’t be helped. I think it’s worth continuing to keep an eye on SB himself. Morris’ll do some digging with this bloke at the gym and the rest of you can divvy up shifts on Elinor Dean. Unless anyone’s got anything to add,” said Strike, pausing for comments. The men all shook their heads and Robin, too tired to mention the Amazon boxes again, remained silent. “Let’s have a look at Postcard.”

“I’ve got news,” said Barclay laconically. “She’s back at work. I’ve talked tae her. Yer woman,” he added, to Robin, “short. Big round glasses. Ambled over and started askin’ questions.”

“What about?” asked Morris, a smirk playing around his lips.

“Light effects in the landscapes o’ James Duffield Harding,” said Barclay. “What d’ye think I asked, who she fancied for the Champions League?”

Strike laughed, and so did Robin, this time, glad to see Morris looking foolish.

“Yeah, I read the notice by his portrait an’ looked him up on my phone round the corner,” said Barclay. “Wanted a way o’ getting ontae the subject o’ weather wi’ her. Anyway,” said the Glaswegian, “coupla minutes intae the conversation, talkin’ light effects an’ broodin’ skies an’ that, she brought up oor weatherman friend. Turned pink when she mentioned him. Said he’d described a viewer’s picture as ‘Turneresque’ last week.

“It’s her,” said Barclay, addressing Robin. “She wanted tae mention him for the pleasure of sayin’ his name. She’s Postcard.”

“Bloody well done,” Strike told Barclay.

“It’s Robin’s win,” said Barclay. “She made the pass. I jus’ tapped it in.”

“Thanks, Sam,” said Robin, pointedly, not looking at Strike, who registered both the tone and her expression.

“Fair point,” said Strike, “well done, both of you.”

Aware that he’d been short with Robin during their meeting about the Bamborough case, Strike sought to make amends by asking her opinion on which of the waiting list clients they ought to contact, now that the Postcard case was as good as wrapped up, and she said she thought the commodities broker who thought her husband was sleeping with their nanny.

“Great,” said Strike. “Pat, can you get in touch and tell her we’re ready to roll if she still wants him under surveillance? If nobody’s got anything else—”

“I have,” said Hutchins, generally the quietest person in the agency. “It’s about that roll of film you wanted passed to the Met.”

“Oh yeah?” said Strike. “Is there news?”

“My mate rang last night. There’s nothing to be done with it. You won’t get any prosecutions now.”

“Why not?” said Robin.

She sounded angrier than she’d meant to. The men all looked at her.

“Perpetrators’ faces all hidden,” said Hutchins. “That arm that appears for a moment: you can’t build a prosecution case on an out-of-focus ring.”

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