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“Jesus Christ,” Robin said, deliberately echoing one of Strike’s favourite epithets as he opened the wood-panelled cottage door to her, giving it a good yank as it stuck in its frame. “Who knew there was so much Cornwall after Falmouth?”
“Some of us did,” replied Strike, grinning. “How was the journey? Did you get parked okay?”
“I did,” Robin replied, passing her suitcase across the threshold and following Strike down the narrow hallway into a little open plan lounge/dining room with stairs against one wall leading up to the next floor. “I’m in that little car park back there. I’ve stuck the Landy next to your BMW.”
Strike stood her suitcase against the wall by the stairs. “You’ve made good time,” he said. “Cuppa before I get going?”
Robin glanced at her watch, surprised. “You’re going straightaway?”
Strike nodded, moving through to the galley kitchenette to put the kettle on. “It’s not actually that far. I can make it to Ted’s in time to drag him down the pub for a pint if I get started.”
The little cottage in Penzance felt to Robin like it nestled at the end of the world, and it didn’t seem possible that St Mawes had been so recently passed on her long, long trek from Masham. She felt as though she’d driven across half of Europe, especially as she hadn’t seen a motorway in many hours, the M5 running out not long after Exeter.
Strike was pulling mugs from the cupboard and reaching into a box of Yorkshire tea bags. “There’s enough for your supper tonight, some pasta in that cupboard there and some bolognese I made yesterday in the fridge,” he said, pouring hot water into mugs. “And there’s a Co-op just up the road. I’ll fill you in on Cheater over our tea.”
Robin stretched and yawned, her shoulders aching, and looked around the sweet little kitchen. Dishes were piled in the sink and there were crumbs scattered across the counter in front of the toaster. “Any wine?”
Strike grinned. “There’s a bottle of Most Wanted chilling in the fridge.”
“Very apt.” Robin grinned and accepted a mug of tea. “Thanks.”
They moved back through to the lounge, choosing a small sofa each to sit on (Strike dwarfed his, making it look like some kind of comic miniature), and he gave her a rapid précis of their mark’s activities so far. Annoyingly, despite having managed to snap both Cheater and his latest girlfriend, he hadn’t managed to photograph them together.
“They’re being super careful,” he said ruefully. “Doesn’t help that it’s been fucking freezing. They don’t sit in the garden, and they went for a walk together once but they were so bundled up, you really couldn’t tell it was them. Even if his wife could be confident from the clothing that it was him, the girlfriend looked so androgynous in a massive coat and waterproof trousers, you’d have been hard pushed to prove he wasn’t just here with a mate like he told the wife.”
Robin sighed. This cottage had been chosen because it was right next door to the one their mark and his lover were staying in. The detectives had been hoping for a simple snap from the kitchen window of the pair on the patio over the low wall, but no such luck in the cold, cosy days between Christmas and New Year. Everyone stayed in at this time of year.
“How was your Christmas?” Strike was asking now.
“Yeah, okay. Same old. Masham never changes.” Robin sipped her tea. “No one sent me a dick pic this year, though, so it was a definite improvement on the last one.”
Strike snorted. “That is an improvement. Ted and I had a nice time, even if I did have to scarper early on Boxing Day to make it look like I’d been here all along when Cheater arrived,” he said. “Ted’s looking forward to having me back for New Year.”
He glanced towards the stairs. “I took the bedroom at the front,” he said. “Left the back one for you. Looked like it would be warmer.”
Robin smiled. “Thank you,” she replied. “Anything else I need to know?”
“Nice beer at the Dolphin,” Strike replied. “Back towards town. Though if you want a sea view with your pint, go the other way to the Lugger. Outside tables if you’re feeling brave and your hat is on firmly enough.”
Robin laughed. “No, anything I need to know, I mean,” she teased.
Strike grinned. “Nearest decent takeaway coffee is the Boatshed, also back towards town.”
“That’s more like it,” Robin said, chuckling.
“And the Jubilee Pool is sadly closed,” Strike went on.
“Oh, I can’t swim in a freezing seawater pool?” Robin feigned dismay. “Shame. I brought my costume and everything.”
Strike cleared his throat and looked away; Robin felt her cheeks grow hot. Why had she mentioned swimming attire, put a picture in his head that—?
