Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It had been a long weekend. Not in terms of work, but emotionally. Strike was sitting on his sofa, staring off into the void. He had confessed his love to Robin and she had disappeared with Ryan for a romantic weekend. There the handsome, perfect and predictable Met detective would propose to her, or so Strike strongly suspected.

48 hours after his confession, he had given up hope and was bracing himself for the sight of a ring on Robin's third finger tomorrow, which would be the first step towards increasing distance between them. 'Been there, done that,' he thought dejectedly. He had gambled and lost. But better to try and lose than to live regretting having done nothing.

He was startled when his phone vibrated, dancing on the surface of his small Formica kitchen table. The phone was out of reach, no longer expecting a call. His stump tingled as he stood up, putting pressure on the prosthesis as he hobbled over to the table and picked up the still vibrating phone. It was a call from Robin.

A surprised gasp escaped him, and with mixed feelings he answered. "Robin?"

After a few seconds of hesitation, she replied, " Yeah." Then silence.

"Are you OK?" he asked.

She sighed. "Yeah... no. I..." she paused again. "Cormoran, I need..." she stopped again.

"Tell me," he urged her. An exhalation, close to a sob, made his heart sink. "Robin?"

"No, Cormoran, listen," he heard her take a deep breath. "Ryan proposed. I said no and it got ugly." Cold fear rose in him. Before he could say anything, she continued. "He didn't hit me or anything, don't worry, but well, the police had to take him into custody."

"Are you all right? Can I help you? Do you need anything?" Strike asked worriedly, already looking for his wallet, keys and coat to hurry to her.

"No... yeah..." she paused again, trying to sort her thoughts. "I need," she struggled for a word, "a break. Not work-wise. Just, I heard what you said, I mean, you said that Charlotte said you were in love with me."

"I love you, as in I still do," he corrected her, hope and fear fighting inside him about her next words.

"Yeah, I..." he heard her take a long, calming breath. "I started seeing Ryan to get over you. I never meant for it to go this far, and then for it to turn into this..." she swallowed again, forcefully regaining her composure. "It's a mess. I need to sort things out. And I know we need to talk, but I need time. I just need to work and get things back to normal. Can we just be best mates for now, please?"

Cormoran exhaled. It wasn't the romantic film scene he had hoped for. But it wasn't the rebuttal he had feared for the last 48 hours.

"Of course. No pressure. Take all the time you need. I'll wait." He paused. "And if you need anything, tell me. I'm still your best mate. Whatever happens, okay?"

"Thanks." He could hear the relief in the single word.

"Do you need anything? Do you want me to come over?" he asked, concern for her wellbeing still at the forefront of his mind.

"No. Vanessa's staying the night. She stopped by after Ryan dropped me off and was here when he showed up again and started throwing things. I'll be fine." She sounded more confident now.

"Okay." Strike said hesitantly. "See you tomorrow?"

"Yeah." she confirmed.

"And if there's anything. Call!" he implored.

A small chuckle escaped her. "Yes, I will."

He remained silent.

"Good night, Cormoran. See you tomorrow." Her voice had grown soft.

"Good night, Robin." The line went dead. Strike stared at the phone in his right hand and the battered old wallet in his left. He toyed with the broken button that once held the coin pocket shut. He had the urge to run to her and do something. But she hadn't asked him to. And he trusted her. She needed a best friend who would respect her wishes, not someone who would ride roughshod over her. And she had Vanessa. That should be enough. He threw the wallet on the table and took the phone back to his bed, just in case she called again.

He could be her friend. They had time.

Chapter Text

Strike cleared his desk and shoved the loose papers into the desk drawer. His three o'clock appointment would be here in a few minutes. It always made a good impression when there wasn't too much clutter.

The last year had been crazy and he was ready to get that behind him. The last two months had been slower, they had solved some smaller cases, the UHC publicity had died down and he was healthy, fit and at his target weight. He had even cut down on vaping and alcohol. With no girlfriend competing for his time, he was able to find a nurse to visit his Uncle Ted three times a day, catch up on all his doctor's appointments, or organise Christmas presents for his nephews and godsons. He had never been so up to date with his private affairs.

He knew where his patience came from - he had hope for a future with Robin. Her request for a break had given him plenty of time to think about moving their friendship into a romantic relationship, without distractions like Bijou. In the phone call Robin had said that she had wanted to get over him. He hoped she hadn't succeeded. He was sure they were compatible, but he had promised her time and space - so he waited - and without distractions he got a lot done.

The agency was running smoothly, the Cricketer case was almost finished and they had a long waiting list of lucrative jobs to choose from. Tired of all the infidelity cases, they decided to tackle something else next and bumped one up from the waiting list. Besides, it was Friday and after this appointment he could start a well-earned weekend.

Pat knocked and showed the new client in. First impressions were positive. He was young, in his early twenties, and had money, if his clothes (expensive jeans, white Air Jordans and a white polo shirt under a business jacket) were any indication. His dark brown hair was styled so that the short sides accentuated the wavy longer hair on top. He had a handsome, youthful face that spoke of an untroubled childhood, and he had no beard or other distinguishing features. The pale blue eyes were friendly, even familiar. Before meeting him, Pat did the usual quick internet search on him, but only found that he lived somewhere on the northern outskirts of London.

"Hello, I am Bloom Holland," he strode over to the desk and offered his hand confidently.

"Cormoran Strike." Strike rose from his chair and leaned towards him. The handshake was firm and dry, like someone used to business and socialising. Strike gestured for him to sit down.

"I'm glad you're willing to take my case," Mr Holland said, sitting down.

"Let's hear about it first, before the Agency gets involved. We don't have any details yet, except that it's a family matter involving a cold case." Strike tried to contain his client's enthusiasm.

Mr Holland stilled and looked at Strike. "You don't recognise me, do you?"

Strike gave him a long look. "No, have we met?"

"I used to go by Switch Lavey Bloom Whittaker." After a short pause, during which the young men took in Strike's astonishment, he added, "I'm your half-brother."

Strike couldn't hide his surprise. No wonder the eyes were so familiar. They resembled his mother's. He could see even more of his mother in him - the colour of the hair, the high cheekbones. The slight upturn of the lips, indicating a permanent, gentle smile. A pang of melancholy hit his solar plexus. A sudden longing for his mother's smile, her laughter and playfulness filled him. Not all their time together had been easy, but there had been good times.

His half-brother, who shared so many traits with his mother, suddenly made the encounter difficult. Strike was under no illusion that he looked most like the Nancarrow men (hairy and bulky), and his face bore many of his biological father's characteristics - especially the grim eyebrows and prominent chin. Even his half-sister Lucy bore more of her father's features than her mother's. This made the sudden reminder of Leda all the more painful.

He exhaled slowly, willing the tight knot in his chest to loosen.

"The last time I saw you, you were a toddler. Maybe a year or two old." Strike said, pushing back the uncomfortable feelings. "We never saw each other again. Your great-grandparents took you away. My uncle tried to contact them after Leda died, but they never answered. And after that," Strike just shrugged. He ignored the guilty twitch and the tug of self-loathing whenever his mother's death came up. His half-brother had never been a concern to him. Bloom had disappeared from his sphere and he seemed to be safe with his great-grandparents - away from Whittaker's influence. Strike saw no reason to seek contact. He had his own issues.

Bloom nodded and smiled. "No hard feelings. It's just... after my great-grandparents died half a year ago, I felt it was important to find out more about my family. I got married three months ago and my wife has such a large family. But on my side it was just me and my friends. No relatives. My great-grandparents never talked about their daughter, and they avoided their grandson, my father, like the plague". He looked up as the door opened and Pat entered, placing a small tray of coffee and biscuits in front of Bloom. Strike thanked her and she left.

"At the time, it was a great shame that their daughter got pregnant so young," Bloom continued. "And then they lied to my father that his mother was his big sister. It was always strange for me to be looked after by my grandparents. It took me a while to understand that they were really my great-grandparents. I have no contact with my father. After he tried to kidnap me - I read about it in an old newspaper the other day - they made sure that Whittaker and Leda's names weren't even mentioned around me." Bloom took a small sip of his coffee. "In fact, I know almost nothing about my parents. I was discouraged every time I tried to find them. But now I have access to all the documents my great-grandparents had withheld. I found out more about Leda. That led me to you. And if my research is correct, I have a half-sister, Lucy, and even an uncle."

Strike nodded. "Yes, there's me and Lucy. She has three sons. That makes you an uncle. Our Aunt Joan passed away two years ago. And Ted, our uncle, is still alive, but the Alzheimer's is getting to him." He paused for a moment. "What happened to your name?"

Bloom chuckled. "You thought yours was terrible, Cormoran Blue. Well, Switch was awful, Lavey is a Cultist, so when I turned 10 I decided on Bloom. The other two are still on my birth certificate, but I don't use them. And I wanted to cut my ties with Whittaker. That's why I took my wife's name. I am quite happy with Bloom Holland," he grinned and settled himself more comfortably in the chair.

Strike nodded. "I understand. But you could have just phoned. No appointment needed. We could have gone for a beer. "

"I know, but this isn't just a social call," he sat up and leaned towards Strike. "I want to know more about my," he paused for a second to correct himself, "our mother's death. As far as I know, it was ruled an accidental overdose. But there were doubts. And when I read the stories about my father, well.... In my papers I found a copy of a police report about her death, which seems quite sketchy. So the question is: are you willing to look into it with me?"

Strike took a deep breath. His mother's death had always been on his mind, bothering him like a sore tooth. Once again, he felt nauseous. Lucy had always held him back, begged him to let it go. Respecting her wish had prevented him from delving into Leda's death until now.

He said this to Bloom, who nodded. "She was my mother too. And I really want some clarity. Money is not the problem. I will pay. My grans left me everything. They cut Whittaker out of the will and there are no other relatives left."

Strike leaned back in his seat and considered whether his agency could take the case. His run-in with Whittaker some years ago proved he wasn't level-headed enough to do it himself.

"I can't do it," Strike said, and he saw Bloom's face drop, halting the coffee cup on its way to his mouth. "But my partner could. She has the skills and the objectivity to take on this case. But we would have to ask her. And we have to convince Lucy. She has always been against any investigation."

Perhaps it was time to lay his demons to rest. And with the support of his half-brother, it might not be labelled a madman's quest.

xxx

Robin loved working. It kept her mind off her currently difficult personal life. First Strike had confessed his love, then Murphy had proposed to her just hours later. She should have expected it - the romantic weekend in a posh hotel, a fancy dinner, his nervousness. But she had been living in denial, ignoring all the hints Murphy had dropped about children and moving in together on her return from the UHC. While the rejection of Murphy's proposal was swift, she was still dealing with the aftermath.

At first he played the understanding boyfriend when she said no, even listening to her reasons. She felt she had to make up for his disappointment with sex, but Ryan had lost his gentle touch, so she turned down his advances on Saturday night. They left the hotel early Sunday morning, both in a bad mood when he dropped her off at her flat.

Vanessa had stopped by to hear about the proposal Ryan had bragged about in her office earlier in the week. When Ryan had returned later, drunk on her doorstep, it was just Robin's luck that Vanessa was still there. The evening hadn't ended well, she'd got away unscathed, but Ryan had smashed some of her things and shouted insults at her.

That was ten weeks ago. Now she was part of an investigation into Ryan's future as a police officer that she would have liked to have avoided. She was still waiting for the outcome - but her few interactions with Ryan had been cold and distant. She got her keys back, and while there was no question of continuing the relationship, she wanted to sort things out first. In her eyes it was unwise to start a relationship with Strike while the police and even the press were interested in her private life. Especially when Murphy had hinted at infidelity on her part.

She had hated the publicity of the UHC case and just wanted her privacy back. On a personal level, Murphy had made some very hurtful accusations - calling her selfish, lying and a tease. And deep in her heart she knew there might be some truth to them. She had gone into the relationship with false assumptions, even telling him she loved him. Before starting something new, she wanted a clean break and then clarity about what she wanted from a relationship.

She knew she had to deal with Strike's confession of love, but she also needed to lick her wounds and get back on her feet. Time and space would help - and Strike promised her that. Their working relationship had not suffered, and Strike never strayed from his role as best mate - always supportive, polite and funny. So far, at least, he was not a sore loser like Matthew and Ryan. On the other hand, she was in love, even if she was unsure how to act on it.

Her and Strike's birthdays went by quietly. They both celebrated in the pub with people from the agency and their friends, they gave each other small presents and had a few drinks. All within the confines of best friends and colleagues.

She looked at the calendar. Four more weeks and then she would be able to end this terrible year in the hope that next year would be better.

They had the very lucrative job of Cricketer and they were good at it. The results were promising. He was a sleazy slimeball, but a rich, well paying one. So they followed his ex-wife, gathering evidence that she was trying to tarnish their client's reputation. Strike had texted her, asking if she had time for a drink at the pub after work. She happily accepted.

When she arrived, he was already there with their usual order of white wine and alcohol-free beer. After discussing the pressing matters of their cases, Strike told her about Bloom's visit.

"I'll do it," Robin said immediately, her natural curiosity about her closed-off partner making the case all the more interesting. "Do we have the resources to cover the Cricketer if I reduce my hours there? Or should we finally let Pat handle it?"

Strike chuckled. He liked her humour. It reminded him of his mother. He looked at his partner, taking in her more relaxed demeanour. She was beautiful, especially when she was passionate about something. It was hard not to judge her on her looks alone. She had regained the weight she had lost after the UHC case, despite the stress with Murphy, and looked healthy again. He appreciated that, and despite his promise to stay in the role of best friend, his thoughts began to linger longer on her curves. He pulled himself back.

"Yes, I will manage him myself, I will take over full time. The case is winding down anyway. In fact, I think it would be best if we took you off the case altogether. That slime ball gets bolder every time he meets you. I know you can handle him, but he is starting to think he bought something else with his money. You can work on Whitaker full time," Strike said.

Robin nodded. She had never liked the Cricketer. Their last two meetings had been strained because of his very backward views on women. Only the fact that Strike would drop the case if she said so made the client's attitude bearable. And he paid very well. He was an unpleasant character, but not so bad as to justify breaking the contract. She thought of him as a spoilt child who, for the first time, had been told he couldn't have his sweets, and that probably made him even more sleazy.

"You know, the investigation into your mother's death may take some time, this is a very cold case after all." She looked at him, catching his gentle gaze.

"I know," he said. "But it's either you or no one. I don't trust anyone else in the agency with this." He took a long sip from his beer. "First I need to get Lucy's OK. Then you can take over the case completely. If we want to get Whittaker, it can't be personal - do it right. No guesswork, hard facts." After a short pause, he added, "no emotional entanglements."

It was getting harder every day to keep her distance, but for his sake she had to get this one right. She smiled at him with longing in her eyes. He nodded. Sometimes it was uncanny, almost as if they could read each other's minds. If she took the case, it wouldn't be wise to start a romantic relationship with him while she was digging into his affairs.

They clinked glasses, a heavy promise hanging between them.

She nodded. "No tarot cards or zodiac signs then," she joked, trying to break the solemn mood and referring to the Bamborough case, which gave a glimpse into the personality of Cormoran's mother and her fascination with the occult. "Imagine how much easier our job would be with a psychic or a crystal ball," she mused.

He just chuckled. "Yes, let's make a living predicting the future. My money's on a killer virus, crazy presidents and a dead queen."

The rest of the evening was spent with an outline of how Robin would conduct the first steps of the investigation and heavy input from Strike on what he knew about Whittaker and the death of his mother. It wasn't lost on Robin that the killer was already set in his mind.

Chapter Text

Strike invited himself to dinner at Lucy's, telling her he was bringing a guest. It wasn't quite fair, because he knew she was expecting Robin, but he didn't want to explain on the phone how he'd got in touch with Bloom.

The meeting between Lucy and her lost half-brother went surprisingly well. Dinner was a noisy affair and his nephews weren't really interested in their new uncle, but Bloom was quite happy to see the extended family - and after a quick phone call to his wife, agreed to come over for Christmas dinner. Lucy was thrilled to be hosting him, along with Ted and Strike, and was even thinking about inviting Robin.

"Luce, there is something else we need to talk about," Strike steered the conversation away from possible presents after they had cleared the table. The boys had disappeared into their rooms and Greg had gone to make some phone calls, leaving the siblings alone.

Lucy turned to him. "Yes, Stick?"

"We want to investigate Leda's death," Strike said matter-of-factly. Lucy remained silent, her eyes fixed on the lamp above her, trying not to think too much about her childhood and her erratic mother. It had been a long time since she had had that conversation with Cormoran, and she had hoped it would never come up again. But with her half-brother, still essentially a stranger, it was hard to just say no.

Bloom cleared his throat. "I understand your reasons for objecting, but I really need some closure here. There are so many inconsistencies, I want some answers."

Lucy still hadn't said a word, but Strike was glad that she hadn't objected outright.

Bloom continued. "Look at it this way. We are all accidents in one way or another. At least you were lucky enough to have a relationship with your father. I have no memory of my mother and no connection with my father."

Lucy huffed. He was right. It hadn't been easy. Despite the knowledge that she was her father's illegitimate child, she had at least been more accepted than her brothers and now had a working relationship with her father and her half siblings.

"If I agree to the investigation, how would that work?" She challenged.

"I'll pay for everything..." Bloom said immediately.

"And Robin would lead the investigation," Strike added.

"You've really thought this through," she sighed. Leda had been her mother, but she had the least emotional investment in the case. She no longer felt the raw bitterness towards her mother, Joan's death and the daily struggles with her sons had mellowed her.

She looked at them both for a long time. There was little resemblance between them that would tell an outsider that they were brothers. But most people said the same about her and Strike. She nodded, a deep sigh escaping her. "OK, Stick, do it."

With Lucy's approval, Strike gave Robin the official go-ahead to investigate Leda's death.

Chapter Text

On Monday, Robin cleared her schedule for the next two weeks and handed over her assignments to Strike and the subcontractors. Then she contacted Vanessa at the Met. It was easier than expected to persuade her to hand over the files on Leda's death. It had happened over 20 years ago and the files, not even digitised, were gathering dust in the archives. They met for lunch and Vanessa wished her good luck as she handed over a rather slim manila folder.

For an inquest into a death, it was ridiculous. Leda had died on a Tuesday, the 29th of November. The file contained a coroner's report, which she already had from Bloom's files. It clearly stated overdose, but there was an exclamation mark on some of the test results. Then there were four witness statements: the paramedics, Whittaker, Strike and someone called Jonathan Stewart. The investigating officer's final report was only one page long and was stapled to the top of the file.

It was no wonder that Whittaker walked free. He gave an alibi that was corroborated by his bandmates and a press report about a gig he had at the time of Leda's death. Strike's statement was brief and factual. He had been in Oxford at the time. The ambulance team recounted how they were led to Leda's body by Jonathan Stewart at around 6.30pm and their futile attempts to resuscitate her.

Jonathan Stewart, the flatmate who found her, gave the longest statement. They had breakfast in the morning, Whittaker left before lunch, then Leda smoked a joint and went to her room. She must have died there between one and three o'clock. The witness said that someone had visited Leda during the day, but he couldn't say who, because he spent his time in a separate room sleeping (junkie - the scribbled note was added in the margin). He checked on Leda at six o'clock, having not seen her all day, and then called an ambulance.

