Cormoran Strike meets The Doctor

by JohnWho63

Strike is at a loss what to do about Robin, but doggedly tries to keep his private detective business going. One day, while on surveillance for one of his clients, he loses his quarry, but meets a strange man with a blue box who calls himself the Doctor. (Warning: Contains Spoilers. You may want to read Book 3 "Career of Evil" or watch the BBC DVD before you read on).

Cormoran Strike meets The Doctor.

(Scenario; based on the immediate aftermath of the events at the end of "Career of Evil", Book 3 of the Cormoran Strike series by JK Rowling, writing under the pseudonym of Robert Galbraith. Featuring Private Investigator Cormoran Strike, and also, from Doctor Who, the Tenth Doctor, as played by David Tennant).

Warning: Contains Spoilers; you may want to read Book 3, or watch the BBC DVD before you read on.

"I do," said Robin in a ringing voice, looking straight into the eyes, not of her stony-faced new husband, but of the battered and bloodied man who had just sent her flowers crashing to the floor."
― Robert Galbraith, Career of Evil

That was the sign he needed, but not the one he had wanted. When he had walked into the church, into the middle of Robin's wedding to Matthew, he had tried to back quietly away towards the rear of the building, so as not to be noticed, especially not by Matthew. But before he knew what had happened, and before he could stop it, Cormoran Strike had backed into Robin's flowers, sending them toppling over with a crash to the floor.

Robin's head turned. Many other heads turned also. Robin had not been smiling, and Matthew certainly wasn't. But at the sound of the crash at the back of the church, she had turned in Strike's direction, and was now positively beaming at him as she said the words, 'I do.' Matthew's face seemed to be saying "What the hell is he doing here?"

And so, Strike had left. He didn't wait to see what happened next. He had already ruined one part of Robin's life, by firing her. 'Gross misconduct,' were the words he had used, after she had ignored what he'd said about leaving Noel Brockbank to the Police. He could understand now what she was trying to do, as she had since been proven right, that he was sexually abusing his girlfriend's daughter. But at the time it had gone terribly wrong, and as a result, Brockbank had disappeared.

Through all this, and in the months leading up to it, Strike had struggled with his own feelings for Robin. Robin had arrived as a temporary secretary, become an able assistant, had then passed a surveillance course with distinction, and had become a partner in the business. Even though their relationship was a working one, and remained professional in every way, they had nonetheless become quite close, and despite Strike's own traumatic break up with Charlotte, and Robin's engagement to Matthew, certain feelings felt on both sides had remained unspoken.

Then, after Robin had been sent a severed leg, and it became clear that she was being targeted by the killer – who turned out to be Donald Laing – Strike knew now that he had side-lined her more than he should have done from a professional point of view. But he now also knew he'd been doing it in an attempt to protect her, because he was beginning to care about her far more than he should have done, and even notwithstanding that, he did his utmost to keep their relationship entirely professional. Strike knew that Robin and Matthew's numerous rows had been about her working for him, and especially the salary he was paying her. Strike had admitted to Robin that 'you are worth far more than I can afford to pay you.'

Then she had got back together with Matthew, who Strike still thought was a shit, and after Strike had fired Robin following Brockbank's escape, she and Matthew had gone ahead with the wedding.

Seeing Matthew's expression as he had basically crashed into their wedding flowers, Strike's only feeling was that he couldn't hurt Robin any more than he already had done. And so he had left, throwing himself back into Shanker's borrowed car, and had told him to drive, and get as far away from Yorkshire as quickly as he could.

On the way back to London, Shanker had tried to get out of Strike what had happened, but Strike said little, and for once Shanker thought it would be best not to say much either, although he did tell Strike that he thought he was a stupid sod for letting Robin go so easily.

Then in the weeks that followed, the first two of which Strike knew Robin and her new husband had spent on a honeymoon, he had spent a lot of the time thinking, and realising that Shanker had been right; he was a stupid sod for letting Robin go. But Strike's one thought was that he did not want Robin to ruin her marriage for him or this job. Strike's own relationship with Charlotte had foundered for similar reasons, among others. Charlotte too had not liked what he did, and in the end she made him choose. Strike chose the job, Charlotte eventually became Mrs Jago Ross, and the rest was history.

Strike had not however, left things completely without leaving a possible door open for Robin. He had tried to telephone her, although the message went to voicemail. She had not phoned back, and then it became clear she had blocked him. So that was that. Or so he thought.

Then, as the days turned into weeks, Strike had tried to keep the business going, which was proving difficult, but not because there was any lack of clients. The "Ripper" case which brought Donald Laing to justice had brought renewed confidence to potential clients, but at the cost of his relationship with the Police, and especially Carver, who he had effectively made look stupid for the second time inside a year. The difficulty lay more in the fact he was now tackling the workload alone and was feeling more than just regret at having fired, and lost Robin.

Strike was as a result, doing a lot of walking, partly out of necessity, but he knew also that he was somehow punishing himself because he had lost Robin, and had realistically no prospect of getting her back, nor indeed of even seeing her again, and as time went on he struggled more and more with this very confused soup of feelings.

