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‘Wh—?’
‘I told him his mother was dead,’ said Robin wretchedly. ‘It was a mistake… or… I don’t know if it was a mistake… I was trying to get through to him… that was a couple of days ago… it was that or have sex with him… sorry,’ she said again, ‘so much has happened these last few days… it’s been—’
She gasped.
‘Strike, I’m so sorry about Charlotte.’
‘How the hell did you know about that?’ he said, amazed.
‘I saw it in an old newspaper this afternoon… it’s awful…’
‘It’s what it is,’ he said, far less interested in Charlotte at this moment than in Robin. His mobile buzzed.
‘That’s Barclay,’ he said, reading the text. ‘He says “thank fuck.”’
‘Oh, Sam,’ sobbed Robin, ‘I saw him a week ago… was it a week ago? I watched him, in the woods… I should’ve gone then, but I didn’t think I had enough to leave… sorry, I don’t know why I keep c-crying…’
Strike sat down next to her on the bed and put his arm around her again.
‘Sorry,’ she said, sobbing as she leaned into him, ‘I’m really sorry—’
‘Stop apologising.’
‘It’s just… relief… they locked me up in a b-box… and Jacob… and the Manifestation was—’ Robin gasped again, ‘Lin, what about Lin, did you find her?’
‘She’s not in any of the hospitals Pat called,’ said Strike, ‘unless she was admitted under another name, but—’
His mobile buzzed again.
‘That’s Midge,’ he said, and he read the text aloud. ‘“Thank fuck for that.”’
The phone buzzed a third time.
‘Shah. “Thank fuck.” What d’you say we get them all thesauruses for Christmas?’
Robin started to laugh, and found she couldn’t stop, though tears were still dribbling out of her eyes.
‘Hang on,’ said Strike, as his phone buzzed yet again. ‘We’ve got an outlier. Pat says, “Is she really OK?”’
‘Oh… I love Pat,’ said Robin, her laughter turning immediately to sobs again.
‘She’s sixty-seven,’ said Strike.
‘Sixty-seven what?’
‘That’s exactly what I said when she told me. Sixty-seven years old.’
‘S-seriously?’ said Robin.
‘Yeah. I haven’t sacked her, though. Thought you’d be pissed off at me.’
There was a knock on the door, and Robin jumped as violently as if she’d heard gunshots.
‘It’s only your brandy,’ said Strike, getting to his feet.
When he’d taken the glass from the helpful woman from the hotel, handed it to his partner and sat back down on the bed beside her, Strike said,
‘In other news: Littlejohn was a plant. From Patterson Inc.’
