Chapter Text
Robin sat back on her heels and wiped the back of her hand across her clammy forehead.
Of course their office move had to coincide with the hottest week of summer
, she thought. She allowed herself a minute to rest and admire her hard work. Their new office furniture was all assembled and the kitchen cupboards held their mugs, some newly purchased plates and bowls, a shiny new tin of Betty’s Blend tea and a plentiful supply of Chocolate Hobnobs. A philodendron sat in a cheery yellow pot on the windowsill and Robin had placed matching yellow cushions on the soft navy blue sofa.
Saying goodbye to Denmark Street had been emotionally draining on both partners but Robin, for her part, was beginning to feel a sense of warm anticipation for this new beginning.
All that remained was to unpack and organise the boxes of files that she’d just unloaded from the back of the Land Rover.
Her mind drifted to her partner, alone in his new bedsit a few blocks away.
Or maybe not alone
, she mused. For all she knew, Strike may have a new, glamorous girlfriend helping him to unpack the few personal possessions that Robin had helped him to move earlier that day. They had closed the door on any conversation about their romantic lives when Robin had started seeing Ryan Murphy last year. After the brief mention of their first date Robin hadn’t offered any information and Strike hadn’t asked.
It’s easier this way
, Robin told herself. Easier to keep it professional, easier to focus on Ryan, easier to draw lines and build walls and compartmentalise.
Ryan was handsome, kind, funny and, all her friends agreed, a wonderful match for Robin. They complemented each other, he understood her drive and passion for her vocation and never put pressure on her to be anyone other than her true self. On paper, he was perfect. What started as some casual dates to distract Robin from her inconvenient feelings for her business partner had quickly taken on a life of its own. Robin had grown fond of the ease and simplicity of being with Ryan and had enjoyed discovering that she was, in fact, not romantically incompetent. She preferred not to analyse why, after more than 12 months of dating, she was yet to take him home to Masham or feel the need to see him more than once or twice a week. Ryan, on the other hand, wanted to talk about these things. With increasing frequency, their time together was spent in tense discussions about when they could take time off together to go on a holiday, to visit his sister in Mallorca, to drive to Masham, to spend more than one night in a row together. Last week Robin, using the office move as an excuse, had told Ryan that she needed some time to herself and would call him in a few weeks. Stunned, Ryan had left her flat on Blackhorse Road without kissing her goodbye. The few texts she had received from him since then sat unread in her inbox.
Robin stood up and stretched. Golden late-afternoon sun filtered through the office window, lifting her mood. As she walked to the little kitchenette she saw the glittering gold letters spelling out Strike and Ellacott Detective Agency, etched into the glass of the door earlier that morning, and smiled.
Robin set the kettle to boil and placed three biscuits on one of the new plates. She planned to unpack a few of the file boxes and then call Strike to see how he was going. Maybe ask him to meet her at their new local to share a pint and a bowl of chips in celebration of a successful day. It was Friday, after all, and it had become office tradition that whoever was around at 5pm went for a pint at The Tottenham. What better way to christen their new local?
Robin settled on the floor and pulled the closest box towards her. Opening the lid, Robin found a mess of papers, notebooks and file folders. She shook her head. She and Pat had packed all the file boxes themselves and had done the job meticulously. She was certain that she hadn’t dropped any of the boxes, either. So why was this box such a mess? Robin lifted out the first thing her hand touched. It was a small battered notebook with a water stained black cover, the same kind that Strike used for case notes. The only notable difference, that Robin could see, was that the label on the front was devoid of her partner’s spidery handwriting. Strike worked methodically, using the same system that he had honed as an investigator in the SIB. It was very unlike him to not label his notebook.
Pat would be outraged if she found files out of place when she joined them in the new office next week. Robin would find to which file the notebook belonged and return it. She flipped open the front cover, expecting to see the page filled with Strike’s cramped notes. What she saw instead made her draw in a sharp breath. The page
was
filled with her partner’s spidery hand, but there were no names, dates or jottings from surveillance. Robin read the note for a second time, unable to trust that her eyes and brain were working together to make correct the meaning of what she saw. Her second read confirmed that she was not imagining things. Right there on the page of the worn notebook, in Strike’s handwriting, were the following words.
Robin,
It’s driving me mad. We used to talk. Actually, we were never good at it but we were trying. I fucked it up, dating Madeline and hiding it from you. I wish I hadn’t. Dated her, that is. The Ritz left me reeling. I didn’t know how to talk to you about it. Still don’t. Fuck. Pru said writing shit down might help. Fuck knows. But I’m willing to try anything at this point. I miss you.
Strike x