As a result of his excessive walking, the prosthesis on Strike's amputated leg chafed so much that he was in pain with more or less every step he took. Sometimes the pain seemed to overtake him, so that he had to stop, sometimes to drop the idea of tailing someone for one of his clients for a while, so that his leg could recover sufficiently to continue. But the time he took for recovery was becoming less and less, and in his growing frustration, he was losing concentration, becoming lax in his surveillance, and was nearly exposed on a couple of occasions for his carelessness. In his frustration, he sometimes retired to the comfort of his local, the Tottenham for a pint or two of Doom Bar.

Last night, Strike had been in so much pain after stumping around London all day following a man for one of his clients, that when he went in the Tottenham, he had more pints of Doom Bar than he knew was good for him, and he thought he'd lost count after the fourth or fifth pint. That night he couldn't remember how he got home, except that he was now in the attic flat, above the office where the desk that he always thought of as Robin's desk stood in silence, still bearing the marks of her tidiness and order.

He had lain in his bed, his stump hurting badly, thinking about the last few weeks… months… longer. While still trying to remember how many pints he'd downed, his head filled with thoughts of the events of the last year; the Landry case, Owen Quine, Robin, Carver's anger, his stop-start friendship with Wardle, Robin, Laing's attack on Robin, Charlotte, Robin, and Robin again, until his mind was spinning with it all. The next morning, after hardly a couple of hours of fitful sleep, he had stumped out onto Denmark Street in a daze, determined not to give in to the pain and frustration, as he set off to wait for the person whose movements he would follow that day.

When his man had appeared, Strike had set off after him, not knowing where, or how far, he would be walking today. After two hours, Strike's prosthesis was already causing severe discomfort, and after three he started to get a sharp stabbing pain in the leg, which made him wince with every step, and made his pace slow so much that he feared he could not keep up with the man anymore.

Trying his best to walk, step after painful step after the man, he now became sure that his quarry knew he was being followed, as the man began taking longer, faster strides, and periodically turned quickly into side streets or alleys, obviously trying to lose Strike, and unwittingly taking him into a part of London that he wasn't fully familiar with.

Strike was beginning to think that for the first time in a long time he had probably lost a person he was following. He staggered on, rounding several more corners, this way, and that, turning into streets he now did not know, into an area where the number of shops and cafés petered out, where old brick walls lined the streets, and blocks of high rise flats rose high into the air on all sides.

Now wringing with sweat, and seeing no sign of the man he was pursuing, he struggled towards what he was determined was one last turn before finally accepting that he had indeed lost the man, when his head suddenly began hearing a sound he had never heard before; a strange grinding noise which sounded like something heavy was being dragged or scraped against something equally heavy. After a few seconds the sound stopped with a muffled thud, and the street sounds became normal again.

Shaking his head, thinking it must have been the drink from last night, he staggered on, and as he turned the corner was confronted by what was certainly a dead end, a cul-de-sac, no longer than a hundred yards or so in length. There were high brick walls running along both sides, with piles of half broken wooden crates leaning against the left side, and a row of dilapidated garages and lock-ups set into the wall on the other. But it was the other thing there that made him do a double take, for about twenty yards in, standing against the brick wall, partially hidden by the piles of crates was an old fashioned blue Police box.

Strike stopped momentarily, wondering what on earth it was doing there, at the same time thinking that surely there were none of them left in London now, in the twenty-first century. But nonetheless, there it was. Had it perhaps been dumped? Yep, that was probably it, thought Strike.

So, having now accepted that he had lost the tosser he'd been following, he decided he would at least have a closer look at this old relic before he backtracked to hail himself a cab back to Denmark Street. As he staggered slowly towards the Police box, his leg suddenly stabbed with pain, and gave way underneath him, causing him to fall onto the narrow pavement, nearly passing out for a moment as he landed heavily on his knee. He stayed where he was for a moment, breathless, and was in the middle of cursing his leg, when a voice above him said, 'Here, mate, are you ok?'

'What?' said Strike, holding his knee without looking up.

'Come on, let me help you up,' said the voice, 'come on, lean on me, that's it.'

Not thinking, Strike instinctively put his arm around the shoulder of this person who was speaking to him, and as he was helped into a standing position once more, he remembered someone else had said almost the same thing to him when she guided him back to the office when he was drunk one night. It seemed a million years ago now.

Strike looked into the man's face. He had brown unkempt hair, was dressed in a shabby brown pinstriped suit and a long brown coat, and on his feet, sneakers of all things. The man looked at Strike, and said, 'You need to rest that leg, mate. It'll only get worse with all that walking.' He looked around, and selected a large wooden box from the pile by the wall, and motioned Strike to sit on it.

Still a bit dazed, and a little bewildered with himself that he had felt so ready to accept this stranger's helping hand without hesitation, he sat heavily onto the wooden box the stranger had found among the pile. 'Thanks,' he said. 'Who are you?'

'Oh, people just call me the Doctor,' said the man, 'and you're welcome. By the way, that bloke you were following, he got into a car. He's probably miles away by now.'

'How do you know?' asked Strike.

'Oh, well, I've been following him as well,' said the man called the Doctor. 'A bit weird if you ask me.'