After reading the whole file, she made a list: People, places, things.

The list of people included the four witnesses and the investigating officer, and she looked them up.

The investigating officer, DCI Anderson, had died in 1999, so this was a dead end. But she noted that a colleague might remember him, and Vanessa could help her there.

Jonathan Stewart, had died in 1997. Robin found a death certificate listing HIV as the cause of death. There were no next of kin.

She dismissed the ambulance team as unimportant because they had arrived at 6am and hadn't been there before.

Whittaker's whereabouts were currently unknown. But as far as she knew, he was still alive. He had moved after the Shaklewell Ripper case. She wasn't quite sure how to deal with him. Maybe Shanker would know more.

The only witness left was Strike. He wasn't questioned at first, but Strike went to the police anyway to give a statement about his mother's death. So she asked him for an interview too and dropped by the agency that evening with a curry. He was filing evidence for a couple of cases and was happy to see her and the food she had promised.

"So tell me in your own words about your last meeting with Leda," Robin began her interview after she had finished her meal.

Strike took a deep breath and poked through the rest of his curry. "It was two days before she died. Nick had invited me to London to celebrate my birthday. It was the weekend. My Birthday had already come and gone, but Nick insisted on celebrating for real. I had to go back to Oxford on Monday and I visited my mother on Sunday. I never liked the crowd she hung out with, especially Whittaker. I always felt bad leaving her with him. He was violent." He dropped the fork on the plate and reached for his beer instead. "The baby was taken by social services and put with Whittaker's grandparents. Bloom was raised by them. Whittaker's mother was their teenage daughter and also a troubled child. So with Bloom gone, it was one less thing to worry about. But Whittaker blamed my mum for his son not being with him. I don't know why he wanted him so badly. He used to get furious when the baby cried.” Strike spoke without emotion, the story seemed boring to him.

"How was your mother?" Robin asked.

"She seemed fine. The usual, maybe a bit tired." Strike took a small sip of his beer. "I got there at nine. She was still asleep, so I woke her. She had a coffee and a cigarette for breakfast. Asked me about my studies. She gave me £20 and sent me on my way. Whittaker seemed more stable, but by then he had turned to drug dealing. He was there in the beginning too, but left later - we never interacted unless we had to.” Strike paused. "He hardly ever left my mother alone. That's why I'm so suspicious about her supposedly overdosing alone. I was glad Shanker was still in the flat. "

“Wait a moment – Shanker was there?” she scribbled on her notepad.

"Yes. He had a mattress in a room there. He hung around my mum a lot, he liked her. They had a strange friendship," he smiled at the memory.

"Why wasn't he questioned by the police?" Robin asked.

"You know Shanker - even back then he was very shifty. He kept away from the police. And the police were never interested in solving the case. To them she was just another dead drug addict. Especially with the reputation my mum had. MDMA was on the rise at the time. It was an easy explanation." He finished his beer, his mind on the last meeting, willing away Leda's sad face.

"I think I should talk to Shanker. Anything else?"

He shook his head. They continued to talk about possible enemies and drug habits. Strike just stressed that all of Leda's problems were related to Whittaker - he was into drugs, had his violent outbursts, was always begging Leda for money she didn't have, and raged about her being a bad mother. He was the prime suspect, and that was why Cormoran went to the police, trying to get them to take a closer look at Whittaker.

Robin listened, taking notes where necessary. But she could see that the decision to keep him out of the investigation was a good one. He was usually quite adamant about means over motives. Here he was dead set on Whittaker.

Chapter Text

Two days later, she met Shanker at a pool hall. Robin brought two small bags of toys for his girls. Despite Shanker's often shady dealings, he was now a devoted father and the way to his heart was through gifts for his stepdaughters. At first he was reluctant to stay when she told him about her investigation, but seeing her (with the gifts) broke the ice and got him talking over a game of pool.

"I was running errands for Leda, picking up fags. Stuff like that." He watched Robin break the balls. "I was there during the day, I usually went out in the evenings and nights. But that day I had to leave in the morning. I had to help a guy with something." The way he averted his eyes as he followed the yellow ball into the pocket, it was obvious that Shanker had done something illegal. "But there was a suit at the flat meeting with Whittaker, so with an audience he was still loud but decent. And I knew he was leaving half an hour later. He had a gig somewhere up north." Robin missed a pocket and stood up straight.

"Wait a minute. There was a guy? " Robin asked.

"Yes," Shanker circled the table, looking for the perfect spot to shoot a red ball.

"So there was Leda, a guy in a suit and Whittaker in the apartment." Robin clarified.

Shanker leaned down and aimed at the cue ball. "And Jon. He lived there too. But he was always stoned. His brain was mush." Shanker shot and pocketed two red balls.

Robin already knew Jonathan Stewart. A dead end.

"What time did you leave?"

"Don't know. Tenish?" Shanker shrugged.

"Who was the suit?" she asked.

"Don't know. Just a businessman. Thought he was buying drugs from Whittaker." Shanker managed another shot. "Tall guy, skinny. The horned glasses, made him look like a freak with coke bottle bottoms. Anyway, when I came back the next morning, the suit was gone and Leda was gone. Whittaker had been taken in by the police to give a statement. Jon told me. Cried like a baby. I should have protected her." Shanker shook his head in disbelief. He paused, took aim and missed.

"Do you think it was an accidental overdose?" Robin asked, concentrating on the balls on the table.

"Leda never did hard stuff. I don't know why she would have done it then." His eyes followed Robin's back as she bent over the table to get better access to the cue ball.

"And you never told the police?" Robin asked as she aimed. Shanker just gave her a dirty look, which Robin ignored as she pocketed the ball. "Was she suicidal?"

"Leda? No." Shanker shook his head vehemently. "She loved life. She had many plans. She still wanted to meet Eric Bloom. And she would never leave. She wasn't the perfect mother, but she would never do that to Luce and Bunsen. Too bad he could never make up with her."

Robin missed the cue ball. "What do you mean?" she asked.

Shanker just shrugged, positioned himself at the table and aimed. "I just heard them shouting and Bunsen storming out the last time they met. Never talked about it." Shanker grinned as two balls rolled into the pockets.

Robin just nodded. Strike hadn't told her about this, and that made her suspicious.

"Where did Leda get her drugs from?" she asked as an afterthought.

"Like I said, she just did pot. Shared a stash with Jonathan. Whittaker only did the hard stuff. He was big in the business back then. I never took anything from him, I didn't trust him." Shanker finished his last balls and won. She thanked him and left. As usual, the list of questions grew, but the answers were still missing.

xxx

On a whim, she called Nick for a meeting that evening, because she needed his professional opinion. She promised to bring pizza for the whole family.

As they ate, she explained her new case to them. They were both a little apprehensive, but when they heard about Strike's half-brother, they accepted the reason for the investigation. Nick and Robin moved into the living room while Ilsa got Benjamin ready for bed.

"I've got the coroner's report here. Could you take a look at it?" Robin explained, taking the papers out of her bag.

Nick nodded and took the file, studying it.

"Do the test results have any particular meaning other than 'overdose'?" asked Robin.

There was a long pause from Nick as he read through the whole document again.

"Well." Nick said, "I'm no expert, but if it was an accidental overdose, the readings on these two values wouldn't be so high." He pointed to two numbers. "A drug addict usually knows the strength of the stuff they use. If it's an accidental overdose, it's usually no more than twice the usual dose. Here, the amount administered is 5 to 6 times higher than a person like Leda would take."

"Does that mean an intentional overdose?" Robin clarified.

"Most likely."

Robin looked grim. "So it's either suicide or murder."

Nick nodded. "I can check with a colleague who has more experience and get back to you. He might see something I don't."

Robin thanked him. Her mind was already adding to her list of questions. Why had the policeman not noticed? She needed to ask Vanessa if she could find out anything useful about DCI Anderson.

It was late and she went home. Most pressing now was the argument Shanker said Strike had had with Leda. Nobody lies without a reason.

She checked the rota and noticed that Strike had some office hours scheduled for tomorrow.

Chapter Text

She got up early and took the tube to the office. As expected, Strike was already at his desk, Pat would be in later. He always worked hard, but in the last few weeks his personal life, apart from time to work out or visit the doctor, seemed to be non-existent. She was no fool, he waited for her move. It made her feel warm inside.

She entered and placed a cup of coffee in front of him. He looked up and gave her a warm smile.

"Good morning," he greeted her. They sipped their coffee and joked about the current workload, when Robin became serious.

"Cormoran, I have heard that you argued with your mother the last time you saw her. It may not be relevant, but for a thorough investigation I need to ask you what it was about." She hesitated for a second, "and why you withheld that information."

Strike froze with the cup of coffee on its way to his mouth. His face went pale and a slight tremor ran through his hand. He put the cup back on his desk. Strike stood and walked to the window. Deep breaths could not hide his anxiety.

"I don't think that argument is relevant to the case," he deflected.

"That's for me to decide," Robin replied.

He turned to her and started to speak, but before he could get a word out, he closed his mouth and turned back to the window. His hand combed through his hair, over his mouth, down his shirt. He stuffed it into his trouser pockets.

A sad chuckle escaped him. "I should have known that you would find out about this. I'm not proud of what happened." He looked at her, sadness making him look older than his years.

Robin just shrugged. "Tell me, please."

He turned away again, avoiding her gaze. It was his chance to finally come clean, to face the shame. He exhaled.

"The last time I met my mother, we had this argument." He paused, thinking back to that day that still affected his life.

"I celebrated my birthday that weekend. I stayed at Nick's, he invited me after he heard that my plans to celebrate with Charlotte hadn't worked out. Her birthday was two days before mine. She was in Aruba with her family on a cruise - a birthday present to get her away from me. Well, as I was in London, I wanted to see Mum before I went back to Oxford. I met her on Sunday, two days before she died. I went to the flat she shared with Whittaker. She was still asleep, so I woke her up and made some coffee. She had a joint. ... I hated her being on drugs - so lethargic and lifeless. She had even forgotten my birthday. And Whitaker was there, stinking, groping her, ..." He took a deep breath and grimaced, as if he could still smell the stale aroma.

He was tired of being poor, and Oxford was driving it home. He had no money to go out, to parties, to clubs. And Charlotte's family made sure to take her somewhere he couldn't follow with his limited funds. There was no chance of a bank lending him money, but at least he had secured a small student loan. It was used up within two months. In the end, he turned to 'private' lenders with horrendous interest rates, which he couldn't meet. He was too proud to ask Ted and Joan, and his anger at his mother festered.

"I told Leda that I had to go back and that it wasn't easy. I have forgotten how the argument escalated, but it was about money. I didn't have any, I was in debt, she was financing her drugs, Whittaker... and I got so angry because I assumed she was getting some support from Rokeby that she was withholding from me." He paused again. His 'new' friends at Oxford had convinced him that Rokeby's son must be rich, that it was impossible that there wasn't money.

"When I first started at Oxford, Rokeby offered me money, but the conditions for releasing the trust fund were an affront... I lost it and told Rokeby's solicitor Gillespie that I couldn't be bought. Ted and Joan paid the Oxford fees and the room, but money was always tight. I met Charlotte at the beginning of my studies, and well..." he gathered his courage to continue the story. He was ashamed, but he was the only one to blame.

He took another deep breath. Looking back, Strike was horrified at what had happened. "She was expensive. She wanted to eat in fancy places, persuaded me to go on short trips to London, demanded the odd gift. I got into debt. I was so stupid in love." Robin listened in silence. She had barely experienced Charlotte's hold on him first hand, but she had heard enough from Ilsa.

"When I went to see Mum, I was broke, hadn't eaten anything decent for a while, had a hangover from partying with Nick and I'd been dodging fare on the tube - I even got caught - it seemed my luck had run out. Mum waved my worries away as if they were nothing. Two weeks earlier, when a debt collector had turned up at my door, I had the idea of joining the army. I told my mother and she laughed at me. She said she hadn't brought me up to get killed in some stupid war. She gave me 20 pounds. And I lost it, I shouted a few insults and I stormed out.” Strike looked miserable and turned to her. "But I took the money," he whispered.

"That was the last time I saw my mother." His eyes found the ceiling, trying to keep his composure. He turned his back on Robin, took a few deep breaths and fought for control.

Two days later, when he had spent the last of his money on a ticket back to Oxford, his mother and the last days of a carefree student life were gone. Instead of returning to the lecture hall, still unaware of his mother's death, he had enlisted in the army. He left Oxford for good a few weeks later, after Leda had been buried.

Robin slowly got to her feet and approached him. She put a tentative hand on his shoulder.

"Cormoran, it's all right. You couldn't have known. And it was a hard time for you." He dropped his eyes to the ground and shook his head. Robin turned him around. Despite their promise to keep their relationship professional for the time being, she was still his best mate. She pulled him into a hug.

"You were what? Twenty? It's okay to be angry at twenty." He was stiff at first. She could feel his heart pounding against her chest. He slowly relaxed and hugged her back.

After a few moments he broke the embrace. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"Don't be. It's OK," she reassured him.

Strike slumped back in his chair. He reached for the coffee cup, the beverage had gone cold, but the bitter taste washed away the remnants of the bad memories.

Looking back, it was surprising that no one had guessed his real reasons for joining the army. People just assumed, and he never corrected them. He had no work experience. The regular monthly pay was all he needed. When he told Charlotte about his plans, it had led to the first big fight with her. Then he had thought it was massive, but compared to all the others that followed, it was just a warm up. Wiser now, he saw that it had even played into Charlotte's hands that he was no longer an enrolled student at Oxford. The army had made his life predictable, he told her of his home leave a few weeks in advance. It was likely that she had already been cheating on him with Jago Ross by then. He was just a sugar daddy, adding money and drama to her lifestyle. All because he had been an idiot in love.

Robin leaned on the desk next to him.

Strike looked up at her. "Despite the regular paycheck, it took me three years to pay off my debts. My income barely covered the expenses with Charlotte. I led a very frugal lifestyle, but the infrequent meetings with her were costly. The first big break with Charlotte came after 6 years. It should have been obvious that I was earning enough. In the year without her, I was able to save a lot. But when I got back together with her, the money went out the window again. I was in the army for 12 years and the SIB paid well, but..." he paused. "I was so stupid. Charlotte was my girlfriend on and off for 16 years, but I could never afford her."

Robin didn't comment. Suddenly some of the inconsistencies made sense. As long as she had known him, he had never spent money on himself, but had always given generously. He lived a very Spartan life, but he knew the rich and famous. It also explained why he had no savings despite his long army career and needed his father's loan to start the agency.

"I never learned how to handle money. With my mother, whatever came in was soon spent. And Charlotte had a way of getting the things she wanted. I am doing much better now. Since Laing I am solid."

Robin nodded. The agency made good money and they shared it equally. She had spent a lot of it on her divorce and then on the deposit for her flat, but the last two years had been good. The four months at Chapman Farm had meant no expenses for her, but a large income. "Thank you for telling me," she said.

He just nodded. The sound of the outer office door opening startled them both. "Pat's here." Strike said unnecessarily.

Robin nodded. "Yeah. I've got to go. If anything comes up or you need to talk, call me, OK?" With a warm smile, she gave him a peck on the cheek and turned towards the office door.

Strike nodded, the last few minutes had been shameful for him, but he felt relieved. He had never told anyone, not even Lucy knew the extent of his debts, but if anyone needed to know that part of his life, it was Robin.

xxx

Robin spent the rest of the day searching for information on DCI Anderson and looking for documents by and about Leda Strike.

Vanessa had made enquiries with her colleagues. Anderson had more enemies than friends in the force and had retired in the late nineties. It was rumoured that he had taken a bribe to look the other way during an investigation, but there was little evidence. A deal was struck for early retirement and no one was unhappy about it. A few years later he had a fatal heart attack.

Robin still had no clear picture of Leda: Super-groupie, reluctant mother, potential victim of domestic abuse. No label made her tangible. She had even researched and read all the newspaper articles about Leda from that time. The circumstances of her death were still sketchy. She needed more information. After a lucky phone call to Shanker, Robin found out that Leda's papers and few possessions were with Ted in St Mawes. Shanker had sent them after Whittaker had done nothing, Lucy wasn't interested and Strike was unavailable due to his army training.

Robin phoned Ted, who greeted her like a long lost friend. Cormoran had told him many stories and, despite his Alzheimer's, he remembered them. He was eager to meet Robin at last and invited her to St Mawes to collect the few boxes with Leda's belongings.

Chapter Text

The next day she was off in her beloved Land Rover, arriving in St Mawes 6 hours later. She was lucky and the weather stayed dry and pleasant. Ted insisted on tea. He had already forgotten that he had invited her, but he still knew her and told her again how Cormoran always mentioned her. They got into a friendly conversation, and Ted told some stories about Leda, showing how often she had disturbed the quiet life of Cormoran and Lucy. But he also made it clear that they had had some good times in St Mawes. After a lovely two hours chatting, Ted took her up to the attic and pointed to a small tower of five boxes. He told her to take whatever she needed.

Robin stared at the boxes. The name 'Strike' was scrawled on each one with a black marker. Three trips up and down later, she had moved all the boxes into the Land Rover. She quickly made some pasta for an early dinner with Ted and then said goodbye.

Not wanting to drive back 6 hours in the dark, she booked a room in a small bed and breakfast in Truro. Walking through the historic centre, with its beautifully arranged Christmas decorations, she saw the perfect gift for Cormoran in a shop window. Just before the shop closed, she slipped in and bought it.

December made the air cold, so she found a small pub opposite her B&B where she had a white wine by the fireplace. As she looked over her notes so far, adding questions and ideas, her mind wandered to a young boy and his troubled childhood. It was a wonder he hadn't turned out more like Shanker, or fallen for the lure of drugs. All he wanted was a little stability, which he found neither in Oxford, nor in his girlfriend, nor in his family. She went to bed early because she was leaving for London as early as possible tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Robin arrived back in London around lunchtime. She hadn't told Strike about her short trip to St Mawes and hoped that Ted wouldn't mention it. Her partner's barely concealed impatience and anger whenever their investigation took her away from Whittaker was irritating and she didn't want to deal with it. He was prejudiced in a way she had never thought possible. She hadn't got very far into the investigation, but there was nothing to suggest that Whittaker was the prime suspect. On the contrary, he would have gained more if Leda had stayed alive. At least the chance of getting his son back was greater, if that was one of his motivations. But why he wanted the son so badly was still a mystery. Besides, he had a solid alibi.

Nick's colleague, who had called her while she was driving, had confirmed the findings of the coroner's report, even stating that the time of death must have been mid-afternoon. Research into rigor mortis was now much more advanced. An overdose meant a quick death, and as Whittaker had left before lunch, he couldn't have been there.

She unloaded the boxes into her flat and went through them methodically. While she usually did her work in the office, she wanted to keep the constant reminders of Strike's mother out of his sight. And she didn't want to explain where the boxes had come from.