“I’ll get these dishes done before I go,” Strike said, pushing himself to his feet. He grabbed his mug and gulped the rest of his tea, even though it was still too hot, and made his way a little too hastily back to the kitchen. He’d been meaning to tidy up before Robin arrived. It was unlike him to leave mess, but there had been more activity than usual from next door today, banging and clumping on the stairs, and he’d spent his afternoon with his boots on, lurking by the front window in case their marks should head out for a walk again. It had been marginally less cold; perhaps the girlfriend might not have needed her hat.
Robin gave herself a few minutes to regain her composure and sip her tea while Strike tidied the kitchen. Truth be told, she was rather looking forward to a quiet New Year in this little cottage, miles from anywhere. She had never been this far down to the south west of the country. She smiled into her mug, thinking of Strike just up the road in St Mawes. If she got the pictures they needed, perhaps she could call in on her way back to London to show him, maybe meet Ted…
“Right,” Strike said briskly, reappearing in the living room and pulling his kit bag out from behind the sofa he’d been sat on. “Dishwasher is stacked but not quite full, so I haven’t put it on. Tablets are in a bowl under the sink. The front door key is on a hook in the hallway. Heating has been working fine. The instructions are all in the folder on the table there.” He paused, looking around, but there seemed to be nothing else to say. “I’ll be off, then.”
Robin stood too. “Okay,” she replied. “Have a good New Year. I’ll see you back in London.”
Strike nodded, and they hesitated for a moment; a brief hug ensued, and Robin thought about kissing his cheek but missed her moment, and then he was gone, slamming the cottage door behind him, leaving Robin standing looking at it and wondering where the little frisson of awkwardness had come from. They’d always been so comfortable in one another’s company. And now the cottage seemed empty, somehow, even though she’d been looking forward to the solitude after a bustling Ellacott family Christmas.
She gave herself a mental shake. No matter. She was here now, on this job that none of the staff, quite understandably, had wanted. Midge had reluctantly volunteered, being the newest, but the scarcity of trains would have scuppered her plans to spend Christmas back in Manchester, and so the two partners, both being in possession of a vehicle, had taken the case. Strike had said he would curtail his Christmas, and Robin didn’t mind missing New Year, all to tail a complete bastard who had somehow engineered a cosy winter break away from his wife and kids by pretending to support a mate with terminal cancer through his last Christmas. What a tosser.
She grabbed her suitcase and hauled it upstairs. The bedroom at the back that Strike had earmarked for her was indeed warm and cosy, and closest to the stairs should she need an escape - not anticipated, but always on her mind in a strange place. She looked into the bathroom. Functional - a shower over the bath, with a swinging glass half-door to keep splashes from the rest of the room. She wondered how Strike had managed, climbing in and out of a bath with his one leg to stand under the shower.
Well. Not her business, and imagining Strike in the shower was definitely not appropriate. Curious, she went to look in the bedroom at the front of the cottage, over the living room. This one was larger, with a double bed, neatly remade and with a used towel hanging on the radiator to dry. Strike really had lived here, slept here, showered where she was going to shower. Laid in this bed, his head on these pillows. Her hand was somehow reaching out to touch one, and she wondered if it would smell of him—
A banging from below made her jump and snatch her hand back. Someone was at the door. Robin hastened to the stairs, pulling the bedroom door back to behind her, and approached the front door. There was no chain.
“Who is it?” she called.
“Only me,” came the familiar baritone, and Robin opened the door to see her partner standing there, kit bag in hand, his face set in a surly scowl. “Bloody car won’t start.”
“Oh!” Robin said. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Battery,” Strike said succinctly, stepping forward, as Robin backed away down the little hall. There really wasn’t room for two people to pass in the space, especially not when one of them was as big as Strike. “Dead as a doornail. Not even turning over.”
“So we can’t push-start it,” Robin mused. In the living room now, Strike shot her a look of amusement.
“You think you’re going to push it with me in it, on your own? Or that I’m somehow going to run along next to it and jump in?” He laughed. “Neither of those is an option even if they might start it. You got jump leads in the Land Rover?”
“No.” Robin shook her head. “We used to, but Dad kept them for the farm.”
“Right.” Strike looked at his watch. “No way we’ll find a garage open in the far reaches of Cornwall this late in the afternoon at this time of year. I’ll ring round tomorrow. If you don’t mind me staying?”
Robin shook her head vigorously, squashing down a surge of happiness. “Not at all.”
