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Strike stood on the pavement, looking off after the taxi as it, and Robin, rolled away, feeling like a well-trained boxer had taken a free shot to his solar plexus. Not since he’s been a foolhardy teenager had he suffered a rebuff to an advance like he had just moments before. Had he really misread Robin so badly?
It took him a moment to gather himself, the thoughts racing through his head rooting him to the spot. His head, which had been buzzing so pleasantly only moments before, seemed to be pounding a dull, angry beat in time with his thoughts.
It wasn’t until a pair of angry tourists nearly ran into him, and barked obscenities in his direction that he moved off.
Sleep did little to clear the dread. He awoke to no messages from Robin and could not even imagine what kind of explanation… apology… rationale he could give her to justify his actions. He did his day’s surveillance with little joy, arriving late to Ilsa’s planned celebration. There were plenty of guests vying for Robin’s attention, and when she finally found him her ‘thank you for coming’ was as though nothing had happened.
It was then that Strike’s mood really turned. Over the next several weeks it was the primary focus of his mind. How could he have made such a foolish decision with their business on the line, have read Robin so incorrectly? He prided himself on being able to read people, and yet he found himself second-guessing so many instances in their past.
His birthday didn’t yield much better results, reminding him of his age, wondering if Robin, in fact, found him repugnantly ancient. The weeks that followed were nearly too busy to think, the reference to Mitch Patterson as a cunt an unexpected bright spot. Still, he couldn’t fight the feeling of a wall growing between them where they’d previously broken it down.
Their last agency meeting before Christmas was the turning point. Strike had not expected that splitting surveillance duties over the holiday would be easy, yet Robin had quickly volunteered to cover the billionaire's South Audley Street residence in case Fingers used the holiday as a guise for further theft.
‘It’s fine,’ Robin had assured him when he asked if she was sure she didn’t go to Marsham. ‘I’d rather stay in London. You missed Christmas last year.’
Strike hadn’t discussed his Christmas plans with anyone on their team yet, but the assumption was that he’d return to Cornwall, to be with Ted after Joan’s passing earlier in the year.
‘Robin, can I have a minute?’ he asked, catching her attention before she left for the day’s surveillance.
He ducked into their shared office and took a seat, waiting for her to come in and close the door behind her.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to go back to Marsham for the holiday?’ he asked.
‘I would rather not share a wall with a one-and-a-half-year-old,’ Robin said, with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
It assured Strike there was more to the story. Matthew was his first thought.
‘Lucy, Greg, and the boys are all going to be at Ted’s for Christmas,’ he told her. ‘It’s going to be a bit crowded so I’m going to visit him later in the week, take the boat out, and have a few pints. Do you want me to take one of the shifts?’
Robin’s expression softened a tad as he mentioned Ted, but she shook her head. ‘You were sick last year. Enjoy your Christmas, I’ll take it.’
‘OK,’ Strike agreed, and in a moment of bravery continued, ‘Do you want to meet me when you finish up on Christmas Eve? I can meet you for a late dinner after?’
Robin, who had been shrugging on an open sweater, stopped and looked at him.
‘Yeah,’ she said after a moment. ‘Yeah, that sounds great.’
Even as she left Strike felt lighter than he had in weeks.
-
This is my winter song to you.
The storm is coming soon,
It rolls in from the sea
My voice; a beacon in the night.
My words will be your light,
To carry you to me.
-
Despite the cold, warmth seeped through Robin’s trunk and limbs. She had spent the past several weeks in a strange sort of limbo, one full of anxiety and unrest. Since the events at the Ritz, Strike had erected a wall of formality and distance, one she had spent years breaking through to get to a point of ease and friendship.
If she was honest, it had been a painful change, especially as he’d mostly disappeared every time they were in the same space. His inquiry about meeting for dinner had come as a pleasant surprise, that had left the same fluttering feeling in her chest as on her birthday. It had made the evening surveillance a little easier on the cold, clear evening.