Robin found various mementos: Ticket stubs from festivals and concerts, a ring, necklace and bracelet, a well-used tarot deck, a silk scarf, lots of photographs. Then there were the legal papers: birth certificates for Lucy and Cormoran, a lease in Whittaker's name for the flat where she died, letters from law firms about alimony (the letters concerning Lucy were tidy and straightforward, Cormoran's pile was chaotic).

Surprisingly, there were also letters from Rokeby. There was one from the 70s, dated shortly after Cormoran's birth, which spewed a lot of hate at Leda, calling her a gold digger and a leech. Then there were two letters from 1994. They were dated two and four weeks before her death. The last letter suggested a time and place for a coffee. The meeting never took place because Leda was already dead by the time it was suggested. It took Robin all day to sort through the four boxes. Whoever had packed them, she assumed Shanker, had just thrown everything in.

The last box wasn't Leda's, though. It was sorted and contained only papers and a few photographs. After reading the first document, it was clear that they belonged to Cormoran. Her first impulse was to ignore the box and give it to him, but the box had been stashed away with the others and her instinct compelled her to sort it as well. The photos were mostly of him in his late teens with his friends, Nick, Ilsa, Charlotte and others she didn't know. She found his admission letter to Oxford, a grant for a student loan, a stiff-sounding letter from Rokeby congratulating him on his admission to Oxford. It was typed and not even signed. Then there were some documents from Rokeby's solicitor. One was very crumpled, but smoothed out. It was a contract dated 1992, relating to a Trust Fund in Cormoran's name. It set out the conditions for the release of the money.

She read through the document and could understand why someone as proud as Cormoran hadn't signed it, despite the dire need. He had been right, the terms were unacceptable. It required him to distance himself from his mother, to prevent the money ending up with Leda. It also stated that he had to attend regular meetings with his father, especially public events, and play his part in the family. He was forbidden to talk to the press about Rokeby, his family or the band. She got angry on his behalf. Cormoran never sought publicity. To ask in writing what he had already lived, even at the age of 18, seemed petty.

After spending the whole weekend sorting, reading and documenting, she still had more questions than answers. There was always talk of money, but no amount or bank account was ever mentioned. It was also puzzling why Rokeby had chosen to contact Leda after such a long time.

She needed more information.

Chapter Text

Monday was spent on the phone. She had no luck finding Leda's bank details. After phoning Ted again (he actually remembered her visit, which made her happy), she now knew that Leda distrusted banks and had only dealt in hard cash.

She phoned Cormoran about possible payments from Rokeby. He assured her that he had never received any money from Rokeby. He even offered to show her his entire financial history. Not wanting to pry too deeply into his affairs, but needing to confirm his statement, she asked only for the year before Leda's death. A few hours later, he sent her various scans of yellowed bank statements. There was only the income from a student loan payment and a small monthly transfer from Ted marked 'living expenses'. It was clear that his account was in the red and that his expenses were significantly higher than his income. The last time he had seen Leda, he was £9,000 in debt, a large sum in 1994, especially for a student. In her eyes, this proved that Cormoran hadn't received any money from Rokeby, otherwise his finances wouldn't have been so dire.

Robin sympathised with the younger Strike, who had never had a stable home, and money problems were always looming on the horizon. Oxford was a place where he probably felt a sense of belonging for the first time - the start of something new for everyone, the parties, and then he fell in love. No wonder he wanted to hold on to it and spent more than he had. Money problems as a reason for joining the army made much more sense now. She had always found it strange that his mother's death had sent him there. He was a man of action, who wanted to solve things. If he wanted justice for his mother's death, he would have joined the Met.

Robin needed the other side. There were always two parties to a payment. The recipient and the payer. Determined to get her answers in just one way, she contacted Rokeby's agency. But she only got as far as his prissy assistant and was rebuffed. Going to Cormoran and asking him to help her get an appointment was out of the question. Everything about his father was a minefield. With no chance of getting information directly from Rokeby or his staff, she contacted another person she knew who was close to Rokeby: Cormoran's half-brother Al.

Al was delighted to hear from her, remembering fondly the adventure and adrenaline rush of the Quine case. In fact he was so keen to help that he invited her to join him for a drink at an upmarket bar on the Thames on Wednesday evening.

Chapter Text

The bar was still rather empty when she arrived, but that made all the Christmas decorations stand out even more. Relaxing seasonal music in the background made her more aware of the approaching holiday. The current investigation had kept her from making any Christmas plans, and she needed to buy presents for her family, but there was still time. When Al arrived, only ten minutes late but deeply sorry, they exchanged pleasantries and ordered some wine.

"How much do you know about your father's finances?" she asked boldly.

"Probably more than Dad himself," he joked.

Robin raised an eyebrow.

"Well," Al went on, "Dad was always bad with money. He had his assistants, his accountants, his lawyers. He just signed where he was told. A few years ago I helped out a bit to learn more about the music business and I got some insight into his finances.”

Robin made a quick note. "Do you know anything about the financial settlement between Leda Strike and your father?"

"No, not really. It was taboo in the house. My mother never wanted to talk about the ex-wives and his other children. Nowadays she's not so strict - she even likes the big family gatherings, but when I was young she always left when Maime, Gabi or Dani came to visit. I just remember Dad being nasty because Leda got so much."

Robin's head snapped up. "But as far as I know, Leda got nothing. And Cormoran certainly never saw any money."

Al shook his head. "No, that can't be. I remember my father ranting and raving about how Leda was wasting his money on drugs and sponsoring bad musicians. It must have been a lot of money for him to notice."

"Is there any record of his finances from that time?" Robin asked.

Al shrugged. "Sure. It must be in the archives somewhere. I can have a look. It's in his basement, not digitised or anything. It might take a day or two."

"Would you do that for me?" Robin asked.

"Sure. I like my brother. I always wondered why he always seemed broke. I thought it was his lifestyle or something." He took a sip of his wine, thoughtful. "Never understood his hatred for my father either."

The rest of the meeting was spent in a pleasant discussion of past Christmases and plans for the coming holidays. They parted, with Al promising to look into the documents immediately and to send her anything concerning Leda or Cormoran.

On her way to the tube station, and not very hopeful, she called Rokeby's office again. She still wanted to know why he had sought contact with Leda in 1994. Robin was greeted by a very cheerful assistant and, after explaining what she wanted, she was able to secure an appointment with Rokeby in two days' time. As she paused on the steps down to the station to finish her call, she saw a reflection in the corner of her eye. It was a penny on the pavement, perfectly new, not a dent and still shiny. And maybe it was her lucky day, Christmas had come early, the assistant even agreed to book the meeting in Denmark Street. Rokeby had a PR gig in the area that day and would be passing by anyway. Robin bent down and picked up the penny. Now all she had to do was arrange the schedule to keep Cormoran out of the office during that time. Smiling, she put the penny into her pocket.

Maybe some answers were closer now.

Chapter Text

It was late afternoon and Robin should have been happy, but she was on edge. Her affairs with Ryan Murphy were finally settled. An official letter had informed her of the court's decision. Ryan had shown remorse and was willing to go to rehab. From January on he would be transferred to a desk job in another city. Robin even received a letter from Ryan apologising. It sounded shallow and wrong. She felt guilty that it had come to this. The more she thought about it, the more she had to admit that she should have faced her feelings sooner. The bad habit of always trying to appease people, keeping everyone happy and ignoring her own wishes had brought her an unhappy marriage and now a messy end to a relationship. Technically, she could move on now, but she had to figure out how.

Standing in the office in front of her wall of evidence was a way of chasing away the guilt of her failures in the relationship.

Robin had rearranged all the evidence on the board and finally brought the boxes from her flat into the office, stacking them discreetly next to a filing cabinet, the markings facing the wall. Some of the papers she had put up after the interview with Al, others she had taken down again. The board was movable, so she could put it away when she didn't need it, keeping it out of sight when Strike was in. She went over everything again, knowing it by heart now, and hoping that Jonny Rokeby would give her that last bit of information. She had a theory, even if the evidence was scant.

Pat had already left the office, so Robin was surprised when the door opened and her partner entered the inner office a few moments later. According to the rota, he was supposed to be out of London, following the cricketer's wife to a Christmas charity event. Robin had arranged it this way with Sam (begging him not to take over if Strike asked) because Rokeby was due later and she didn't want them to bump into each other.

"Still working hard?" Strike greeted her wearily. His coat was covered in snowflakes and his hair was wet from the melted snow. He had taken full charge of the cricketer's case, and although he was fitter than he had been in a long time, a whole day's walking had made his stump ache. The temperature had dropped over the past few days, and patches of sleet had made the roads slippery and his surveillance more difficult. He even looked a little pale.

Robin turned the board away, trying to hide its contents. "Yeah, something doesn't add up. Why are you here? I thought you were on the woman?" she asked subtly.

"The gala was cancelled due to the coming heavy snow and she went home." Strike took off his coat and shook off the clinging snow. His eyes fell on the folder on Robin's desk, marked 'Leda Strike'. He pointed at it. "I'm telling you, it's Whittaker. He wanted her dead. Told me often enough whenever he was stoned. Have you found him yet?" Strike said.

Robin could tell he was tired and cold. Perhaps he was even annoyed that she hadn't produced any evidence yet - his mood swings about his mother were almost predictable. She rolled her eyes, tired of his constant accusations against Whittaker. "No. And I'm not sure -" she said with some annoyance.

"He did it!" Strike insisted.

"I'm working the case. And I'm not going to jump to conclusions." She said firmly. "I know it must have been bad for you..."

"How do you know? You weren't there! Whittaker was gloating all the time about how he fucked her and what kind of control he had over her. He's a madman." Strike's voice had risen.

"I know. But this is not hard evidence. He has an alibi!" she snapped, just as loudly. "I met Whittaker during the Shaklewell Ripper investigation, in case you forgot. I know he is vile. But I am trying to find out what happened, no guesswork, no divination -

"Are you accusing me of making it up? Can't you see?" he interrupted her, taking a step towards her. "He killed her because he wanted money, because he fantasised about killing someone, because he accused her of not taking care of their son! Because he is a junkie-"

"That's the problem," Robin cut him off, leaning in closer. "You think you solved it years ago." Bitterness crept into her tone.

"Yes, I did." he spat. "I was there. Who else would have done it?"

"Whatever happened to means over motive?" she shot back at his towering form, crossing her arms. He was tense, and she could sense the barely suppressed rage in him. Robin took a deep breath and tried to control her anger. "You grieved, you felt guilty and it clouded your judgement, that's why I'm on this case, remember?"

"And you're not looking in the right places. You see her as just another junkie who deserved..." Strike spat.

"That's not fair and you know it," Robin snapped at him, shouting to match his temper. "I have a theory. There is someone who..."

"There was no one else, look at Whittaker, he..."

"No-" she tried to stop him, but he just spoke over her.

"So you figured everything out? Sometimes it's not elaborate, it's just the simplest solution," he sneered.

"No, but -" she tried again. The shrill ring of the office phone interrupted her. Robin shot him an angry glare.

"'Yeah, Strike & Ellacott's office here. Robin speaking," she answered the phone.

"Okay. That's too bad..... No problem..... Where?" Robin checked her watch and scribbled an address on a notepad in front of her. "I'll be there. Thanks." Robin put the phone down with more force than necessary and looked at her partner. He looked exhausted. The year had been hell for them. Maybe she shouldn't have agreed to take his mother's case before Christmas. She would take this last appointment and then leave it until after the New Year.

She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to calm herself. "This isn't over. You told me to investigate and that's what I'm doing. But I have to go to a meeting. We'll talk later." She tore off the note, grabbed her handbag and coat.

Strike had prepared to continue arguing, but Robin's words had deflated him. He glared at her. She whispered a quick goodbye and left.

He was too caught up in his anger to reply. The door slammed shut.

xxx

Robin had hurried to the tube, careful not to slip on the icy pavement, and was now sitting in a carriage, silently fuming at Strike's inability to distance himself from what had happened for the sake of the case. She understood his reasoning and his distrust, but she was shocked at how raw his feelings still were about his mother.

But now she had to concentrate on the next meeting. She was on her way to see Jonny Rokeby. Instead of meeting at the office, his assistant (the rude one) had given her a new address. Rokeby had been delayed with a PR meeting and it would be more convenient to meet there. She didn't mind, it was half an hour by tube and she had no appointments afterwards.

Al had texted Robin while she was on the tube to the meeting. When she got back to the surface, her phone rang. First he apologised for taking so long to find anything, but the archive was a mess, many of the documents had been misfiled. Al had sent her some photos of contracts he thought were important. One was the agreement for the regular payment of alimony. Another was about setting up a trust fund, and a third was about the payout.

Zooming in, Robin immediately noticed that although the document looked similar to the crumpled paper from Cormoran's box, it seemed shorter. She was already late and the wind had picked up, blowing snowflakes into her eyes and onto her phone, so she saved the files to the office cloud server for later inspection. Putting her phone on vibrate, she braced herself against the worsening weather and approached the meeting point.

A theory had begun to form in her mind. Rokeby could clear up a few things, but she would have to be clever in her questioning. Checking the address on the small piece of paper, she had arrived at the right place. It was a small block of flats, about ten similar buildings, each five storeys high, probably ten flats each, built in the early nineties for singles or young couples. She was a little confused as to why the meeting with Rokeby would be here. Shrugging, she looked at the doorbells. They were all neatly labelled and she immediately found the button for 'Flat B', just as the assistant had said. She pressed it. After a moment the buzzer sounded and she pushed the door open.

The stairwell smelled stale and a small memory of a terrible night flashed through her mind. She exhaled to calm her nerves. One floor up, a door opened and light flooded the stairwell. "Please come up, we are already here," a voice greeted her.

She hurried up. An older man in a well-fitting business suit held the door open. She nodded to him and stepped inside. A stench of sweat and cold smoke assaulted her nostrils. Looking at the man, she saw the glasses and the strong prescription that made his eyes as small as buttons. Suddenly she knew what had happened to cause Leda's death. Before she could turn and run, her arm was grabbed roughly and she felt cold metal pressing down on her neck. Hearing more than feeling, the electric shock of a Taser rendered her unconscious.

When she came to, she couldn't move. Her limbs and mouth didn't obey. The man had placed her on a mattress. The solid warmth of a body pressed against her from behind, but she couldn't turn her head to look. She was no longer wearing her jacket and she began to panic. The man in the suit took her arm, pulling up her shirt sleeve. Robin tried to move, to shake the lethargy that had overtaken her, but only a whimper escaped her lips.

The man smelled of Old Spice and cigars, and it became more pronounced as he leaned closer to her to inspect her arm. After some rustling, a needle pierced her skin. The pain of breaking skin was the only thing she could concentrate on and it dawned on her that the whole experience was real and not a dream.

"I never thought someone would come looking for me after all this time. It's your fault, pretty girl. You should have kept your nose out of it." With that, the man pushed the contents of the syringe into her. Moments later, warmth spread under her skin and a pleasant tingling sensation enveloped her. Her last thought was of the argument with Cormoran. A tear ran down her cheek and felt like a hot, burning trail on her sensitive skin. Her vision began to blur, she struggled, but her mind was slowly pulled into nothingness.

xxx

Strike groaned as Robin stormed out, his hand running through his damp curly hair. He hated arguing with Robin. But she was wrong. Whittaker wasn't innocent, his instincts told him. Robin had been flitting in and out of the office for the last two weeks, keeping her findings close to her chest, and he felt shut out.

He tried to control his anger. The Pavlovian reflex of anger, guilt and hurt every time his mother came up was tiring. But now he had to update the Cricketer's file before he forgot half of it. With a great deal of effort, he banished his emotions and sat down at his desk. His stump ached after a whole day of walking around London, it had become uncomfortably cold and slippery. The last-minute change in his surveillance plan had also annoyed him. The evidence they had gathered so far for the Cricketer case was not as convincing as he had hoped, and the target was very discreet. They had photographs, but none of them would be good enough to convince a judge of her involvement. It felt like a wasted day. And he had not had a decent meal all day.

He sorted through some pictures with determination. The silence of the office was a balm for his frayed nerves. The thought of a curry later made him feel better.

Half an hour later, his anger had cooled. He knew it was unreasonable, but his mother's death had triggered it. The whole situation with her, the memories of the fight and the money problems, it all made him irritable and it hadn't been fair of him to blow up at Robin. He needed to apologise to her. She was just doing her job, a job he and his half-brother had asked her to do. He would call her later, when she had finished her meeting. But first he needed something to eat.

Just as he got up to fetch the menu from the kitchen for the Thai place that was delivering, the buzzer sounded on the front door. He walked over to Pat's desk to activate it.

"Yes." he spoke.

"I have an appointment," a man's deep voice answered.

Strike was surprised. As far as he knew, nothing was scheduled and Robin had left for her meeting half an hour ago. He buzzed the man in anyway.

The clanking of the iron steps announced the man's arrival at the office door. Before he could knock, Strike called, "It's open, come in!"

Just as he rounded Pat's desk, Jonny Rokeby stepped in and smiled at him.

Strike froze when he saw his father. He had only seen him in magazines, and usually Strike just skimmed through the pages, not bothering with Rokeby's gossip. The last time they had met was 24 years ago. Only now did he realise that he had inherited his height from his father, but not his stature. Rokeby was quite thin.

"Cormoran," Rokeby said. "Nice to meet you here. I didn't know you'd be here." Rokeby looked around as if in search of somebody. Finding no one else, he turned to Strike. "I have an appointment at six, with someone called Robin." He clicked his heels a little, like a young man with too much energy, but he seemed unperturbed by Strike's silence.

Strike was stunned. He knew nothing of this and shook himself out of his stupor.

"What?" he asked, confused.

"'Yeah. My driver dropped me off." Rokeby pulled a pair of glasses out of his crumpled black suit jacket. Then he fished a smartphone out of his other pocket and tapped awkwardly on it. "Bloody thing..." he muttered. "Just learning, otherwise my grandkids would never talk to me."

Strike stared, stunned at the incongruity of Rokeby, the bad boy of rock and roll, in his office wearing reading glasses and using a smartphone. After a few moments of adjusting his glasses and poking at the touchscreen with bony fingers, Rokeby said. "Here it is: Appointment with Robin Ellacott in Denmark Street. Subject: Leda Strike. 6pm."

"What?" Cormoran repeated, still trying to understand why his biological father was standing in his office. But something else struck him. "You wanted to meet here?" he asked, more to himself. Rokeby nodded and Strike checked his watch. It was 6 o'clock. Robin had left half an hour ago.

"Someone called and changed the meeting place," Strike murmured.

Rokeby looked confused. "But my calendar says the meeting is here..."

A sudden panic struck Strike. Robin had said she had a theory, someone she had found... "Shit." Cormoran swore. He picked up his phone and dialled Robin's number. After a few rings, it went to her voicemail. He hurried back to Robin's desk. There was the Post-It block she had scribbled the address on. He took it to his lamp. The indentation was clearly visible. He took a pencil and shaded the paper to see the outline. She had been so angry that the force of the pencil had left deep dents. The address he could now read was in West Kilborn, Flat B, half an hour away.

He stormed out again, grabbing his coat, a puzzled Rokeby looking at him.