Strike set his kit bag back down behind the sofa. “Well, there isn’t enough of that bolognese left for two,” he said. “Pub for supper? The Dolphin does really good fish and chips.”
Suddenly realising how hungry she was, Robin nodded again. “Sounds perfect,” she replied. “I’ll just go and get changed.”
So she somehow found herself, rather than spending a night alone on the sofa with Netflix and a glass of wine as she’d expected, making her plans to catch their quarries tomorrow, instead strolling to the pub with her friend and partner. There was a lightness in her step, and she was glad that her mum had given her a new cashmere jumper for Christmas so that she could wear it now, pale blue and snug-fitting. The sea air whipped her hair across her face, and she could hear the pounding of the waves metres from them as they strolled along the sea front towards the pub Strike had clearly taken a liking to in his few days here. She was happier now by far than she had been on Christmas Day, supposedly in the bosom of her family but as usual feeling like a bystander to the Annabel Ellacott show.
“Well, there’s a stroke of luck,” Strike murmured in her ear as they were shown to a table by the window and started to remove coats and scarves to sit down.
“Hm?”
Strike tossed his coat onto the next chair. “Cheater and his girlfriend, over your right shoulder,” he said, sotto voce, as they sat.
Under the pretext of settling her scarf behind her on the back of her chair, Robin twisted to look. Her jumper - new, Strike surmised, having not seen it before - stretched across her chest and looked soft enough to stroke. He pulled his gaze away and reached for a menu to turn his attention to. He was well aware that Robin had an attractive figure; he didn’t need reminding.
“That is lucky,” she murmured, turning back to him. “A couple of good pictures and we’ll have this case wrapped up.”
And so it transpired. Careful to keep a distance outdoors, and initially quite circumspect this evening, their marks gradually threw caution to the wind as the wine flowed, and by the time their second bottle was emptied, they were openly holding hands across the table. Under the pretext of taking pictures of Robin - which he managed to accidentally do at one point, promising himself he’d delete it later - Strike was able to take several snaps of the two canoodling that would more than prove to the wife that an affair was indeed happening.
“A job well done,” Strike remarked, draining the last of his pint and deciding that a third, celebratory, beer was in order. They really did have an excellent selection here, and he had a satisfied belly full of top-notch fish and chips to mop up the alcohol, and the added satisfaction of the completion of a case. “Another?”
“Sure.” Robin shrugged. She was very tired from her long drive, but feeling the same sense of achievement and celebration as Strike, and she didn’t want this evening to end, somehow. He would get up and go in the morning, and then she would have to decide if she wanted to leave too or stay on. The cottage was booked on expenses until the New Year, but if they didn’t need any more pictures, she supposed she might as well head back to London. The thought left her feeling a little deflated.
By the time Strike returned from the bar with another white wine and a pint, their marks had left, the waitress had cleared the plates from both tables and Robin was idly perusing the pudding menu.
‘I’m too stuffed,” she said, pushing it across the table towards him. The fish and chips had lived up to Strike’s description, and she’d had double helpings of mushy peas as Strike refused to touch his, expressing consternation at their very existence on his plate in such a southern environment.
“I think I might be too,” Strike said, surprised. “There’s hot chocolate back at the cottage if you fancy it?”
“Ooh, delicious,” Robin replied, her eyes lighting up in a way that made Strike’s battered heart ache. She looked beautiful tonight. He could see she was tired from the drive, bags forming under her eyes, but as always the conversation between them flowed easily. Their third drinks passed in a chat about their respective Christmases and a discussion of which case to take next to replace the one they were wrapping up here; in no time, it seemed, he had paid the bill and they were strolling back towards the cottage.
The wind from earlier had eased a little, and Robin tucked her hair behind her ear. They were here, in Cornwall, so far from everyone and everything they knew, and it would have been so easy, so comfortable, to take her hand in his. Strike had a strong sense that she would welcome the move, and imagined her fingers curling around his, her small, capable hand so delicate in his large one and yet so strong…
He really shouldn’t have had that third pint.
Back in the cottage, Robin made straight for the kitchen and put the kettle on. “Three glasses of wine and then all that fresh air,” she laughed. “I think I need to sober up a bit.”
Strike locked the door and hung the key, and followed her through. The living room was cosy and warm, the radiator on full blast. He wondered if she would want to watch something on the television, a Christmas quiz perhaps, or maybe a film.