She had followed Fingers throughout the afternoon as he met up with friends, seemingly to do some last-minute shopping and indulging, before returning to his stepfather’s house with his latest in a string of slim, blond women. She’d tracked the comings and goings of people from the house after Fingers had returned, more numerous than she’d expected on the eve of a national holiday, and was starting to wonder if they might need to expand their suspect pool.
Her phone pinged and she dug it out of her coat pocket, thankful for her newly-acquired fingerless gloved Ilsa had gifted her a few days before.
How is it?
She could hear Cormoran asking in her head, leaning over his desk and reviewing case notes back in the office.
The house is busy. No sign of Fingers for a few hours now.
It was already half past nine. The Russian-American billionaire didn’t seem the type to attend a Christmas Eve mass with his family, and she hadn’t overhead Fingers discussing any plans for the evening with his mates, but there was always the chance of a late-night party with the elite.
She was waiting for a response when, instead of another text, her phone rang.
‘Yeah?’ she asked, picking it up.
‘Do you think he’s in for the night?’ Strike asked.
‘I do,’ Robin confirmed. ‘Brought his latest girlfriend home with him, and the billionaire did say something about a family dinner.’
‘Come on then, I’ll meet you at Piccadilly and we can have some dinner.’
There were car horns in the background and Robin realized quickly he was already on his way, probably walking to the tube.
‘I’ll see you there.’
Robin righted her bag and pulled a scarf up tightly around her neck before setting off. It was a short walk to Piccadilly Circus, and London was beautiful at Christmas. This part of the city was always finely decorated around the holidays, and she’d rarely had the opportunity to enjoy it over the past several years, typically chasing down a lead or on her way out of town.
She took her time, walking slowly down the pavement from street to street, the lights on elegant homes giving way to shop windows. It was easy to know she was nearing Piccadilly Circus when she could see the angels stretching golden-white across the street.
She spotted Cormoran first, his solid presence and familiar coat standing out among the dwindling crowds moving swiftly around him. He was a familiar sight, turning and likely looking for her, a cigarette gripped between his fingers.
She decided at that moment, whatever happened tonight, she needed to be brave.
‘Didn’t freeze, did you?’ he asked, looking over the slim peacoat she wore, one she knew was much warmer than it looked.
‘Not too bad,’ she confirmed. ‘But I won’t say no to a warm meal.’
Strike steered them down the road to a welcoming Italian restaurant, sparsely populated so late, but with a welcoming hostess that led them to a cozy booth.
-
They say that things just cannot grow
Beneath the winter snow,
Or so I have been told.
They say we're buried far,
Just like a distant star
I simply cannot hold.
-
Strike couldn’t help but stare at Robin as he helped her out of her coat, revealing a well-fitting cream sweater hugging her figure. Her cheeks were flushed pleasantly red from the cold weather outside and she rubbed her hands together to warm them up as they took their seats and ordered their regular beer and wine.
The waitress brought drinks swiftly and made quick work of taking their orders, a steak for him and pasta for her before disappearing back to the kitchen, leaving them alone in their corner of the restaurant.
‘So,’ Robin asked, folding her arms in front of her on the table and taking a sip of her wine, ‘do you want a debrief?’
‘Anything interesting happen?’ Strike asked back. ‘Sounded rather uneventful when I talked to you earlier.’
‘Mostly,’ Robin admitted. ‘But Fingers did borrow some cash from one of his friends. It could mean he needs money, but you’d think the things that have been taken so far would have brought in plenty. Did the stepfather give you appraised values?’
He nodded his agreement, ‘They’re in the file. We can look at them in a few days. We’re officially off the clock until the twenty-sixth.’ He raised his drink in a mock salute.
‘OK,’ Robin agreed, sipping her wine.
They filled the time until their food arrived still circling around agency-related topics, Andy’s departure, their opinions of Michelle and Dev so far, and the plan for the upcoming year.
‘You must be looking forward to seeing Ted,’ Robin commented, as the waitress finally placed steaming plates in front of them.
Strike took a bite of his steak, chewing slowly, thinking about how he was much more looking forward to missing Lucy and her entire brood and the destructive chaos that often came with them.