"Something's wrong." Strike just grumbled at the stunned Rokeby and thundered down the stairs, not bothering with the door.

Rokeby shrugged and followed Cormoran, catching up with him at the curb where the detective was trying unsuccessfully to catch a taxi in the swirling, falling snow. He had his phone and redialed Robin's number, but she didn't answer. The weather had worsened and gusts of wind were making the snowflakes dance in the lights of passing cars, making it hard to see.

"Son," Rokeby said, "there's my driver. If it's urgent..." he pointed to the black limousine parked on the double yellow.

Strike looked at him. The use of the nickname unnerved him, and his hatred for Rokeby fought with his concern for Robin. He approached the car and climbed into the front passenger seat, shouting the address.

The driver looked puzzled, but Rokeby had got in the back. "Do what he says."

With that, the driver pulled the car off the kerb.

The driver was fast, but it was still the longest 25 minutes of Strike's life. After five minutes in the car and more attempts to call Robin, he rang Wardle. It took a lot of persuasion to get a police car sent to the address on a hunch and no definite threat, but Wardle promised to send a patrol. The driver had barely stopped when Strike pushed himself out of the car. Sleet made his gait unsteady. His eyes swept over the average and somewhat run-down apartment complex. They looked all quite similar, but he soon found number 34.

The tags next to the buzzers contained the names and numbers of the flats. Strike rang the doorbell of 'Flat B'. No one answered. In a sudden premonition, he pressed every button in the complex. After a few moments, a few voices came to life over the loudspeaker, but also someone simply buzzed the door open. Without hesitation, he pushed into the stairwell and hurried up. He stopped one floor up. The sign on the door said 'Flat B'. He knocked. No answer. He dialled Robin's number again, and although he wasn't sure, there was a faint vibrating sound on the other side. "Robin," Strike called and knocked on the door again. Strike barely noticed Rokeby coming up the stairs behind him.

Strike checked the lock. He put his phone in his pocket and pulled out his battered wallet, a few coins scattered on the floor and down the stairs, but he didn't care. He grabbed the first card. If he was lucky, the door wasn't locked, just latched. He jammed the card between the door and the frame, wiggling it up and down. The sudden click was loud in the quiet stairwell.

The door popped open. It was the smell that confirmed all of Strike's fears. The stench of unwashed people, old cigarettes, sweet marijuana - mixed with dust and neglect. Strike entered and took in the layout: a kitchen on the right, a bathroom on the left, both with open doors and no one inside. He followed the corridor with slow steps. There were two closed doors. He opened the first. The room looked like a rubbish dump: piles of trash bags, empty cans and bottles, cardboard boxes, an old sofa and a table underneath it all. The room smelled the worst. He closed the door. He went to the next door and opened it slowly. The sight brought instant panic and nausea.

On a shabby mattress on the floor lay Robin, pale and motionless. Beside her was an equally unconscious Whittaker. Cold fear rose in him at the sight, making him freeze in the doorframe for a moment.

Rokeby pushed his way in, shoving Strike further and shaking him out of his stupor. Seeing Robin, the older man staggered back, hurrying towards the exit and down the stairs.

"Fucking Christ," Strike exclaimed, the shove being all he needed to gather his wits. He pushed aside his disbelief at his father's retreat and strode further into the room, lowering himself awkwardly to his knees beside Robin. "Robin," he called, "Robin," trying to wake her, shaking her.

His fingers searched for the pulse point on her neck, weak but still there. Two angry red marks marred her pale skin there. Her skin was cool and damp. He searched for other injuries. Her fingertips had turned pale blue. 'Poisoned, overdosed,' his mind supplied.
Beside her, Whittaker was snoring heavily, which made Strike look over at him. An empty syringe lay on the mattress between them. He pulled out his phone.

Rokeby's footsteps behind him made Strike turn. "We need an ambulance," Cormoran yelled.

"On the way," Rokeby barked. He was holding a black bag, which he opened quickly. Strike could make out a pre-packaged syringe and a small brown bottle. With practised ease, Rokeby took them both out, tore off the wrapper of the syringe and took some liquid from the bottle, checked the dosage and went to Robin.

"What are you doing?" Strike asked confused.

"She's drugged. Overdosed. It's Narcan." Rokeby's absolute confidence in handling the situation made Strike step back. His father placed the needle on Robin's forearm, aiming for an artery, and pushed the drug in. Time slowed. When it was done, Rokeby pulled it out, keeping his finger on the wound. "Now we wait," Rokeby said.

It felt like hours, but it was only minutes. Strike was in a tunnel, his eyes fixed only on Robin. The panic he felt for Robin's life was like an iron clamp on his chest. The siren of an ambulance blared in the distance. It might have been wishful thinking, but Strike could swear that Robin's breathing was getting stronger and the blue in her fingertips was getting less pronounced.

The sirens were almost upon them. He didn't hear the front door open, but there were footsteps in the stairwell and moments later two paramedics entered. The first went to Robin, the second to Whittaker.

Rokeby explained in short sentences what had happened. Another siren, this time from a police car, stopped outside the block. Two policemen entered, crowding the room.

The paramedic who was checking on Robin explained that she needed to go to hospital immediately. Whittaker was slowly regaining consciousness from all the commotion. When he opened his eyes and groaned, his eyes fell on Strike. Whittaker struggled to his feet and shoved the medic's hands away. "Cormoran, you little shit," he began.

His speech was slurred, a remnant of the drugs and alcohol, and he took a wobbly step towards Strike, but a policeman stepped forward and held Whittaker back. This infuriated Whittaker so much that he started to throw a punch, but was immediately subdued. He surrendered without much of a struggle.

While the two paramedics tended to Robin, Strike and Rokeby spoke to the police. They pointed out the syringe and Strike told them what he knew, so the police decided to charge Whittaker with attempted murder and keep him in custody until Robin was fit enough to make a statement.

The click of the handcuffs jolted Whittaker out of his lethargy and he began to shout insults at the officer. "Let's take him outside," the officer said, dragging him along the corridor towards the stairs.

Meanwhile, the paramedics had strapped the unconscious Robin to a stretcher. Strike stood rooted to the wall of the room, trying to stay out of the way. The helplessness of seeing her motionless form led to a desperation that made his throat tighten. Only the beep of one of the machines, indicating a faint heartbeat, anchored him in the moment, holding back the white nose that threatened to swallow him and send him into a full-blown panic attack. He regulated his breathing and tried to catalogue as much as he could, just to ward off the terror the thought of her possible death was causing him. The paramedics were calm and focused. He took that as a positive sign and clung to it.

Before they could take her downstairs, he grabbed her hand, cool but not cold, and squeezed it, trying to reassure himself that she would be all right. After asking for the name of the hospital, he let them take her away.

Rokeby exchanged a few words with the remaining policeman and grabbed Strike by the shoulder to lead him out of the flat, who willingly went with him. The police would deal with the violent Whittaker and question him. Strike hoped Whittaker would confess and be tried.

They walked down the stairs to Rokeby's car. The driver opened the back door and motioned for Strike to get in. After a moment's hesitation, Strike accepted the offer. The car was spacious and he slid over to the other door. Rokeby joined him, then ordered his driver to follow the ambulance to the hospital.

The first few minutes were quiet. Slowly, Strike regained his senses, cataloguing his symptoms as shock. He exhaled slowly, trying to calm his racing heart and trembling hands.

"That was quick thinking," he said in a low voice. The automatic dislike of his father fought with his gratitude.

"Yeah, grabbed the first aid kit and told the driver to call the ambulance. The police were already on their way, it seems," Rokeby replied.

"What did you give her?" Strike tried to get comfortable in the seat, the adrenaline still keeping him alert and agitated.

"Naloxone." Rokeby grimaced. "I know about drugs. Done most of them, seen my share of overdoses. There's a programme with the government. People who are in regular contact with drug users can apply for a kit. My rowdies usually carry one. So does my driver. We keep them for the crew and the fans. It has already saved one or two lives this year.

Suddenly the sirens of the ambulance in front of them blared. It was dark outside and the snowfall had intensified. All the cars seemed to be crawling. While Rokeby's car had to wait at the red light, the ambulance sped away.

The sudden emergency made Strike's stomach clench. This wasn't good. London's usually heavy traffic seemed even heavier as Rokeby's car crept towards the hospital. It would be another 40 minutes before they arrived.

xxx

At the hospital, they were first made to wait in the reception area, then told that the patient had suffered a cardiac arrest and that doctors were still attending to her. They were directed to the waiting area.

The next few hours were the longest Strike had ever endured, pacing up and down the small waiting room. The pain in his stump was a welcome interruption to the circling thoughts.

It had been sheer luck to find her in time. And another stroke of luck was that his father had an antidote on hand. But perhaps their luck had run out now. He chastised himself for not being quicker and for leaving her to investigate on her own. He had always known that Whittaker was violent, and he should have agreed to Shanker's offer to get rid of him.

After an hour without any news, he went back to the reception desk, but the assistant there still had no information. Strike felt cold and shaky. When he saw the vending machine opposite the waiting room, he realised he hadn't eaten since breakfast. Reaching for his wallet, he found his coin pocket empty, but the machine only accepted coins. With a curse, he abandoned his quest for food and rejoined Rokeby in the waiting room. With a heavy sigh, Strike sank into one of the red plastic chairs against the wall, resting his head on his crossed arms as his mind ran through the worst-case scenarios.

"Here," his father's deep voice snapped him out of his dark thoughts.

A hand with two chocolate bars appeared in his line of sight. "Either a Snicker or a Twix, the rest is empty."

Strike looked up wearily, weighing the situation: He was hungry. He should take it. But it was his father's, he didn't want anything to do with his father. It was just a chocolate bar, and after tonight he was already in his father's debt. With a short " Thanks," he took the Snickers and wolfed it down.

"Here, take the other one too. I'm not hungry." Rokeby handed him the other chocolate bar and went back to his seat across from him.

Strike looked at the Twix. They had been his favourite as a child. His Uncle Ted had known that he could make his nephew happy when he was sad by buying him one. Was that something fathers did too? His tired mind asked. He shook his head to dispel the thought. "You don't have to stay," Strike said into the room.

"I have nowhere else to be," Rokeby replied. With a calmness that Strike would never have expected from him, Rokeby sat back and waited with him. He was an anchoring presence, quiet and unobtrusive. Nearly four hours later a doctor appeared.

"Mr Strike?" he asked.

"Yes." Strike stood up, instantly alert. His stump protested against the sudden weight and throbbed. Strike ignored his discomfort.
"Are you her next of kin?" the doctor asked, checking the form on his clipboard.

"I'm her best friend and business partner. I can also provide documentation that she has named me as her emergency contact. She has no family in London." Strike explained.

The doctor nodded. "Okay. Well, in brief. She overdosed, but the naloxone took care of that. She had a cardiac arrest on the way to the hospital and hasn't regained consciousness yet. We've put her in intensive care and we're waiting for her to wake up, we haven't been able to rouse her yet. There are still some tests we are running and waiting for the results." He paused. "There's not much more I can tell you." The doctor was collected but solemn.

"Are you talking about a coma?" Strike asked worriedly.

The doctor exhaled. "It's too early to tell. At first glance, we haven't found any permanent damage to her brain or nervous system. We will know more tomorrow. If you like, you can visit her for a few minutes."

There was no question of wanting to. He had to see her. It hit him hard that his last words to her had been in anger. Another argument with a woman he loved, and he was afraid it had been his last words to her. And again, a woman he loved who he might lose to drugs.

He walked through the lock to the ICU cubicles. Robin's pallor was accentuated by the white pillows. The white shirt made her look smaller, younger and more fragile. Her hair seemed more red than blonde and he wondered again how he had failed to notice how beautiful she was at first. She looked relaxed, almost as if she were asleep. But there was an IV attached to her arm and a tube delivering oxygen to her nose. The steady beep of the heart monitor reassured him. The angry marks on her neck stood out like an angry reminder of what had happened. At that moment, it hit him like a ton of bricks how close her brush with death had been today. He stifled the sobs that threatened to burst forth, fighting back the despair.

The smell of antiseptic and soap reminded him of his own long stay at Selly Oaks. He hated hospitals and he hated that she was here now.

The cubicle was warm, so he shrugged off his jacket and placed his wallet and phone on the table by her side. With a heavy heart, discouraged and afraid, he sat in the chair beside her bed and planned to keep vigil. He carefully cradled her small hand in his, hoping she would wake.

Defeated, he hung his head, taking the blame for everything that had gone wrong. The clock on his wrist read midnight.

Chapter Text

He was surprised that no one had thrown him out, but as long as he was allowed to, he would stay by her side. It was well past midnight now and he couldn't bring himself to leave. The night nurse came in from time to time to check on Robin. He spent the first hour chastising himself for not being able to protect her. It was the second time this year she had been in mortal danger. And he was responsible for his partner. Her mother was right, he was not a good influence, he was a danger to her. The thought of losing her made his chest tight.

In the second hour he begged her to wake up and promised never to argue with her again. It was the same situation when he had buried his mother. The last angry words he'd hurled at her replayed in his mind, his inability to say goodbye through his anger, the last memory of her looking at him, slamming the door - maybe letting her think he didn't value her. He would understand if she kept her distance after his display of anger.

By the third hour he was wallowing in self-pity and remorse. He called himself a coward for not facing his feelings earlier. He could have asked her to dinner, never started anything with Madeline or even Bijou, begged her to dump Ryan to give him a chance. But he thought he had time. It wasn't as if he hadn't made a fool of himself for love before. A deep pain settled in his heart. He loved her, and even if she'd never returned his feelings, he wanted to stay by her side. But she had to live for that. His life was so intertwined with hers that he doubted he could go on if this was the end. He swore he would tell her again how much he loved her and ask her out if he ever got the chance. And he would accept whatever answer she had for him. He vowed to be better, he had tried so hard in the last few months and she was part of his motivation. The constant beeping of the heart monitor was his only companion. His hands, which cradled hers the whole time, trembled with fear of what would happen if she never woke up, and with exhaustion.

In the fourth hour, he began to make deals with all the gods he could think of. He offered his life, his other leg, his luck, his happiness, if only she would wake up. He would gladly trade places with her. Even when he was blown up and woke up in hospital, he hadn't prayed. But now he begged God, any deity that might hear him, to bring her back to him. He clung to her hand and to his fading hope. He pleaded with her still form. "Don't leave me, wake up. I love you, don't leave me," his first pleas had been longer. But now he was just repeating his mantra over and over again.

In the fifth hour, he remembered a duty he still had. He hadn't told her parents yet, but in his mind there was no point in waking them now. He would call them first thing in the morning. The ward had no window, but the bustle of the nurse on shift told him it was getting closer to morning. It was now 5:30. His eyes were scratchy and red, his stump ached from being trapped for 24 hours, all his other muscles were cramped. He felt hollow and numb. At 6:30, he promised himself, he would call her parents. They were early risers, and at least they could get a full night's sleep.

The first twitch of her eyes seemed to be a trick of his mind, but with the second he was sure. Relief washed over him and some of the tension that had gripped him all night was released. At 5:50 she opened her eyes. He called for the nurse. Robin wasn't quite lucid, but he could see her struggling. The nurse, despite her professionalism, was also relieved. The second time she opened her eyes, half an hour later, Robin was able to concentrate on him and she whispered his name. She wanted to tell him something, fumbling for words, but she was weak.

"Shh. Robin. Rest. You'll be fine." He waited for her to fall asleep again, then got up and stretched a bit. His back was killing him and his stump was numb, but he didn't care. A tight clamp around his heart had loosened. He could hear the nurses talking outside. The ward woke up and the night nurse came in. "You need to leave for the next hour. The doctors will be doing their assessments of the patients and no one is allowed." He nodded.

Strike was still surprised that he had been allowed to stay. He kissed Robin's forehead and with one last look at her, he grabbed his jacket and left the ward in search of a toilet and a coffee. He felt dizzy and drained.

The anxiety that the phone call to Robin's parents had caused him a few hours ago had lessened. He would still have to tell them that their only daughter was in hospital after an attempted murder, but at least she wasn't in a coma.

As he left the ward after using the toilet and washing his face, he saw Al sitting in one of the plastic chairs in the waiting room. He looked at his half-brother in confusion.

"Dad called me," Al said. "He had to go, but he didn't want to leave you alone." Al explained that Rokeby had promised some donations to the hospital and made some phone calls to friends so that Strike could stay with Robin.

Despite his gratitude for what Rokeby had done in the last few hours, Strike was confused. "Why is he hanging around? He never cared before?"

"I don't know. Ask him. He's a big kid, but he can be decent," Al said. Cormoran just remained silent.

"How is she?" Al asked after a few seconds.

"She woke up. But she is asleep again. I just wanted to grab a snack, freshen up a bit. The doctors are with her now. And I have to call her parents." Strike went to the vending machine from yesterday, but all the slots were empty.

"The cafeteria's still closed," Al said. "But there is a coffee machine in the lobby. I'll come with you." Al put a hand on Strike's shoulder and guided him along the floor, both of them missing the skinny old man who watched them retreat.

Strike and Al reached the coffee machine a few moments later. It was a more modern one, accepting notes and even card payments.

"Fucksake," Strike cursed, patting his pockets. "I left my wallet and phone at Robin's."

"I'll pay," Al said, already reaching for his pocket.

"No. I have to get back anyway. That call to her parents is already overdue." And Strike wasn't sure he could handle cheap coffee on an empty stomach and an emotional phone call. He walked back at a brisk pace, Al in tow. The pain in his stump made his gait uneven. The hospital was waking up, nurses and doctors hurrying through the corridors.

Leaving Al behind, he passed through the ICU lock and quickly followed the hygiene instructions. Then he cautiously approached Robin's cubicle. He could see a small group of nurses and doctors in the main ward down the small corridor, in discussion, preparing for morning rounds.

As he rounded the corner to Robin's cubicle, he saw a doctor standing next to Robin, disconnecting her IV. The man leaned over her arm and placed a syringe on the cannula in her arm. The white coat and stethoscope were evidence of the profession, but months in a hospital made him add up the inconsistencies: no nurse accompanying him, no tray or bottle from which the syringe was drawn, no name tag on the coat, a goatee too neatly trimmed, black patent leather shoes, too old. His mind made many small observations that led to one big conclusion: Not a doctor.

The man looked up, startled. The needle of the syringe was stuck in the cannula on Robin's arm and he had begun to push the liquid into Robin's bloodstream. Strike shouted at the man to stop and was at his side in an instant, pulling him away. A struggle ensued, but the man resisted. Strike's bulk worked in his favour against the skinny, albeit tall, man.

The fake doctor gave up his attempts to empty the contents of the syringe and tried to run for the door. Strike grabbed him by the lapels with his left hand and punched him in the face with a swing of his right fist, practised a thousand times in the boxing ring and with the pent-up emotions of the last few hours. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the attempted uppercut and blocked it with his right hand. A sudden sting in his palm made him wince. Only years of ignoring pain while boxing allowed him to continue. He pulled the man closer with his left, using the man's coat, and landed a right hook to the jaw. The pain in Strike's right palm intensified a thousand fold. The man crashed into the wall and fell to the floor with a hard thud. Strike heard footsteps running towards the room, the night shift nurse and a tired looking doctor paused at the entrance to the cubicle and stared at them. Others were right behind them.