“Strike - are these marshmallows?” Robin waved a packet at him, grinning. Strike felt his cheeks heat up.
“They are indeed,” he replied. “They were right there next to the hot chocolate on the shelf in the Co-op.” He paused, remembering. “Joan used to put marshmallows in our hot chocolate when we were little, me and Lucy.”
He hadn’t thought through the impulse until now, adding a few to his hot chocolate each night to give him an extra sugar boost, he’d told himself, as he ploughed through notes for their other main case that was on hiatus until the two partners returned to London and the agency reopened, his laptop on his knees, frowning at the screen. Now, with Robin standing looking at him like that, sympathy and caring in her clear blue-grey gaze, he felt his eyes sting, and turned away.
“I think all the mugs are in the dishwasher.”
“I found two,” Robin said quietly, and carried on making the drinks without further comment.
Strike rearranged a few things in the dishwasher to give himself a moment, and straightened the dishcloth that hung over the tap. Robin stirred the mugs and sprinkled marshmallows. She said nothing, and Strike wondered if she wanted to ask him about his and Ted’s first Christmas without Joan, but didn’t wish to intrude. Truth be told, he wouldn’t have known how to describe it, anyway. Not sombre, but perhaps reflective. Lucy and her family had arrived on Boxing Day evening, and he wondered how Ted’s Christmas had gone after that. There had probably been considerably more forced jollity.
Robin picked up the mugs and carried them through to the table in the dining area of the cottage’s main room. Strike followed. She sat, and set his mug in front of the chair opposite, and began to tell him a story about Annabel’s exploits with the Christmas tree, her toddler determination to grab the baubles at odds with Linda’s refusal to just remove them from the tree entirely and make Stephen and Jenny’s lives easier. They’d spent half an hour after Linda had gone to bed one night moving all the decorations up two feet, and Linda mercifully hadn’t noticed for some hours the next day.
As she talked, Strike, only half listening, sat and watched her. She understood how his Christmas had been, he knew she did. But she didn’t feel the need, like so many women in his life, to make him articulate it. She just accepted his feelings, and worked with and around them. She was a marvel, she really was.
Robin had stopped speaking. “What?” Her head was on one side, her voice quizzical. “You’re looking at me funny.”
Was it the three pints of beer? The Cornish air? The time of year? Strike leaned forward and kissed her.
There was no hesitation this time. No withdrawal, no fear. She leaned in to him and kissed him back, as though they had been doing this for years, as though kissing over hot chocolate was just a part of who they were and had always been. She tasted warm and sweet, and he could have kissed her for hours, but instead he pulled back reluctantly, and Robin smiled.
“Well,” she said, and Strike grinned.
“Well,” he replied.
Robin chuckled. “Pat will be pleased.”
“Pat? Ilsa will explode!”
They laughed, and then he kissed her again because he could, and this time the heat between them wasn’t entirely from the hot chocolate, and he could feel the stir of desire… And Robin pulled back.
“I’m really, really tired,” she said gently.
Strike’s heart lurched and he sat back. Was this a rejection? She had kissed him back, but if she didn’t want—
Her hand slid across the table and covered his. “I’m just shattered,” she said. “Long, long drive. Could we…pick this up tomorrow? Go for a walk, or for lunch somewhere, have a talk? Oh - you have to sort out the car.”
“I can do both,” Strike replied, smiling. “A coffee or a lunch would be lovely. There are some nice little coffee places up on the main shopping street.”
“Sounds perfect,” Robin said, standing and yawning. She hesitated, then bent and kissed him again, chaste but on the lips, lingering a little, her meaning leaving no need for interpretation, and smiled again. “Good night.”
“Good night,” Strike replied softly, and watched as she climbed the stairs and disappeared from view. He drank his hot chocolate, a goofy grin on his face, and listened to her pottering in the bathroom.
He pulled his mobile from his pocket to text Ted, and instead found himself looking at the photo he’d accidentally taken earlier of Robin, pulling a fake pose as though she really was his loving girlfriend and he wanted to snap her at their dinner date.
God, she was beautiful. And maybe now—
Strike swiped across to his messages, and composed a text to Ted explaining that the car had broken down and that he wouldn’t make it back tonight after all. After a moment’s thought, he added that it might take a few days to find a garage and arrange the necessary repairs. There was no hurry, after all…