‘Yeah, I don’t think he’s taken the boat out since Joan’s funeral. It’ll be good to be back in Cornwall with him for a few days.’ Other things had happened that day too, but there was no need to bring them up. ‘Go to the Victory, have a few drinks.’
‘With Polworth?’ Robin asked, swirling pasta on her fork.
Strike chuckled, ‘Yes, probably.’
Robin had finally met his old friend the month before, and he could tell, even from the other end of the table, she had been put off by his attitude, much as he’d expected. Still, she let him talk at length about many of his Christmases spent in Cornwall growing up.
‘What about you? How does your family feel about you not coming home for the holiday?’
‘Mum’s not pleased,’ Robin admitted. ‘Though I did remind her that she doesn’t mind quite so much when the boys can’t make it home for a holiday.
‘Plus, Annabelle’s walking .’ She shook her head, ‘From what I hear from Martin, so far, she’s been terrorizing Rountree and ripping down everything she can reach. It sounds like I dodged a bullet there.’
Strike recalled Lucy’s boys at a similar age. He’d not visited much in those years, the army keeping him busy by design.
‘Your dad spending Christmas with the sheep this year then, eh?’
Robin muffled a laugh around a mouthful of food, rolling her eyes. ‘That, or he’ll be in the middle of all the mayhem.’
‘Oh?’
‘Mischievous, that one,’ Robin confirmed.
He took a moment then, remembering that when they’d first discussed Robin’s father’s job, other things that had happened that night. He tried to summon his bravery.
‘Look, I…’ he started.
‘Cormoran, about that night…’ Robin began at the same time.
Both cut off abruptly, locking eyes over their meal. The sound seemed to fade around them and their focus sharpened, a delicate balance in the moment.
Finally, Robin spoke again, ‘We were both very drunk that night, Cormoran.’
‘We were,’ he agreed. He’d enjoyed so much of that night up to that point. ‘I’m sorry I put you in that position, Robin, truly.’
Robin sat forward a bit in her seat, an answer on her tongue.
Only to be interrupted by their waitress appearing at the table’s edge, placing down a sleek black binder and scooping up their mostly empty plates with a quick comment that she would be back momentarily.
Robin looked out at the restaurant, only to note that they were among the last patrons.
‘Oh, bugger, they’re trying to close,’ she muttered, reaching down to dig into her bag for her purse.
When she came back up with it, Strike was already folding the binder closed over a stack of crisp bills and pushing himself to his feet.
By the time Robin pushed herself to her feet Strike was holding her coat open to help her into it, sliding it carefully over her shoulders, before shrugging much more carelessly into his own.
Outside, the streets were emptier than they had been an hour previously, the lights of the angels and other Christmas displays still glowing brightly. They moved off slowly in the direction of the tube and Robin spoke again before Strike could wish her a good night.
‘The Land Rover’s in the car park by the office,’ Robin said. ‘And I’ve stashed a bottle of whisky for you in the drawer of Pat’s desk. I think we need another drink to settle this.’
-
I still believe in summer days.
The seasons always change
And life will find a way.
I'll be your harvester of light
And send it out tonight
So we can start again.
Is love alive?
Is love alive?
Is love alive?
-
Coming aboveground at Tottenham Court Road station was very different from the view at Piccadilly Circus. Shops and flats had window displays, but there was nothing on quite so grand a scale. For once, the pavement was free of men working or tourists wandering along. The two of them slowly made their way to Denmark Street, the cold, clear night creating a nearly magic atmosphere.
Robin climbed the stairs ahead of Strike, digging her keys from her pocket and opening the door to the dark office before he reached the landing. With near single-minded focus, she tugged open the bottom drawer of Pat’s desk, pulling out a not-inexpensive bottle of whisky with a simple red bow stuck to the label.
Placing it on the desk, she turned to the kitchenette, digging glasses out of the cabinet where they mostly remained hidden, saved for the closing of big cases. When she turned back to the room, she found Strike had closed the door behind them and was admiring the label on the whisky bottle.