"He gave her something..." Strike bellowed, gesturing at the needle in Robin's arm, the adrenaline still coursing through him as he kept an eye on the fallen man.

"Get security," the doctor barked at the nurse, who hurried back to her desk. The doctor stepped around the man on the floor and towards Robin.

Another doctor, dark skinned, young, took him aside and grabbed his right hand. Only now did he realise the warmth running down his fingers. Looking down, he saw red drops staining the floor. The doctor examined the hand, where a scalpel had punctured his palm, the blade protruding from the back of his hand. The pain in his hand pulsed with his rapid heartbeat.

"Let's get you to A&E," the doctor told him. Strike ignored him and looked at Robin. The other doctor had taken the syringe out of her.

"It still seems full, whatever it is. Let's get this to the lab and draw some blood," he rattled off a few more instructions to the returning nurse as he checked Robin's vitals.

Another nurse had crouched down beside the moaning man on the floor and was taking his pulse. "Let's wait for security downstairs to pick him up." He turned to Strike. "I don't know him. He's not a doctor here. Who is he?"

"I don't know." Strike focused on the man's face, a sense of familiarity asserting itself. The man began to struggle again, but the nurse forced him onto his front, putting a knee on the man's back and pinning him down. Strike bent down and fumbled in the pockets of the jacket underneath the coat with his left hand. He found a wallet, pulled it out awkwardly and unfolded it with one hand.

He pulled out a credit card with his teeth. Placing the card on the wallet in his left hand, he read the name on it and blanched. "It's Peter Gillespie. My father's solicitor. I'm calling the police, Robin was investigating a murder... I..." The doctor just nodded.

Just as Gillespie began to struggle again, the hospital security man arrived. The doctor, who had been waiting for Strike to come with him to A&E, did a quick check for injuries; apart from a tender cheek and jaw, he couldn't see any serious injury and declared him fit enough to be taken into custody.

He waved away the doctor who was trying to tend to his injury again. Strike clumsily picked up the phone with his left hand, still lying on the table next to Robin, and dialled Wardle's number. He held up his right hand and the blood stopped dripping onto the floor and began to trickle down his shirt sleeves.

Explaining to the still-sleepy DCI what had happened made everything even more surreal. Strike struggled to accept that his father was part of this, just as he had begun to trust him. Wardle promised to send some officers to pick up Gillespie and deal with the case immediately.

"Sir," the doctor said. "I'm taking you to A&E, they need to look at your hand, get the scalpel out. We need to get out of here anyway," Strike looked at Robin on the bed, moaning, the doctor talking about her vitals and two nurses hovering around her. Without further resistance, the doctor wrapped his hand in gauze to mop up the blood and let himself be led away.

He followed the security guard and Gillespie out of the ICU. Al was still waiting outside. When he saw Gillespie in the security man's hand, his face fell.

"What happened?" he asked both Gillespie and Strike.

"I want to know that too." Strike said, turning to Gillespie. "Is Rokeby behind this?" he snapped.

Gillespie, his cheek beginning to swell, chuckled.

Strike towered over him. "What's this all about?"

"Fuck off, you bastard. You ruined it." Strike was only stopped by Al's hand on his shoulder. The security guard dragged Gillespie towards the exit. Two policemen came hurrying down the corridor.

"We're here to arrest this man. DCI Wardle sent us," one of the officers said to Strike. They read Gillespie his rights and led him away.

"What happened?" Al asked. "What was Peter doing here?"

"I don't know." Strike said, still confused. "He tried to kill Robin." His voice tightened. Only now did the full extent of what might have happened dawn on him. And a sense of guilt washed over him for not realising that something much bigger had been going on the whole time.

Al was stunned. He had known Peter Gillespie all his life. "No. He's Dad's solicitor. Why would he do that?"

Strike just shrugged. "Robin knows. And I'm not going to wait for her to make a statement. I need to know what happened and what Rokeby's part in it is..."

His hand hurt and the doctor took hold of his arm. "No. First you need to get your hand looked at. Let's go, this way." It was only then that Al noticed the bloody makeshift bandage around Strike's hand, the metal of the scalpel handle peeking out.

"Shit," he said.

Strike just gave him a stern look, turned away and strode down the corridor with the doctor in tow. He had phone calls to make, a case to solve and a scalpel to be removed, best all at once.

xxx

The doctor left him in the Accident and Emergency department, but took him to a cubicle for assessment.

While waiting for a doctor, he called Shanker. He needed a bodyguard for Robin and Shanker agreed without a thought for money. Then he made the dreaded phone call to Robin's parents. Michael, Robin's father, picked up the phone on the second ring. Strike was glad it was him and not Linda. He knew he was not in good standing with Robin's mother. Michael listened carefully to what had happened. He promised to be there as soon as possible, the snowfall had been even heavier up north, but he hoped they could be at the hospital by the afternoon.

A doctor then attended to him. First they took an X-ray. The scalpel had missed all the important parts of his hand, but still made a huge cut. After consultation with a surgeon, and to minimise further damage from the blade, they pulled the scalpel out through the back of his hand. Strike refused to be anaesthetised and they only used a local anaesthetic. It hurt more than when the scalpel actually went in and he stifled a cry. He didn't care, he just wanted them to finish. The surgeion made him do some painful exercises to make sure there was no tendon or nerve damage. He had been quite lucky, the damage seemed minimal and he wouldn't need any reconstructive surgery.

Then he was stitched up. He felt every sting of the needle, but remained silent, wanting to be done with it. With the firm instruction to take it easy, rest his hand and come back in three days for a check-up, and to have the stitches removed in ten days, they gave him a packet of painkillers and let him go. It was already 10am. He went back to the ICU, had a quick chat with Shanker and wanted to see Robin again. There was a security guard at the lock now, and even after asking for the nurse, he wasn't let through. The doctors were still doing some tests and visitors were not allowed until the afternoon. But the nurse took pity on him and told him she was conscious.

Strike turned around, left Shanker with instructions to stay until he returned, and hurried out of the hospital. He called Pat. She answered the phone after three rings, even though it was Saturday. After a quick update on what had happened, she agreed to help him sort through Robin's records on the case. They would meet at the office as soon as possible. He took a taxi back to Denmark Street. Although he had been awake for over 24 hours, he had no desire to sleep. The pain in his right hand was a welcome distraction, reminding him of the work he had to do.

The taxi ride took longer than expected. It had snowed heavily during the night and not all the snow had been cleared from the roads. Pat was already in the office when he arrived. Despite her often brusque manner, he had grown accustomed to her presence in the office. Coffee was brewing and she had pulled out the wall of evidence that Robin had set up.

"Morning," she said, handing him a cup of coffee and a sandwich. He hissed as the handle of the cup pressed into his wound. Pat just raised an eyebrow at his blood-soaked shirt sleeve.

"There were some photos from Robin on the cloud that she uploaded yesterday," she spoke up as the printer whirred in the background, printing page after page. "I don't know what's important, I just thought I'd print everything that wasn't already on the board. Should be done in a few moments. And the boxes are part of the evidence too, but Robin told me she already went through them." Pat pointed to the boxes on the wall.

"Thank you," he said weakly. A moment of fatigue washed over him, but he didn't want to rest. He wanted to understand what had happened. The coffee and the food gave him new energy.

He looked at the notes on the board in front of him. It was well organised. There were pictures or just tags for the people, photos of the flat where his mother had died and post its, papers and photos for things she thought were important. One was a crumpled contract addressed to him. It was about the terms of release for his fund. Then he saw the lease for his mother's flat, the name Gillespie as the landlord. The hatred rose in him again. But he pushed it all back. This wasn't about him anymore.

Pat came in with a small pile of printed papers.

"There aren't many photos, just pictures of contracts," she said.

Strike took the pile. They were the documents he had known as a child. Letters from the solicitor's office about his alimony, some of them already on the board. They all had Gillespie's name on them. He flicked through them and one caught his eye. The two pages were already on the wall. On closer inspection, however, there were differences. The one on the wall was longer, it had an extra passage.

Suddenly it all made sense. He took the offending pages from the wall and from the pile.

"I know what this is about."

Pat was stunned. "So quickly?"

"Robin's done a good job," he murmured. Now he just wanted to know how Rokeby fit into all this.

He called Wardle. "I think I have a motive..."

xxx

Gillespie was a solicitor and, after being taken in by Wardle, remained silent. The contents of the syringe were still under investigation and the motive was unknown. Whittaker had been questioned and suspected of murder. He had talked, denying any murder, but spewing accusations against Strike, Johnny, Jon, Jim, Pete and any other name he could think of, some so crazy that the whole police station doubted his sanity. His withdrawal symptoms made him difficult to deal with. It was hard to prove anything. Wardle was glad when he saw Strike's name on the display of his mobile phone.

"Yeah," he greeted him.

"I think I have a motive. He may be involved in some falsified contracts. And I don't know how much Rokeby knows..." Wardle's phone buzzed with some documents Strike had sent him. It took him a while to tell Wardle what he had found out, but Wardle didn't mind listening, because there was still no hard evidence.

Wardle nodded. Although he was not happy to be at the centre of another celebrity case that was likely to get a lot of press, he did what was necessary. He sent a car to collect the evidence from Strike's office and to pick up Jonny Rokeby, frontman of the Deadbeats, a media favourite and a bad boy in terms of his history with the police.

xxx

Surprisingly, when Rokeby heard it was about the attempted murder of Robin and the allegations against his solicitor, he came without a fuss. All he asked was that his daughter, Pru Donleavy, accompany him. Wardle agreed.

Rokeby was very cooperative. He told how they found Robin's body in Whittaker's flat and why he knew what to do. When asked about his links with Peter Gillespie, he described a long and sometimes difficult relationship. They started out as friends in a small band, but Peter left to study law before the Deadbeats became famous. He later handled the band's legal affairs and then their personal legal affairs, including some of Rokeby's correspondence.

Pru encouraged him to be honest, and Rokeby went so far as to admit that there were times when he was a heavy user and that Gillespie was the only one who kept the band's business afloat by becoming their manager. Later, in the early nineties, Rokeby got clean and got a new manager, with Rokeby again just the legal advisor. There were a lot of arguments, mostly about drugs and spending money. Now they were civil, but the friendship was gone. Gillespie still handled the long-term contracts.

Wardle was busy taking notes.

"I have some documents here. Could you look at each one and tell me what you know about them?" he said after Rokeby had finished his story.

Rokeby nodded and took out his reading glasses.

Wardle handed him a copy of the lease signed in 1994. It was between Whittaker and Gillespie. Rokeby just shook his head. "Is that where Leda died?" he asked, looking at the address.

"Yes. What do you know about it?"

"Nothing. I didn't know Gillespie had property in London at the time. I got back in touch with Leda in 1994. After I got clean, it felt wrong to have fallen out with her and Cormoran. I wanted to mend the relationship. But she died before we could meet." Wardle nodded.

"And this paper? It's a contract from 1992. Could you read it and tell me what you know about it?" He handed the printouts to Rokeby.

Rokeby took his time. It was only two pages. When he saw the last passage, he turned pale. "No. That's not the contract I signed. I wouldn't have signed this. At least not in the nineties. I wanted to form a relationship with Cormoran."

"Could you explain to me what this is about and what you thought it was supposed to be about?" Wardle asked further.

"This is the contract for the release of the trust fund to Cormoran when he turned 18. There were problems getting the support to him when he was young. We suspected that Leda had squandered it without taking care of Cormoran. There was also the lawsuit that made me pay her a very generous sum for insulting her in public. We..."

"Who's we?" Wardle interrupted Rokeby.

"Gillespie and I - or rather it was Gillespie's idea at the time," Rokeby explained. "Well, it was his idea to put the money into a trust fund and give it to Cormoran when he was old enough. When he turned 18, I wanted it paid out to him. I told Peter to handle it. He drew up a contract and I signed it. But it wasn't this one.”

He pointed to the last passage. Pru leaned over to read the few sentences and inhaled sharply.

"I would have objected to those terms," Rokeby explained. "I would never have forced Cormoran to sever his ties with Leda. He never spoke of me to the press, so there was no need to put the other things in writing. And although I would have liked to get in touch with him, I wouldn't have forced him to do so".

"No wonder, Cormoran was furious," Pru said. "It must have been pretty insulting for him as an 18 year old boy to have to choose between money and his mother."

Rokeby was silent.

"Who takes care of the trust fund?" Wardle asked.

"A bank chosen by Peter," Rokeby said.

"And it should still be there?"

Rokeby nodded. "Yes. I tried to contact Cormoran over time, always with the intention of giving it to him. But I never got through. Peter told me to just leave it alone. Now I think I understand why." Rokeby looked down at his hands.

Wardle instructed one of his officers to find the bank and the details of the trust fund. That day they secured evidence at Gillespie's home and office.

Wardle now had a working theory for the attempted murder of Robin Ellacott and possibly the murder of Leda Strike.

Gillespie was still silent, but the evidence was piling up.

xxx

Having given Wardle the information he needed to crack the case, and the promise that Pat would wait for the Met to collect the evidence, he hurried back to Robin. Almost as an afterthought, he had changed his shirt and tossed the blood-stained one into the bin. No need to worry anyone. Shanker was dutifully sitting outside the ward. Strike sent him home and returned to the ICU. Robin was asleep. Around 3pm she woke up - lucid but still exhausted. When she saw him, her face lit up.

"You made it," he greeted her with a gentle smile.

"What happened? I don't remember much, I was on my way to West Kilborn," she said, her mouth dry. He offered her a cup of water, taking care to hide his right hand. The throbbing of the wound was almost soothing, giving him a kind of punishment he felt he deserved. Compared to her, he still felt he got off too easy.

"Yes, and you got there..." Strike told her how he found her.

"Yeah. I remember. There was this old guy in a suit. How long was I out?"

Strike felt floored. It had felt like days, but in fact it hadn't even been 24 hours since the whole ordeal had begun. Outside the ward he could hear the worried voice of an elderly woman.

"Mum!" Robin said, and a few seconds later her parents rounded the corner to her cubicle. The nurse stood disapprovingly by their side. "One person only," she admonished. The look on Linda's face left no room for discussion and Cormoran bowed his head. "I'll be back later," he promised.

Michael Ellacot joined him to calm the nurse, while Linda hurried over to Robin.

xxx

Strike was confident that the case would soon be fully solved.

The emotional fallout would be harder to deal with. He still had to apologise to Robin. And he had just gotten away with it, but he knew he would have to face the wrath of Linda Ellacott by placing her daughter in danger again. He didn't mind her putting all the blame on him, and for Robin's sake he tried to keep the peace.

He also had to find out if his father and Gillespie had worked together and had anything to do with the attempted murder of Robin. If that was the case, he would never be able to be in the same room with his father again.

He left Michael Ellacott after a few friendly words in hospital, remembering just in time not to shake hands, and went home.

The evening news was full of Gillespie's arrest. Rokeby issued a statement to the press distancing himself from Gillespie's dealings and encouraging anyone who suspected Gillespie of fraud to come forward. Strike was not pleased to see his own name and that of his mother being heavily mentioned in the press again.

His phone rang as he collapsed tiredly on his sofa. He hadn't slept since yesterday morning and felt exhausted. Seeing Wardle's ID on the phone, he picked it up with a yawn.

"We have everything we need so far, but it will take some time to go through all the documents. Rokeby was also played by Gillespie. He siphoned off your money from Rokeby, hoping that neither you nor Leda would notice. He went to a lot of trouble, and just to warn you, we need a statement from you. We also need Whittaker and Rokeby to testify. It may be some time before we can take this to court. But Gillespie has finally confessed to fraud, the murder of your mother and the attempted murder of your partner."

At least his fears that his father was a criminal hadn't been confirmed. Strike breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thanks, Eric."

"How's Robin?" the detective asked.

"Better." A wide yawn escaped Strike at the word.

Wardle chuckled. "Get some sleep. And if you need a place to stay to avoid the paps, give me a call."

"Yeah. Thanks." Strike ended the call. Staring at the ceiling, he debated packing his bag and moving to a hotel or Ilsa and Nick's, but the paparazzi were already outside. He simply disconnected his doorbell, undressed, unstrapped the prosthesis and collapsed on his bed. Tomorrow was Sunday, and he would decide then what he was going to do.

Chapter Text

On Sunday he braced himself against the paparazzi. He shouldered his bag and pushed through them, averting his eyes and ignoring their questions. First stop was the hospital. Robin's blood test and all other tests came back negative and the doctors said she was on the road to recovery. The hovering Linda Ellacott made sure he only got half an hour with Robin. She had been moved to the regular ward and would be discharged on Tuesday with strict instructions to take it easy for a week. Robin was back to her usual self and noticed the bandage on his hand.

"What happened?" she pointed at it.

"Nothing to worry about. Just a little injury from the fight with Gillespie. Should be fine in a day or two," he reassured her.

Robin raised an eyebrow. He held his ground. "How are you?" he asked instead.

Robin let it go, her mother was sitting on the table by the window reading a magazine. She didn't want to force the issue with Cormoran in front of Linda. The conversations with her mother had been tense, and she wasn't ready for a full-blown argument in the hospital involving her business partner. Instead, Robin told him about her improved health and her plans for the next few days.

Her parents have been staying at her apartment, but so have the paparazzi. So instead of going back to her flat, she was going to go straight to Masham with her parents as soon as she was discharged and start her Christmas plans a few days early. He told her about the latest findings on Gillespie and said goodbye. He promised to be back tomorrow.

The press wanted all the juicy details and Strike was forced to stay away from Denmark Street for a few days. His guest room at Nick and Ilsa's was now Benji's nursery. And not wanting to impose on Lucy, or even a maudlin Wardle (it was his first Christmas without April), his first impulse was to check into a hotel. But he had received a short message from Al that morning, who had also heard about the paparazzi's quest for pictures of Strike, and his half-brother had offered him a guest room at his place. He had never had any trouble with Al, and after dismissing him at the hospital, he felt inclined to accept.

But first he paid a visit to his old friends Nick and Ilsa to inform them of the events of the past few days. Ilsa, who was a lawyer, was horrified at what a colleague had done and promised him all the help he needed in terms of legal advice. Nick just helped him re-bandage his hand, asking him to flex his fingers, but also giving a hum of approval at the healing process. The wound had reopened a little due to his movements and sweaty palms, and Nick cautioned him to rest his hand.

They had dinner together and he even enjoyed watching the happy family. Benji became whiny as bedtime approached, so Strike made his excuses. While he had been the focus of Ilsa's attention after he lost his leg, perhaps even before when he lost his mother, she now had Benji. He was still part of her family, but now the dynamic had changed and he felt in the way. After wandering around London, sorting his thoughts and thinking about families, he took a tube to his half-brother's big bachelor flat. His room was more or less a flat in itself, with a separate bathroom. Al was happy to accommodate him. It was late and Strike soon went to bed.

Chapter Text

The next morning he didn't even hear his alarm clock go off. A firm knock on the door jolted him awake.

