Page 258 of Troubled Blood

His louely words her seemd due recompence

Of all her passed paines: one louing howre

For many yeares of sorrow can dispence:

A dram of sweete is worth a pound of sowre:

Shee has forgott, how many, a woeful stowre

For him she late endurd; she speakes no more

Of past…

Before her stands her knight, for whom she toyld so sore.

Edmund Spenser

The Faerie Queene

“Robin—”

“Don’t tell me I shouldn’t have tried to stop you,” she said through gritted teeth, as they hurried through the outside courtyard. Her vision was blurred with tears of pain. Smokers turned to gape as she passed, trying to staunch her bleeding nose. “If that punch had connected, we’d be back there waiting for the police.”

To Robin’s relief, there were no paparazzi waiting for them as they headed into Green Park, but she was scared that it wouldn’t take long, after the scene Strike had just made, for them to come hunting again.

“We’ll get a cab,” said Strike, who was currently consumed with a mixture of total mortification and rage against Oakden, his father, the press and himself. “Listen, you’re right—”

“I know I’m right, thanks!” she said, a little wildly.

Not only was her face throbbing, she was now wondering why Strike hadn’t warned her about Rokeby’s party; why, in fact, he’d let himself get lured there by a second-rate chancer like Oakden, careless of consequences for their case and for the agency.

“TAXI!” bellowed Strike, so loudly that Robin jumped. Somewhere nearby, she heard running footsteps.

A black cab pulled up and Strike pushed Robin inside.

“Denmark Street,” he yelled at the cabbie, and Robin heard the shouts of photographers as the taxi sped up again.

“It’s all right,” said Strike, twisting to look out of the back window, “they’re on foot. Robin… I’m so fucking sorry.”

She’d pulled a mirror out of her bag to try and clean up her smarting face, wiping blood from her upper lip and chin. It looked as though she was going to have two black eyes: both were rapidly swelling.

“D’you want me to take you home?” said Strike.

Furious at him, fighting the urge to cry out of pain, Robin imagined Max’s surprise and curiosity at seeing her in this state; imagined having to make light, again, of the injuries she’d sustained while working for the agency. She also remembered that she hadn’t gone food shopping in days.

“No, I want you to give me something to eat and a strong drink.”

“You’ve got it,” said Strike, glad to have a chance to make repa­rations. “Will a takeaway do?”

“No,” said Robin sarcastically, pointing at her rapidly blackening eyes, “I’d like to go to the Ritz, please.”

Strike started to laugh but cut himself off, appalled at the state of her face.

“Maybe we should go to casualty.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Robin—”

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