‘Thank you,’ he said smoothly, arching an eyebrow in Robin’s direction as he lifted the bottle and twisted off the cap.
He poured each of them a healthy measure before setting the bottle back on Pat’s desk some distance away to avoid the temptation to pour another glass once he’d finished the first.
Robin sipped her drink slowly, letting the liquid warmth coat her throat all the way to her stomach, steeling herself for what she knew needed to be said.
Strike had taken a seat on the arm of the farting sofa, sipping his own drink with some reverence.
‘I don’t want your apologies.’
It seemed to catch him off guard. The glass nearly fell from his hand as he started, his gaze raising to meet hers as he caught up with her, realizing their topic of conversation had not strayed far since they’d left off at the restaurant.
‘What do you want?’ he asked. It wasn’t loud, or even certain, but neither was it cold nor as closed off as he had been over the past several weeks.
Robin took her time, taking another sip of her liquid courage and placing the glass back on the desk as she leaned into it.
‘If you were going to kiss me,’ she told him, savoring each word. ‘I’d want it to be when we’re both sober. Mostly sober, at least. It would need to be…’
She lost her way then, not sure what it was that she really wanted. Weeks of anxiety had forced her to honest with herself about her feelings for her business partner, to admit that something was there, that though the possibility of doing something that could hurt the agency terrified her, not knowing frightened her more.
‘Intentional.’
Even as she said the word a shiver traveled down her spine.
Strike was staring at her, though he hadn’t moved as though to get closer. He was examining her, just like he did during an interview, taking in her movements, every shift of her limbs, searching for rigidity or discomfort, anything that could hint she wasn’t being completely sincere.
‘Do you want me to kiss you?’ he asked.
He felt a bit childish asking. He hasn’t asked quite so plainly in decades, but he wanted there to be no room for mistaking their intentions.
‘If you want to, yes.’
Robin hadn’t even spoken before Strike was crossing the room, a few short paces bringing him even with Robin, one hand wrapping around her back, the other pushing her hair back from her face. It was a chance to pull back, an extra second to read her face.
Robin had barely begun to smile before he closed the final distance between them.
Strike’s lips were rough and chapped from hours spent out in the cold weather. Nevertheless, Robin pushed up onto her toes, pressing back eagerly into the kiss, her hands sliding up against Strike’s chest, bracing herself, not pushing away.
The hand that Strike had used to push her hair away traced back to cradle her face as she leaned impossibly closer, her mouth opening under his, allowing him to kiss her deeper.
Every inch of Strike touching her was a searing heat, his kiss stealing her breath even as she let out a contented sigh. She returned every ounce of enthusiasm he showed with her own, as though eager to prove herself.
As his other hand moved to her waist, Robin wrapped her arms over his broad shoulders and around his neck, pulling him with her as she slipped back another step to sit on the corner of the desk. Not breaking the kiss for a moment, Strike leaned down to follow her lips, stepping between her spread legs, as though it would physically pain them to separate.
It was several long moments of exploring one another, of eliciting moans and, on Strike’s part, a hiss of pleasure when Robin dug her teeth into his lower lip, before Strike pulled back.
Robin was pleasantly flushed, a careful smile pulling across her features. Strike had to lean in to kiss her again, his lips brushing hers feather light and almost chaste.
When he pulled back again, he was grinning broadly.
‘Christ, Robin,’ he muttered, still unable to pull himself any farther away.
‘Indeed,’ Robin agreed. Her arms slipped from around his neck, dropping to the arms he still had around her.
‘Now what?’ he asked.
There was a bigger conversation to be had, things to consider, to convince them this was not all a horrible mistake.
But Robin didn’t seem to be done with her surprises yet.
‘Take me upstairs,’ she whispered.
-
This is my winter song.
December never felt so wrong,
'Cause you're not where you belong;
Inside my arms.
This is my winter song to you.
The storm is coming soon
It rolls in from the sea.
My love a beacon in the night.
My words will be your light
To carry you to me.
Is love alive?
Is love alive?
Is love alive?
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