"Corm, sorry to disturb you, but you have a visitor," Al informed him through the closed door of his guest room. "And I have breakfast downstairs," Al added like an afterthought.

Strike grunted in agreement. "I'll be downstairs in ten."

After a quick shower and getting dressed, he entered Al's kitchen. Rokeby and Pru were sitting at the table drinking coffee. They were both staring at him. Rokeby looked guilty, while Pru watched him with sadness, her gaze lingering on his bandaged hand. It did not help that some blood had seeped through again. It was still wet from the shower and he hadn't bothered to change it.

Strike just nodded, poured himself some coffee and grabbed a bagel. Everyone remained silent as he ate the first half of it.

Rokeby cleared his throat and began. "Look Cormoran, I'm sorry, I should have known about Gillespie."

Strike just huffed. He had thought about it. While it hadn't been in his hands what Gillespie did to him, the disaster at the Trust Fund meeting was partly his own fault. He should have been more level-headed, knowing that he was entitled to some money from his biological father. Later he should have demanded to speak to Rokeby directly, but he was too proud and Gillespie took advantage of that. One step towards his father, one private conversation, and all of Gillespie's schemes would have imploded. If he'd just accepted one of Rokeby's attempts to reestablish contact, however clumsy, Robin wouldn't have ended up in hospital.

Silence fell over them again.

Pru took a deep breath. "May I say something?" They both looked at her.

"Cormoran, I understand why you never wanted to get involved with Rokeby. Gillespie used every trick in the book to alienate you. But he played you, both of you. Don't let him win. And, Dad, while it was a mistake to trust Gillespie the way you did, it is done now. You can either carry on ignoring each other, or perhaps try to find some common ground. I'll help in any way I can." She looked at both of them, trying to get a reaction.

Strike fought the automatic impulse of anger. He took a deep breath. "Okay... How?" he asked.

"Have a talk. You've never really met. What do you want to know about each other?" Pru said.

Strike thought about it. While Rokeby was of no interest to him, his mother was. "How did you and my mother meet?" He finally asked.

Rokeby smiled. "Here in London, not far from your office. We had a gig in a club and she was there. And at the next four gigs. We had a bit of a chat, and then..."

"Yeah, someone read me that bit from your biography..." Strike said bitterly, remembering Carl Oakden and his mockery, and again the anger rose.

"Just so you know - I told my biographer to cut the paragraph about your mother from the book. But it seems that Gillespie removed that correction. It was too late to withdraw the book. And I stopped trying to correct it. I somehow saw no chance of repairing our relationship then, no matter what I did.” Rokeby looked down at the table. "I'll call the publisher. Ask him to stop selling the book and publish a correction, whatever it costs..."

Strike suddenly felt suffocated. It was always about money. He got up and walked to the door, where his coat was on a hanger. Pru followed him and put a hand on his arm to stop him.

He exhaled in frustration and stepped away from her. "Do you know how much shit I had to put up with from him? And now I'm supposed to believe it wasn't even him, just Gillespie?" he tried to explain his sudden flight to his half-sister.

"No one wants you to forget anything. Just try to give him a chance, put the blame where it belongs. And you are right, he is a shit dad, no doubt about it. But he's not evil. He's been played too." Pru kept her distance, seeing how upset and agitated Strike was.

Despite last night's sleep, he was exhausted. The nightmares had worn him out, the recurring theme was always being too late and finding Robin dead. It was scary how long it took after each awakening to convince himself that she was still alive.

And now he felt in no way ready to examine another emotional pillar of his life - his hatred for his biological father. He knew it was unfair, but he was tired, tired of another emotional landslide.

He looked at Pru and took a few deep breaths to calm his inner turmoil. "You are right, but not today, please."

Pru nodded, understanding, "OK. But soon."

He remained silent.

"Promise me. Say soon. Don't let it be too late for Rokeby, too," she implored.

Strike finally nodded and left for the hospital, trying to get his 30 minutes with Robin, an angry Linda breathing down his neck. Then he went to see Wardle at the Met to give his statement.

Chapter Text

Robin was discharged on Tuesday. She had no permanent injuries, just the doctors' orders to take it easy for a few days. Her mother had already packed her bags. There was another argument with her about Robin wanting to take the laptop to Masham, and in the end it was her father who brought it. She just had to jump in the car with her parents and be back on Boxing Day.

Strike was able to say a quick goodbye under the watchful eyes of her parents. They agreed to call each other. He would have liked to talk to her privately, but the atmosphere in the hospital was not conducive to intimate conversation. And he wasn't about to risk a fight with Linda, given the doctor's instructions for Robin to take it easy.

He moved into a pub and tried to work from there. At least his subcontractors and Pat were able to use the office to finish some cases before Christmas. They were ignored by the Paps, after firmly refusing any comment. Pat had taken him off the rota, wanted him to rest and let his hand heal. He called her and declared himself fit for surveillance work tomorrow. He drank a little too much, feeling out of place, out of work and out of a partner, before going back to Al's in the evening.

Chapter Text

Strike wandered the many streets of London, trying to sort out his thoughts as he leisurely followed the cricketer's ex-wife on a Christmas present shopping spree. The day was gloomy and the sun had yet to appear. Fortunately, his target avoided the tourist traps, which made the task almost pleasant. And luck was on his side, he finally had the chance to overhear her while she was having lunch with a middle-aged man.

He had never seen the man before, but they exchanged a USB stick and a few laughs. Strike was able to record their conversation. The man was the cricketer's lesser-known brother, who was out for revenge. His brother had seduced and dumped his then fiancée, not out of love, but because of a bet with a teammate. Said fiancée was the reason, the now ex-wife was divorced. Both of his targets bitched about the Cricketer, felt wronged and had bonded over getting revenge through the yellow press. Strike took a few photographs and left the restaurant. He now had full knowledge of how his client's information had been leaked to the press, and Strike was glad to be able to close the case.

While he had followed the ex-wife, he saw something beautiful in the window of a small jeweller's shop. With the case solved and time at his hands, he returned to the shop.

He still had no present for Robin, and the events of the last few days had made him forget about it. So he thought he was lucky to find something suitable now. The shop had an esoteric feel to it, with little cards underneath each product explaining the properties of the stones. His mother would have liked it. What had caught his eye was completely useless and something his aunt would have called a knick-knack, but it would help him apologise to Robin. The shopkeeper took it out of the window for him. While Strike waited, he perused a display of earrings and bracelets with stones 'for luck and protection' next to the till, which were advertised as perfect Christmas gifts.

Strike's immediate reaction was to laugh; his mother had a necklace made of different stones, believing in their powers. When he was a little boy, she had told him about them, pointing out which one was for 'love', 'healing' or 'inner peace'. His eyes fell on a pair of earrings. Depending on the light, the violet-blue stones were mesmerising.

He pointed them out to the shopkeeper, who praised the high quality of the lever-back earrings, the amethyst stones that gave the wearer luck and protection, and the beautiful setting with small diamonds on top that added to the sparkle.

Still feeling indebted to his guardian spirits (whoever they might be) and wanting to buy something meaningful, he added them to his purchase. It was perhaps more expensive than a gift for a friend, but it was nowhere near the sums he had been sometimes forced to spend to get back into Charlotte's good graces. Giving presents to Robin was a different experience for him. She was happy with any present he gave her, as long as he didn't forget (and it wasn't flowers). And even then, she had forgiven him. It made buying presents fun.

He found a small Christmas card, scribbled his wishes on it and asked the jeweller to wrap it up. For a small additional fee, the shopkeeper promised to have everything delivered to Masham by Christmas.

xxx

Al's place was nice, but Strike wanted to be on his own again. So he risked a quick glance down Denmark Street in the late afternoon, but the paparazzi hadn't given up yet. He texted his team and they were all available, so he, Barcley, Dev, Midge and Pat met in a nearby pub for an impromptu team meeting. It turned into a small Christmas party, but the main topic of conversation was Robin and her case. She was missed and everyone left early.

He stayed a little longer in the pub and downed another pint. He had been drinking more than usual over the last week (and skipping one or two of his exercises). But he was nowhere near the amount of alcohol or fast food he had consumed before his lung puncture. The alcohol went to his head and he felt a little lost and lonely; the Christmas carols made him maudlin. He had lots of friends, but he didn't want to be around them at the moment. To make matters worse, he had an exact vision of where he wanted to be, but it wasn't an option. Robin was in Masham and he was in London. And that felt wrong. He emptied his glass and went back to Al's.

Al had a gig and he had the flat to himself. There he inspected his hand and was pleased to see that it was healing and the pain was diminishing. Clumsily he reapplied the bandage. It was difficult to do his exercises with the injured hand, so he did what he could. It was rather inconvenient to have only half a right leg and a damaged right hand. He flicked through the TV, but nothing caught his interest. So he decided to go to bed early tonight. It was the longest night of the year anyway.

Chapter Text

Working with Robin and the Met brought more of the dirty details of Gillespie's manipulation to light.

Wardle's team found the bank details, but the trust fund no longer existed. They discovered more documents with different versions, one for Rokeby, the others for Leda or Strike to sign.

Gillespie had siphoned off Strike's alimony payments into his own accounts. With Rokeby's addiction and Leda's notorious irresponsibility, it was easy to make the money disappear. At first Cormoran's parents never spoke and Gillespie had an extra monthly income. He was a struggling lawyer at the beginning and was bitter that the band became successful after he had dropped out.

When Leda had turned up unannounced at a recording studio one day, Gillespie had a problem. But by making everyone wait a long time, angering Leda beforehand, drugging Rokeby and planting phrases like 'accidents' and 'gold digger' in his head, the meeting had turned hostile. It was important to drive a wedge between Rokeby and Leda and, in the long run, to alienate the son - and Gillespie took every opportunity to do so. He had fed the press with stories about how Rokeby felt about Leda and his illegitimate son. The first two wives even unwittingly helped Gillespie by telling Rokeby not to associate with his illegitimate children. Only Jenny, his current wife, had become suspicious of Gillespie and the liberal distribution of drugs and actively tried to protect Jonny from him.

It was Gillespie's good fortune that the financial pressure on Leda eased. She had come to an agreement with Lucy's father, and with the money she could at least pay for food and accommodation, and she no longer sought out Rokeby.

As Strike's 18th birthday approached, Gillespie needed another distraction. First, he wanted Leda out of the way. Whittaker's need for fame and money made him easy to buy, and Gillespie let him stay in a cheap flat he owned. Whittaker had to promise to keep Leda away and to monitor her correspondence. Leda's third pregnancy kept her busy and uninterested.

With Cormoran, Gillespie systematically instigated him, feeding the 18-year-old's hostility by ignoring or talking down to him. Gillespie drew up the offensive trust fund agreement. To keep Rokeby in the dark, he had him sign a different version and forged his signature on the other. And to prevent any positive interaction between Rokeby and his son, he made sure that Rokeby was hungover and under time pressure with other appointments, and did everything possible to make the meeting fail. Gillespie began with veiled accusations against Leda, which infuriated Cormoran and the whole meeting turned into a shouting match, ending with Cormoran crumpling up the contract and storming out just as Rokeby was finally able to join the meeting.

Gillespie thought he was safe. But Rokeby got clean a short time later and began to make amends - to his ex-wives, and he also tried to contact the mothers of his two illegitimate children. Rokeby made a special effort when Cormoran was accepted at Oxford, writing a long handwritten letter, but Gillespie was able to replace it with an impersonal card before it was posted. Gillespie still kept Whittaker close, putting him and Leda up in one of his own flats and paying Whittaker in drugs to keep her busy - either drugged or with her new baby. In return, Whittaker told him about Rokeby's letters to contact Leda.

This made Gillespie panic. Whittaker tampered with Leda's joints - making them stronger to make her sleepy. Gillespie came by to make sure she was drugged up, bought some drugs for 'personal use' and left. Leda had shared her drugs with their flatmate Jon, and he was also more drowsy at the time. Gillespie had a key to the flat, returned later and overdosed the sleeping Leda with Whittaker's drugs. Then he paid the investigating officer to look elsewhere. He was safe again.

All communication with Cormoran now went through Gillespie, and he was careful to make it as impersonal as possible. When Rokeby tried to contact him, Gillespie said the letters had been sent but there had been no reply. Cormoran's constantly changing addresses made it difficult to trace him. Gillespie also made sure that Rokeby wasn't informed when Strike phoned to ask for a loan, which was actually provided by Gillespie to avoid any contact with the now clean Rokeby.

Everything could have stayed hidden until Gillespie's death, but having Robin digging around, especially after such a long time, was unfortunate for the lawyer.

The fact that Rokeby's grandchildren had urged him to get a smartphone was a stroke of luck for Robin. All his appointments now went into his personal calendar on the phone, but he had switched off the synchronisation. A temp who helped out from time to time, like when the regular PA was off sick for two days, diligently copied every appointment in all calendars, private and public, including the one she made with Robin, and when she left, the PA didn't know about it.

The PA told Gillespie about Robin's attempt to contact Rokeby, and so he got wind of her investigation. Gillespie always had a good relationship with Rokeby's PA, who never questioned Gillespie's wishes. He contacted Whittaker again - using the flat he lived in - and Gillespie hoped he could get rid of Robin in the same way as Leda.

The PA confirmed that Gillespie had ordered her to cancel the meeting and to call Robin on behalf of Rokeby to send her elsewhere.

The press also ran some stories and dug up old acquaintances, Rowdies, ex-wives and ex-girlfriends that supported the accusations against Gillespie as a meddler and a bad influence on Rokeby regarding drugs. Most shocking of all was the amount of money Gillespie had siphoned off from Rokeby. The sum had not yet been totalled, but in the end it was enough for Gillespie to turn to murder.

Strike was relieved that his father was innocent. That his father had been so gullible, however, left him with a small sense of bewilderment. But he was honest, Rokeby too had been played by Gillespie. And when Strike looked at the bigger picture, he couldn't stay on his own high horse. He hadn't been too careful with Bijou either - and while he liked to paint his mother in the best possible light, she had deliberately sought out his and Lucy's fathers with the intention of getting pregnant. His accidental conception wasn't all Rokeby's fault. It took him until he was 42 to realise that there are always two people responsible for a conception. After his scare with Bijou, he had to cut his father some slack. Pru was right, he couldn't let Gillespie win.

He and Robin had a long talk about the results. Despite regular contact, Strike missed her, but he was glad that Robin was able to enjoy Christmas at home. The paparazzi were a real nuisance and wouldn't have helped her relax.

He had no chance to talk to her alone in person after she woke up, with Robin's mother constantly hovering around her in hospital. And phone calls were not the same. He still had to apologise, and the decision he had made in hospital was still on his mind. But he didn't have the courage to ask over the phone. He spent the day meeting with the Cricketer to report his findings and hand over the final bill. Then he relieved Dev of his surveillance duties, giving his subcontractor time to go Christmas shopping. It felt good to work and keep his maudlin thoughts at bay.

Chapter Text

In Masham, Robin found herself feeling stifled. She liked the quiet and the time to recover, but her mother in particular took every opportunity to complain about the dangers of her job and the irresponsibility of her partner, suggesting that she would be better off with a desk job, a husband and children. In Linda's eyes, Strike was to blame for everything that had happened to her daughter over the past year. But at least she made the same fuss about Carmen, her brother Martin's pregnant girlfriend. Having another grandchild made her happy and diverted some of the attention.

A short phone call with Strike about the finalisation of the Cricketer case was the highlight of the day. Robin found it somewhat satisfying that the Cricketer, with his less than pleasant personality, had even managed to turn his brother against him. As long as the bill was paid, the Cricketer could continue his family feud in whatever way he wished. It also meant that they had been able to finish their two big cases before Christmas.

At least now she had time to reflect on her year. True, she had had three near-deaths this year (four if she counted the car chase), but in two cases Cormoran was the reason she was still alive. And of course she would have been happier if she hadn't been shot at, tortured or accused of child abuse.

So far, Robin had tried to ignore her mother's nagging. Her father was more supportive of her job, and at least he didn't blame Strike. Cormoran got his share of injuries too, it wasn't like he was hiding behind a desk. And at the moment he had an injured hand, which Strike had finally told her about (but she suspected that it wasn't just a 'scratch').

But despite all the dangerous things that had happened to them, she knew one thing for sure: she loved her job and would never give it up. It gave her a sense of purpose that had been missing from her life for too long. She had to stand up to her mother, and changing jobs was out of the question.

While it felt good to have clarity about her work, her love life was still a mess. She felt trapped. On the one hand, she was free to date again, but on the other, she was afraid of repeating past mistakes: sacrificing her desires to make a relationship work. Putting her fears aside, she had another problem. She hadn't been able to give Cormoran his Christmas present before she left, especially as a small parcel from him had arrived today. So she called Vanessa to pick it up from her apartment and drop it off at Denmark Street.

xxx

In the afternoon Strike was finally able to move back into his own flat. The paparazzi had had enough of hanging around his front door. The cricketer, who had attacked his brother in public during an interview this morning, was now more newsworthy. Strike went into his office, hoping to find some work to get him through the day. Wardle had returned all the boxes of Leda's belongings that had originally been in Ted's attic. He removed the lid from one of them. The Met had taken all the original documents as evidence, but his mother's personal effects were still there. Not ready to deal with those memories, he closed the box again.

On the desk was a small gift. He read the card. It was from Robin, her elegant hand instructed him to open it on Christmas Day. He was surprised because he hadn't expected a present. But Robin was always prepared, and that included buying Christmas presents well in advance.

Then he went off to see a doctor who looked at his hand again. It was healing slowly, but he should come back after Boxing Day to get the stitches out. At the moment, the main irritation was the tugging of the stitches whenever he moved his hand, and the irritated skin that was finally starting to heal in earnest.

He spent the rest of the day filing and finishing case reports. The end of the year was approaching, and their accountant would be in after Christmas to prepare the annual accounts, one of the lesser joys of owning a business. It was late when he finally switched off the lights. He smiled and picked up Robin's present to take to his flat.

Chapter Text

On Christmas Eve, Pru invited Strike and Al for dinner. Although she did not say so, Cormoran knew that Rokeby would be there. It would have been petty of him to refuse, as he had nowhere else to go (Nick, Ilsa and Benji were off to Cornwall to spend Christmas with Ilsa's parents), so he braced himself for a tense evening. Pru made him promise not to bring any presents, as everyone had enough. So he just brought a bottle of wine, not wanting to be a bad guest.

He was the last to arrive: Pru let him in and showed him to the living room. He greeted Pru's husband Declan, her children Sylvie and Gerry, and Al and Rokeby. They all seemed to get on well with each other. It helped that they were engrossed in a playful karaoke competition on the Playstation, and Strike relaxed by watching them. Al and Rokeby were also urged to play, which turned out to be hilarious. Despite singing his own song, Rokeby couldn't get a decent score and had to endure his grandchildren's teasing. Soon Pru was serving dinner. Strike sat opposite Gerry and Rokeby, between Al and Declan. Pru sat at one end of the table, Sylvie at the other. Rokeby's wife Jenny had excused herself because she had to babysit Ed's one year old son at short notice. Ed was Rokeby and Jenny's second son and Al's brother.

Strike was surprised to find that his knowledge of all his half-siblings was rather limited. Not wanting to sound uninformed and even more out of place, he kept the question of how many grandchildren Rokeby actually had to himself, but added Ed's son to his ever-growing list of family relations and wondered how often he was actually an uncle to someone.

The food, a casserole with potatoes and vegetables, was delicious, and he had some non-alcoholic beer with it. Conversation flowed easily between food, TV shows and music, and Pru did her best to keep the mood light. Rokeby was witty and entertained his grandchildren with anecdotes from his tours, not all of which met with Pru's approval.

"So, new uncle..." Gerry addressed Strike. The teenager had just finished his second helping of food and was shovelling dessert onto his plate. Strike was a little jealous of how much his nephew had eaten and still managed to stay pencil thin. Although Strike had long since reached his target weight, he was still trying to eat sensibly.

"Just call me Cormoran," Strike interrupted Gerry with a chuckle.

"OK, new uncle," Gerry teased. Strike rolled his eyes.

"Anyway," Gerry continued, chewing the last of his pudding. "I have a question. Can I join the army and become a drone pilot? Mum always tells me there's no career in video games."

Strike huffed. "I don't know about that, but I can give you the number of a mate who still works in that department. He can tell you more." He took the last swig of his beer.

"Cormoran, please don't give the boy any stupid ideas," Pru said, but suddenly she stopped. "Sorry, I didn't mean..."

"No offence, Pru. I know most mothers don't see their sons as soldiers. Leda wasn't happy about it either." Strike stretched in his chair and thought about getting another beer.

Pru frowned. "I thought you joined the army after she died."

"Yes, I did. But I made the decision to enlist before she died." Strike explained.

"You mean it wasn't her death that made you join the army." Pru said in surprise.

"No." Strike said briefly, seeing the surprise on everyone's faces. He could see Pru struggling to let the subject drop, but her curiosity won out. "So what was the reason for joining? You were enrolled at Oxford."

Strike exhaled. He had no desire to reveal his reasons, but he knew that the investigation into Gillespie would become public as soon as it reached court. Everyone at the table knew about Gillespie's fraud, but not about Strike's dire financial situation at the time.

"I needed money. I was in debt." He looked into her eyes and dared her to speak. The others were silent. No one at the table had ever had money problems. And until now, they had never been aware of his struggles. Before anyone could comment or ask more questions he didn't want to answer, he stood up.

"I guess that's my cue to leave," Strike said. "Thanks Pru, it was delicious," he waved at the table and turned towards the wardrobe to get his coat.

But before he reached it, Rokeby was standing beside him. "Wait a minute, please."

Strike just looked at him, not wanting to prolong the evening in a cosy family setting with stories of his turbulent and sometimes troubled youth.

"Son, listen," Rokeby's voice was scratchy, he sounded older than ever. "I know nothing about you. This business with the army, your injury, your agency, the only information I have is through the press, that bastard Gillespie, or lately through Al or Pru. But I want to know more about you. I'm your father and all I know is shit. Can we at least talk?"

"About what?" Strike asked, impatient.

"About stuff. How you grew up, what you like, what you are proud of, your hobbies, friends, family. All the things that might make this stranger before me a son." He had never looked at Rokeby for longer than was necessary. The picture he had in his head was of a middle-aged, over-the-top rocker on stage in a flashy outfit, not the old man in front of him. And it was the first time he saw his father's face turned towards him in a friendly and open way.

Deep down he knew that if he was going to repair the damage Gillespie had done to them, he had to give his father a chance. Strike looked back at the table where everyone else was trying not to stare at them. He took a deep breath. "Not here, not like this," Strike said. "There's a bar, the 'Flying Horse', 20 minutes from here, they've got a private cellar. And they are open tonight. Let's go there," Strike offered.

Rokeby just nodded, grabbed his coat and hat and they left. With Rokeby's driver and the almost empty streets, they made it in 15 minutes.

The barman motioned Cormoran to the cellar, just asking what they needed. They left the door open to listen to the Christmas oldies the barman had chosen as the soundtrack for the evening. The first two beers were consumed in an overly polite atmosphere, neither knowing what to say, but then the alcohol loosened their tongues. Both talked about their plans for the holidays. Rokeby invited him to his band's New Year's Eve party. He emphasised that it was a private affair, celebrating the successes of the past year with family and friends; no press. Cormoran didn't refuse right away, saying he would think about it. They sat next to each other and it was easier to talk without having to look at each other.

After three beers and two whiskies, Strike began to answer Rokeby's questions about his life. And Rokeby listened, laughed and felt sad with him. Jonny's prompting became less and less and Strike just talked. They bonded over stupid loves and bad decisions, comparing notes on things that had gone wrong in their lives.

After four beers and three whiskies, Strike felt pleasantly tipsy and on the way to being drunk. Rokeby matched his drinking pace. Rokeby described some of his tumultuous life, confessing that at least ten years of his memory were rather sketchy due to heavy drug use, especially in the eighties.

The empty and half-empty glasses of both men littered the table. The barman kept sending down beer and whisky. From above, Dolly Parton's Hard Candy Christmas ended and turned into Blue Christmas. Strike drank his fifth pint, another whiskey in front of him, and suddenly felt annoyed.

"Why?" Cormoran asked out of the blue when there was a pause in their conversation.

"Why what?" Jonny asked back.

"Why did you fuck my mother? You knew she was a groupie. You knew she was after your fame, wanted a piece of you." It had always bothered him why Rokeby had been so careless. He had been famous by then and should have known about gold diggers. Bijou had made it quite clear that she wasn't interested in him, there were bigger fish to be milked for money and fame, but Rokeby had already been big.

Rokeby exhaled. "Leda was... have you looked at her?" He fixed Cormoran with his eyes, wanting him to understand the question, "Really looked? She was beautiful," he took a sip of his whisky. "And funny. I met her when I was going through a bad patch in my marriage. Maime had just been born and my wife Shirley was unhappy that I was always on the road. Then there was Leda, who was always hanging around at every gig. My ex accused me of having sex with her and that's why she wanted a divorce. The funny thing was that I was faithful to Shirley. But once I was divorced, it just didn't matter any more." Rokeby took another sip of his whisky. "Cormoran, be honest, you can't tell me you've never buried your sorrows in a woman."

Strike just huffed and stared into his beer, but his mind wandered to Coco, Madeline and Bijou. And with the last one he got the experience of a short fright of becoming a father. In that way, he wasn't so different from his father. But he had dealt with it and it would never happen again.

"And I was a stupid young lad then." Rokeby continued. "I just assumed she was on the pill, I was always high and sad that I got divorced.... I used to regret getting her pregnant, but that changed. As I had more children and they got older, I realised I had messed up... what I and Leda did was never your fault. But I never took responsibility. Took me too damn long to realise that. I'm sorry." Both men took long draughts from their glasses, reminiscing about the past.

"Okay, Cormrn..." Rokeby's spoke up, his speech becoming slurred. "There's one thing I don't understand... your partner, the one who solved our mess. How does she fit in? You love her." Cormoran couldn't tell if Rokeby was asking a question or making a statement.

Strike was not sure how to answer. Love was too weak a word after this week. Of course he loved her. But he couldn't imagine a life without her. He owed her his life, the agency, he adored her, he should write a thank-you note to this temp agency, pay the fees he owed them...

"It's all the temp agency's fault." Strike tried to explain through the fog in his brain. "If they hadn't screwed up my cancellation, she'd never have shown up and I'd probably have drunk myself to death or just given up." He drained the whisky in front of him.

"She's a secretary?" Rokeby asked, puzzled.

"No, she's," Cormoran stopped. "Robin," his head was spinning. He was drunk. God, he missed her. It was Christmas Eve and she wasn't here.

Rokeby laughed. "I know the feeling. Marry her. Felt the same way about all my wives," Rokeby waggled an eyebrow. Strike just exhaled.

"What if it doesn't work out?" Strike looked at his father, really hoping for an answer.

"Then you know for sure. But what if it works? Better risk it and be happy." Strike just stared at his whisky again, pondering the possible regret of doing nothing.

Rokeby went on. "I proposed to my first wife and missed an important press conference, Gillespie was furious," he chuckled. "And with my second wife, I proposed when I was supposed to be at a Grammy show. But we were in the hotel jacuzzi making out, it was the perfect opportunity. God, the band was furious. But I never regretted marrying them, even though we got divorced later."

"And your third wife?" Strike asked.

"Missed a big show my daughters put on at school when I proposed to Jenny. Had to buy them a horse to make up for it." Rokeby said. "But I'm still with her now. No regrets there either. "

Both men remained silent, following their own train of thought. They both finished another whisky.

"I also have a temp at the moment," Rokeby said after a while. "Should make her permanent for forgetting to cancel the meeting with your Robin in my private calendar."

Strike just chuckled. It seemed that his luck was tied to temps.

Father and son, both no longer accustomed to such quantities of alcohol, were thrown out of the pub by the owner at closing time. They had trouble getting up the stairs from the cellar. Cormoran tried to teach Rokeby The Song of the Western Men, stopping at every step and Rokeby playing air guitar. Finally, the driver called Al to help him pick them up, and Al accompanied Strike to Denmark Street.

Strike stumbled into his flat. Al had helped him up the stairs and was reluctant to leave him alone at first, but after a sobering cup of tea, Strike shooed him out. He stripped off his clothes and leg and lay on the bed in nothing but his boxers. He enjoyed the feeling of flight that came with too much alcohol and he felt invincible. In a few minutes it would be Christmas. Anything was possible at Christmas, his mind told him.

He picked up his mobile phone and typed a message, everything was clear in his mind with a sound reasoning. Then he sent it. He read it again and it sounded far too cheesy, so he deleted it again.

xxx

Back in Masham, Robin couldn't sleep. The day had been a whirlwind of friends and family coming and going, everyone dropping off presents or wanting to say hello. She had seen pity in some of their faces, as if being single and at home with your parents for Christmas was a bad thing. At least her mother had been busy, and the constant stream of 'good' advice and nagging hadn't been so bad today. Watching her family and friends helped to sort out her conflicting feelings about her personal life.

She wanted company, but she didn't want to repeat her past mistakes. Maybe Murphy thought she was being selfish by putting her career ahead of his wishes for a family, but now she knew better than ever what she wanted and what she did not. She had thought long and hard about what Ryan had meant about her being a tease, and had even called Vanessa one night. In Robin's eyes, Vanessa had such confidence about sex, and it helped that she confirmed her gut feeling that her partners had been too presumptuous. Matthew had regularly put her down, insulting her looks or her intelligence. And Ryan had been fine at first, but he'd insulted her ambitions, and he'd become more handsy, which she hadn't liked.

Robin had told Vanessa about the last time she had sex with Ryan. She still felt uncomfortable about it. Vanessa was also angry at him and wished all the worst on Ryan and men in general who felt entitled to sex and needed it for their fragile egos. It felt good to have Vanessa's support. And she vowed to take a page from her book and be clearer about what was OK for her. She really needed to stop swallowing everything just to please people. Robin's mood had improved throughout the day, and she had a lively discussion with Vanessa about all this on the messenger on her mobile.

The beep of the phone jolted her out of her thoughts. The message wasn't from Vanessa, it was from Strike. She read it and a second later it was deleted by the sender. A sudden realisation made her smile and she finally fell asleep.

Chapter Text

Robin got up early, Christmas morning was always magical. Although they no longer hung stockings, she still enjoyed the sight of Christmas presents undisturbed under the tree. Later the whole family would gather for dinner and the usual Christmas rituals of opening presents, eating too much and wasting the day with TV and games could take place.

She went into the kitchen and made some coffee. Steaming cup in hand, she sat down in front of the tree. The small package that had arrived from Strike two days ago was placed under the tree with all the other presents. Curious and tired of waiting, she picked it up.

A smile played on her lips. He hadn't forgotten. She was glad she had bought his present back in Truro, otherwise she would have had a hard time this year. While Strike was always generous with gifts (when he remembered), he rarely indulged in things for himself. His coat, for example, had been a gift from his aunt and uncle. With the knowledge she now had, his behaviour made sense. Pat had been so nice as to let Vanessa leave the present on Strike's desk on Friday and she hoped he had found it.

She opened the package carefully, revealing two jewellery boxes. Opening the larger one, she pulled out a delicate crystal ball, mounted on a gold ornamented stand. It was quite heavy, and the lights from the Christmas tree broke in a mesmerising pattern inside the glass. It would look lovely on her sideboard.

The smaller box had one pair of simple, elegant earrings with beautiful light lilac stones and small diamonds. She put them on and admired herself in the mirror. They would go with almost any outfit, and could finally replace a pair she had received from Matthew that she had never worn again. And best of all, they weren't the typical diamond earrings Sarah Shadlock had and she had begun to loathe whenever she saw someone wearing them. There was also a small card in the bag. It simply said:

'Merry Christmas. If you ever want to try your hand at fortune telling, I have a crystal ball for you. If it doesn't work, you have my permission to throw it at me if I'm being unreasonable again.

A week ago, I was afraid our luck had run out. That's why I got you the earrings. The stones are for luck and protection, just in case.
Love, Cx'

It was still surreal to her how close she had come to death this time. But her partner had had her back, and she appreciated that.

Her mind wandered back to the message she had received yesterday. It wasn't meant for her. She hadn't been able to save it with a screenshot, not expecting it to be deleted, but she still knew the exact wording, including the spelling mistakes:

'Dear Satna, I hope Im not too late. 0But for Chrismas, I want a Robn. I promise to keep her happy an I won't be a git to her anymore. I love her. Thanks mate'

The sentiment of the gifts and the message made her realise something: Strike respected her. He had never reduced her to her looks. As a temp, she had had her share of bosses who only talked to her breasts or made sleazy comments - Strike had stayed professional. Of course they fought, and he was a jerk sometimes, but he apologised. And he never tried to force her to do anything she didn't want to do. He made it possible for her to pursue her career, he had trained her, and despite all the rocky times during their friendship, he was still there. Both Matthew and Ryan wanted her to be something she wasn't and didn't take her seriously. And maybe that made all the difference.

The few days in Masham had made her miss Strike. It was out of the question that she loved him. And she wanted a romantic relationship with him, but they had to be honest with each other. She didn't want to jeopardise their friendship or the agency.

xxx

Strike felt terrible when he woke up on Christmas Day. His head was throbbing in sync with his heartbeat, his mouth was dry and his stomach was queasy. At least his hand hurt less. He lay still for a while, just trying to breathe the nausea away. When he finally dared to look at his watch, he was startled. It was already eleven. He had to be at Lucy's in two hours.

In the shower he thought about last night. It hadn't been the worst Christmas Eve he'd ever had. In fact, it had been pretty good. The getting to know his father had been less awkward than he had feared, and he hoped they could move on from there. A small, but not evil, part of him wished that Rokeby would suffer the same way he did from too much alcohol and share the burden. Bouncing back really did get harder with age.

A strong coffee and some dry toast later, he got into his car and drove to his sister's. At least the tiresome task of buying presents wasn't an issue this year. Lucy had just bought the presents for his nephews and he had sent her the money. After years of struggling to find presents for the grown-ups, they just gave up and agreed to stop.

Bloom and his wife Bethany were already there when he arrived at Lucy's, and they were happy to entertain his nephews, having a snowball fight outside. And he found half an hour to discuss his findings about Leda's death with Bloom and Ted. Both of them were happy to find out what had happened, Ted even more so, as the idea that his sister had committed suicide had never sat well with him. He had a good chat with everyone over Lucy's meal, getting to know his new found relatives better. With a broad grin, Bethany revealed that she was pregnant, and Strike added another nephew or niece to his growing list of relatives, already struggling to remember the birthdays of his sister's sons. It was a nice Christmas, except he couldn't stomach wine and stuck to water and alcohol-free beer.

His day was further brightened when he received a short text message from Robin, thanking him for the lovely gifts and confirming their plans for Boxing Day by inviting him to dinner tomorrow night.

xxx

Dinner had been a lively affair with her brothers, their spouses, her father and Annabel. Robin was more relaxed because her mother's attention had been diverted from her to Annabel and Carmen. Witnessing her fussy niece (poor sleeper and picky eater) and Carmen's struggle with pregnancy (heartburn and swollen feet) made her feel like she had dodged a bullet. There may be women who find motherhood rewarding, but she certainly wasn't one of them. She didn't mind babysitting, but thinking back, she was never one to play with dolls. She really needed to get her contraception sorted out, Chapman Farm and their breeding programme had been a fright in itself.

Robin helped her mother in the kitchen, clearing the plates and putting them in the dishwasher. They had just finished the main course, Linda was making pudding and the radio was playing some soothing Christmas tunes.

Her phone vibrated again. It was another message from Vanessa, suggesting annoying curses for Ryan, and her last one, 'may his toilet roll always be empty', still made her giggle. Just as she reached for her phone, Linda slammed the pot she was holding down harder than necessary. Robin jumped.

"Can't he even leave you alone at Christmas?" she said, irritated.

"What?" Robin asked, perplexed.

"Your boss? Does he have to bother you all the time?" Linda said annoyed.

Robin exhaled. Ever since they left London, even in the hospital, her mother's persistent jabs at her partner for endangering her, completely ignoring the fact that it had been her own decision-slash-mistake, had kept her on edge. Just when she thought her mother had calmed down, it started again. It made the anger inside her explode. Robin put down the plate she had just cleared for the dishwasher and turned to her mother.

"Firstly," she said in a clipped tone, "he's not my boss. Secondly, he doesn't bother me when he...

"You can't even put your phone down for ten minutes..." Linda interrupted her.

"Mum!" Robin said a little louder.

"He's using you like a secretary, he's like an insolent child -" Linda rattled on.

"Stop it now!" Robin snapped. The harsh tone from her usually gentle daughter startled Linda into silence.

"Don't. Don't belittle him. Or trivialise what we do." Robin continued. "Cormoran gave me a chance at a job I always wanted. He has saved my life twice this year. And he supported me more than Matthew or Ryan ever did. Stop talking like that. I won't have it anymore." Robin's anger seethed beneath her controlled facade.

Linda stared at her daughter. In the last ten years, Robin had never spoken out against her.

"Listen, Mum, I know you don't like him and you don't like my job. But I love what I do. You think I want the same things out of life as you do. But I never want to be a mother and a housewife, so please stop trying to talk me into it."

She turned back to the dishwasher. More quietly she continued. "And just so you know. I love Cormoran. If you want to pull me away from him, you will just push me away from you, and you will see a lot less of me in the future." Robin exhaled, fighting back the tears from her outburst. Only now did she realise the ultimatum she had given her mother and she was shocked at how far she was prepared to go to get the life she wanted. "Excuse me," she said and fled from the kitchen.

The commotion from the rest of the family in the dining room was drowned out by the beginning of 'Holly Jolly Christmas' on the radio. Linda stood frozen in place.

Having regained her composure, Robin joined everyone in the dining room later and tried to avoid her mother for the rest of the evening. Her phone only went off once more, prompting a hard look from Linda at Robin. This time the message was actually from Cormoran, thanking her for her gift. After that, she retired to her room. As she lay in bed, she was never more sure of what she wanted. She had her dream job. And she wanted a relationship, but she wasn't going to compromise anymore. She had to take care of her own happiness - hopefully including Cormoran.

Despite the argument with her mother, she felt calmer than ever. The moment she had stood up to her mother, the little fear that had lived in her since the attack at the university had vanished. She had accepted that life was dangerous - and she was determined to live with it - on her own terms. She slept peacefully that night.

xxx

When Strike got home, stuffed from too much turkey and happy from a lovely day with his family, he picked up Robin's present from his bedside table. It was beautifully wrapped and he carefully unfolded the paper. Inside was a new leather wallet. Once again he was amazed at her ability to see what he needed before he even realised. As he transferred all his cards and money from the old to the new, he found a shiny penny in a small pocket. With it was a note. It said: 'A lucky penny if you need it, just in case. Love, Robin.'

He chuckled. Luck was something they relied on too much lately. He sent her a short message thanking her, wishing her a safe journey for tomorrow and confirming their plans. He couldn't wait to see her again. Flexing his right hand, he was slowly able to make a fist again without pain. The stitches would be out in three days. In a good mood, he flicked through the TV programme and enjoyed some Christmas classics for the rest of the evening.

Chapter Text

Strike spent the day going through his mother's boxes. Some of the contents were still with the Met as evidence, but most had been returned by Wardle on Friday. He found the tarot deck and her trademark silk scarf. Just seeing it triggered his memory of the cloud of wood, smoke and verbena that had always surrounded her. Then he found the jewellery of beads and bright stones so typical of her hippie lifestyle. But the photographs were the most heartbreaking. Rokeby was right, his mother had been beautiful, full of life and fun. He would always miss her, but he no longer felt guilty. And he was glad that the circumstances of her death had finally been cleared up. It made sense that she'd already been drugged with Whittaker's rigged supply and that she hadn't been herself when they'd met. In the end, it hadn't been Whittaker, but his gut feeling that he was guilty hadn't been entirely wrong either. It had been Rokeby's attempt to reconcile with her that had led Gillespie to kill her. And he couldn't really blame his father for trying to do the right thing.

As he looked at the clock on the wall, he realised that he was going to be late. He wanted to make a stop before going to Robin's. He packed the things he needed and left Denmark Street.

First he stopped at the cemetery where his mother was buried and lit a candle to apologise to her for being angry the last time they had met. For so long he had lived in denial, but now he could see that either everyone or no one was to blame. In the end, it had been Gillespie who had wronged her. And he had to forgive his 20-year-old self - he was young and gullible.

After half an hour at his mother's grave, he went to see Robin. He was nervous, clutching the bag containing the bottle of wine. He had no idea what to expect. He had visited her in hospital, but they hadn't had a moment's peace. They had spoken on the phone, but always remained professional and friendly.

He still had to apologise in person for shouting at Robin in the office the last time. And her near death had been a painful reminder of how much he loved her. But with her mother breathing down his neck, her contempt for him almost palpable, he had felt paralysed, more uncertain than ever that his affections were wanted. He knew of Robin's tendency to please people and that made him even more insecure, not wanting her to choose between her mother and him. He also needed her to understand that no matter what happened, she would always have his friendship, even if she decided she didn't want a romantic relationship with him.

He took a deep breath and pressed the button on her doorbell. Seconds later, she let him in and he walked up the stairs.

"Hey," she said, leaning against the door and smiling at him. Her relaxed posture and comfortable clothes gave the illusion of coming home. She was wearing the earrings. The tight knot inside him loosened a little.

"Hey," he smiled back, "good to see you."

She straightened and took the bag with the bottle of wine from him. "Come in."

He followed her, closing the door and hanging up his coat. The place smelled of food and Robin. The lights were dimmed to create a cosy atmosphere. Robin put the wine on the table, which was set with a white tablecloth, red napkins and a candle.

She turned to him and took him in. He was standing in the middle of the room, looking a little lost.

She walked up to him and took his hand, pulling him closer.

"It's good to see you too, I missed you," she said warmly.

The dam inside him broke and he pulled her into an embrace. Her hands went around his waist and she returned the hug. He buried his face in her shoulder, breathing deeply. "Jesus, how I missed you," he whispered against her skin. A silent tear rolled from his eye, and shame at his emotional outburst mixed with his relief at having her alive in his arms. Despite his reconciliation with Rokeby, the time he spent with Lucy or his friends Ilsa and Nick, Robin was his closest friend.

She melted into his embrace, relaxing in his presence and enjoying the feeling of being in the perfect place. Her mother had rung when she got back to London. Linda had apologised, worried that she had driven her daughter away. She assured Robin that she only wanted her to be happy and would support her in her choices. She even went so far as to apologise for speaking ill of Cormoran. It felt like balm to Robin to stand up for what she wanted and finally get her mother's approval. Robin pulled Strike closer, happy to be at his side again. They stood there for a while, neither wanting to break the embrace.

After a while, Strike pulled away, trying to regain his composure.

"Sorry," he exhaled. "I just, I could have lost you and I wouldn't have forgiven..."

"No, it was my fault, and my fault alone..." she cut him off.

"No, it is my fault. We argued, you were in a hurry, and if I had been more level-headed, we could have discussed your findings, I would have recognised Gillespie's name on the lease or I could have come with you....

She chuckled. "I don't think..."

"No, let me finish. I am sorry. I am so sorry that I yelled at you and didn't take your findings seriously. Gillespie put such a strain on me and alienated me to such an extent that I lost my head whenever my mother or Rokeby were mentioned. I should have realised that something was wrong. And I hope you forgive me... When I sat next to you in hospital, I was afraid that my last words to you had been in anger. I couldn't have lived with that..." he trailed off. The way he had parted from his mother all those years ago hung unspoken between them.

"You are forgiven." Robin barely remembered their argument. He had been there when she needed him, and that was more important. "I should have told you more about the case when I found out about the lousy police work. Then you could have seen for yourself that it didn't add up. So, best mates again?" She could see the hint of sadness on his face.

"Always," he nodded carefully and turned away, not wanting her to see the hope that had just been crushed by her last statement.

"Cormoran, look at me," she said.

He took a shaky breath to find his courage and met her eyes.

Robin smiled, a flicker of uncertainty in her features, "I didn't want to go out tonight and face all those people out there celebrating, which is why I asked you to come here. We need to talk about something... " They both knew what she meant, his confession of love and her plea for time had never been far from their minds. She straightened up, fighting her nerves. "You are my best mate. But I really want to find out if we can be more. How about a first date? Here? What do you think?"

A heady feeling of elation flooded through him. He smiled at her."That would be perfect."

She took his hands and led him to the table. "I've got some lasagne," she said, handing him the bottle of red wine he had brought and went over to the oven. The familiar movements of preparing to eat calmed his nerves.

They spent a pleasant dinner talking about their respective Christmases (hers: tense, his: surprising) with their families. They thanked each other for the presents they had received and joked about the luck they would have in the coming year.

Strike listened to her worries about being a good aunt from London and admitted that he had no idea how many nieces and nephews he had. Robin was particularly pleased that he and Rokeby had bonded, but she had to roll her eyes that it had involved far too much beer and whisky.

Cormoran shared his insights on family: while he had always thought he had none, he now found himself a member of three: Lucy's, Nick and Ilsa's and now even Rokeby's, which he found somewhat overwhelming.

While Strike was prepared to seek out the confrontation with Linda, Robin told him about her argument with her mother and the steady support of her father. It was clear that it wasn't Cormoran's job to bear the brunt of her mother's anger. Robin knew the job was dangerous and she wouldn't have it any other way.

Strike took her hand and looked at her. "Don't die on me, Robin. You need to be careful. And I'm not saying that to patronise you or -"

"I know," she interrupted. "The UHC was madness, if we had known beforehand what they were up to, I never would have joined. And Gillespie was bad luck. I will be more suspicious in the future. And maybe we need to implement some best practices, like only interviewing witnesses as a team when it's outside the office." He agreed, and was already thinking about more security procedures.

When they were finished, he helped her clear the table and they took their refilled glasses to the sofa. It was late, the clock on the wall read eleven. They sat side by side and Strike stared into his wine glass. There was still the elephant in the room he wanted to address.

"Listen, Robin. Whatever happens between us, I want you in my life. I..." Knowing exactly what he wanted to say, but afraid of messing it up, he looked at her again, not sure if it was his turn to take the next step.

Robin slid closer to him, taking her resolve to look after her happiness to heart. She smiled. "There is something I have wanted to do for a long time..." Her thigh brushed against his as she took his wine glass and set them both down on the table. She turned to him, making sure he read her intent. Time stood still as she locked her eyes with his and slowly captured his lips for a kiss. Before she could pull away, one of his hands found her hip and the other cradled her head. He held her close and returned the kiss with all the pent-up emotions he had kept under control for so long. There were still many things that needed to be said, but actions were easier. He nipped at her lips, asking for access and she moaned as she opened her mouth and gave it to him. The angle was awkward, but she was unwilling to part. So she straddled him, moving even closer and deepening the kiss. He held her securely, letting her dictate the pace, matching her fervour with enthusiasm and skill. It was a confirmation of life, her puffs of breath against his face, the heat radiating from her body that he never wanted to stop.

But after a few moments she broke the kiss, resting her forehead against his, panting. He looked at her, her face close and flushed, the blue-grey eyes clear and mesmerising. With her lips slightly swollen from his kisses, she had never looked more beautiful to him. Sensing her thoughts, he ran his fingertips slowly down her temple and cheek. "Tell me what's going on in there," he said.

A flicker of surprise at his perceptiveness was chased away by a nervous chuckle.

She turned her face down to his chest, her fingers fiddling with the buttons of his shirt. "I think we need to talk about a few things first." She looked up again and focused on him. Robin could feel the steady, strong pounding of his heartbeat beneath her hands. It was fast, from excitement or nervousness, she couldn't tell.

Strike straightened up a little, keeping her secure on his lap. "OK," he said softly.

"Murphy called me some mean things," Strike's face hardened as he started to reply, but Robin continued before he could interrupt, "let me finish." Strike nodded.

"I just want to be clear from the start - I don't want kids, I don't want to be a housewife. If that's what you expect, we shouldn't do this. I love my job, I am not going to cut back. I don't want to be the boss's wife doing the paperwork. I want to be with you, but I also want the agency..." Robin could feel her heart pounding in her chest. She wanted it all, but if he couldn't live with that, then she'd just have her job and, if it was still possible, his friendship. The nervousness of saying all this made her hand tremble. She was sure that their wishes were compatible, but a small doubt remained. Being the workaholic girlfriend was what had ended her previous relationships. She just stared at the button on his shirt, afraid that she had ruined everything before it had even begun.

Strike looked at her, stunned. He knew Matthew had been a fool. But Ryan was a moron too. "Robin," he said, "look at me," gently guiding her face up to meet his eyes. His other hand took hers, clasping them together. A week ago he had feared he had lost her, he had feared he had been an idiot once too often, but now he had another chance. He wasn't going to blow it by not saying what was in his heart and mind. Knowing there wouldn't be a better time, he went on. "I love you, I want you, an equal partner, not a housewife. I have the same job as you and we are both committed to it. We function as partners, as friends, and we will make this work. The relationship stuff - we will figure it out, we have known each other for years. We'll do what feels right, OK?" He fixed her with his eyes, wanting her to understand that he was committed. After a few moments, she leaned in to kiss him again.

"I love you too," she whispered against his lips.

After a few moments, Strike broke the kiss. "And about children," he paused, waiting until he had her full attention. "I can't have any."

"Oh," Robin said in surprise. "You mean the IED?" she asked, afraid of other injuries she didn't know about.

He chuckled. "No." Exhaling, he continued. "I realised I don't want to be a father. And if I ever had children, it would be by accident. And that's not going to happen, not with my history. The mess with Charlotte and Bijou made it clear that it was my responsibility. I had a vasectomy three months ago. So no children from me, ever."

Strike looked up at her sheepishly. It took Robin a moment to process his words. The thought was new to her. Until now, everyone had assured her that the longing for children would come one day. Even Ryan had tried to play that card on her, first assuring her that he was fine with not having children, but then pressuring her in that way. In her work she had seen many examples of men who didn't want to be fathers, but had no problem spreading their genes and making it the woman's problem. But to hear his words now, to have the issue of children finally resolved, was liberating.

A laugh escaped her and she captured his lips again, slowly and playfully, both taking time to explore each other, catching lips, tangling tongues, moving in and out in a dance to get even closer. His hands ran down her back, relaxing and tantalising. Robin's fingers found the first buttons of his shirt and undid them. Curiosity about what she had felt under the fabric, curiosity about him in general, made her bold.

Strike broke the kiss and cupped her hand, still bandaged, with his right. He let his head fall back, fighting for composure. The last few weeks had been a rollercoaster and he wanted to savour it all with her.

"Before I lose what little control I have, I'm going home." His voice was deep and she could feel it resonating inside her. The words surprised her. A small kernel of disappointment began to grow inside her, but he was probably right. The emotional discussion had made her vulnerable and needy. "You can stay," she whispered.

He smiled. "I know." he paused. "And believe me, I want to." He pressed himself against her groin, his arousal clearly there, punctuating his words. "But I don't trust myself tonight. And I want to get this right," his voice dropped to a whisper. "I want to do this perfectly, take my time, not do it on the spur of the moment. And my hand needs another week or so, I don't want to struggle with two handicaps..." He wiggled his fingers, the pain was dull. There was the familiar pulling of the stitches, and it tingled whenever he curled his fingers or reached for something.

He grinned sheepishly, breaking the moment. "Besides, it's late. When I make love to you, I won't let you get up for a few hours, and I promise it won't be because we're asleep."

Robin grinned at that and he continued. "And if I remember correctly, our accountant is coming to see us tomorrow at eight to go over the books." Robin groaned. She had temporarily forgotten that tomorrow was another working day.

Strike chuckled. "That's what happens when you date your business partner."

Robin huffed, but as if on cue, she had to fight back a yawn. It had been a long day. She had taken a crowded train back to London, unpacked, cooked, confessed her feelings, started a new relationship. He was right. They cuddled some more, both reluctant to part, and he left much later than planned after a long, sweet goodbye kiss.

Chapter Text

- A year later -

Boxes were stacked against the wall. The bed leaned disassembled beside them, clothes scattered on the floor, the prosthetic leg still in his trousers and shoe.

Only the mattress was in its place, where the bed would be in the future. On it, the two detectives lay naked, cuddled up under the sheets, gazing at the chaos around them.

"We'll never finish moving at this rate," Robin complained. The dim daylight had faded and the only light came from a small table lamp on the floor.

Strike chuckled. "I didn't hear you complaining an hour ago." At least they had moved all the boxes into the apartment. He caressed her skin, finding a way under the covers. After finally getting together a year ago, he still couldn't get enough of her. He rolled her onto her back and settled between her legs. His face hovered over her.

"I'm glad we managed to christen the mattress," he teased. He kissed her on the lips and then followed a path down her jaw and neck, stopping only when he found her nipples. A sigh of pleasure escaped her lips.

Gillespie had been convicted of murder, attempted murder and fraud in May and his assets had been liquidated to pay back the money he had taken from his victims, especially Cormoran. Over the years, he had embezzled £700,000 in alimony, which was supposed to have been invested in a trust fund for more than 20 years. The judge applied a very generous rate of interest and Cormoran ended up with over £3 million. Rokeby then sued Gillespie for the rest of his money, and the former lawyer would now spend the rest of his life poor and behind bars.

With the money, Strike had bought the office building in Denmark Street, putting a stop to the redevelopment project, at least in that building, maybe even in the street. The graphic designer in the building had already left, so they first renovated his rooms and moved the agency there. Then they converted the agency's old rooms into an apartment, which would now be their home. The attic served as a guest room slash archive slash extra workroom when needed.

"It's nice to know we can stay here," Robin sighed. The mattress lay where Strike's old desk had once been.

"Yeah," he murmured against her skin, thinking more of his position between her legs than their new apartment.

"Are you sure you don't want to celebrate the New Year tonight?" she asked, still half preoccupied with planning the rest of the day.

"I am celebrating," He said. "With you..."

Robin just chuckled. "But you promised Rokeby you would show up at his party. Especially since you didn't last year." A year ago, Strike had planned a fancy second date. It had ended at Robin's flat and the New Year's greeting had taken place in her bed, somewhere between her second and third orgasms. First he wouldn't let her get up, then she wouldn't let him leave the bed. They resurfaced around lunchtime on January 2nd. It had been the start of a very good new year. They should perhaps start a new tradition. Maybe it would bring them luck again next year.

He stopped kissing her nipple. "Okay, but we can go later. It's still early. And Rokeby didn't mind last year, especially when I told him I had something else on my to-do list..."

"You mean someone else," she teased.

"Hey, it was a memorable New Year's Eve. I wouldn't mind celebrating tonight like that again." He raised an eyebrow at her, kissing her lips again.

"But you promised him," she tried again between kisses.

"Maybe I have something important planned," he said teasingly.

"What could be so important on New Year's Eve?" she asked.

"Well, I have found a solution to the legal problems we have been facing this year," he explained.

"What do you mean?"

Strike sat up and fumbled for his trousers. Pulling them and his leg towards him, he fished for something in the pockets, hiding his find in the palm of his hand.

Grinning, he turned to her. "Robin. Let's be each other's emergency contact without long discussions in hospitals, let's share the deed to this house, let our children be the agency and the staff that goes with it, let's suffer through all the celebrations that come with having too many nieces, nephews and godsons and let's grow old together. Marry me?"

He opened his hands to reveal an elegant gold ring with a small stone.

Robin was giddy. After two proposals that had promised her a life she never wanted, with rings that looked more like shackles, this was the first time she had wholeheartedly agreed to what the proposer had in mind. There were no second thoughts, no bad feelings, no pressure, just happiness. She simply grinned and said yes.

An hour later, and many whispered plans about their future, she remembered her promise to Rokeby that they would attend his New Year's Eve party.

"He'll be angry," Robin said.

"No." Strike said, his post-coital grin relaxing his face.

"Why are you so sure?"

"It was his idea," he said. Robin looked at him incredulously. Strike continued. "Over a year ago. He said I should marry you." He grabbed his phone and Robin's hand and took a picture of her finger with the ring on, making sure to include part of her naked leg.

xxx

Somewhere in London, Rokeby's phone chimed. He was in a foul mood. All he wanted was for his kids to come to his party and celebrate the past year. His band had had another number one album. Okay, it was sentimental soft rock, but it was a huge success. Gillespie's trial and his reconciliation with Cormoran had brought up a lot of old memories and he worked through them by writing songs. The older fans thought the result was cheesy, but the young folks loved it.

Everyone was there. The band, all the wives and ex-wives, the children, grandchildren, friends, everyone. Only Cormoran was missing, again.

He looked at the phone and opened the message. "Sorry I am a bit tied up here...." Rokeby opened the attached photo and started to laugh. He grabbed a bottle of champagne, even though there was still an hour to go before midnight.

Like father, like son, he thought, at least in some ways. There would always be a party next year...

The End