'I didn't,' said Strike, coldly. Looking around him, Strike took in the brick walls, the piles of boxes, the garages, the Police box. And this man who had appeared from nowhere. 'By the way, where am I? I think I got a bit side tracked. None of these streets are familiar to me.'

'This is the Powell estate,' said the stranger. 'I used to have friends here.'

Strike wondered if he had heard of it, decided he hadn't, and said, 'Where did you come from? When I came up here, there was nobody. Just all these boxes. And that old Police box. Didn't know there was any of them left.'

'Oh, you'd be surprised,' said the Doctor. 'Anyway, that one's mine.'

'Yours?' said Strike, surprised.

'Yep,' said the Doctor.

Strike shook his head slightly. 'Huh, ok. You didn't tell me where you came from. And why were you following the same person as me?'

'Well, first, if I told you where I come from, you wouldn't believe me. And second, why were you following him in the first place?'

'I'm a private investigator,' said Strike. 'I was following him on the instructions of my client.'

'Oh,' said the Doctor. 'That tells me I was right, then. He is weird. But he's not dangerous. He's cheating on his wife. But nothing else. Believe me, I'd know.'

'And why should I trust your word?' asked Strike. 'You still haven't told me where you're from.'

'Oh not again,' sighed the Doctor. 'I'm from everywhere. I was just passing through. But then I got a distress call. Well, sort of. It's a bit difficult to say… unless of course it was you who sent it. Hang on, let's see shall we.'

At that, the mysterious man who called himself the Doctor reached into an inside pocket of his coat, alarming Strike for a second, until he saw that he'd pulled out some sort of gadget which looked like a pen or a torch. He twisted something on the device which made it buzz, and then alarmed Strike again by pointing it at him, waving it up and down his body, almost as if he was scanning him with it.

Strike held a hand up and said, 'What the hell do you mean, "if it was me who sent it?" And what are you doing with that thing? I hope that, whatever it is, it's bloody harmless.'

'Yes, don't worry about this, just a sonic screwdriver. Quite harmless,' said the Doctor. 'And anyway, what's your name?'

'Cormoran Strike. What's yours?'

'Just the Doctor.' He lowered the device he called a sonic screwdriver, looked at it, then looked at Strike with a look of astonishment and said, 'Blimey! It is you. It was you who sent the distress call!'

Strike laughed scornfully. 'What are you on about? I've not sent a distress call since I got my leg blown off in Afghanistan. Sorry… Doctor, whatever your name is, you got the wrong person.'

The Doctor slid down the wall and sat down next to Strike, shaking his head. 'Nah, I don't think so. But I've only ever known the Tardis do this once before. I can only guess she must like you.'

Strike wanted to get up off the box and walk away, because this strange man was beginning to irritate him now, and he was talking a load of bullshit as well. But his leg was still hurting like hell, and what was more, he felt a strange compulsion to listen to this man who only called himself a doctor, or The Doctor, he wasn't sure which.

'The what must like me? I've no idea what you're talking about. Like I said, no distress call here. Try another,' said Strike.

'No, no, no, you misunderstand me. I don't mean you sent an S.O.S. or that kind of distress call. I mean it's from your brain. Your mind. The Tardis can feel what you feel, your thoughts. They must be so intense, that it brought me here,' said the Doctor, confusing Strike even more. 'You must have troubles of some kind. Big ones, and all. Tell me I'm wrong if you like, but I reckon you're worrying about something big time.'

Strike looked at the man, totally bewildered, but also wondering if he was some kind of mind reader. 'Like what?' asked Strike.

'Well, with most people, it's usually the opposite sex. So, I'd guess you've got woman trouble. Go on, tell me I'm wrong.'

Strike looked at the man, astonished by what he was saying, but then said, 'That probably accounts for every man ever born.'

'Yeah, but not like this,' said the Doctor. 'I reckon this is big. I mean very big. Am I right?'

Strike nodded slightly, without knowing what made him do it.

'Hmm, I thought so,' said the Doctor. 'Believe me, I've been there as well.'

'No, you haven't,' said Strike, 'there's no-one like R…' and he stopped himself before he could fully form Robin's name.

The Doctor's head turned towards Strike, as the "R" sound he'd made had immediately put him in mind of Rose, who he had lost. 'So, I was right, then. You've lost someone? And her name begins with the letter R. Hmm… Roberta, Rebecca, Rose…'

'Robin,' said Strike. 'Her name is Robin. And I didn't lose her. Well, not in that way. She's married to someone. But we were partners. We worked together. And, well… Something went wrong, and… I told her we'd leave this thing to the Police, but she went after this shit who was… This person who was abusing his girlfriend's daughter. She went without telling me. It all went wrong, and he escaped. So, I… I fired her.'

The Doctor looked Strike in the eye all the time he was relating his story, and then looked down at his feet, and sighed. 'Hmm, I see. And now you're regretting it?'

'Er, yeah. Sort of,' said Strike. 'But it's a bit more complicated than that. I.. You see, I care about her. I was trying to protect her. Keep her out of harms way. But she went and did it anyway.'

'Yeah, I've had that and all,' said the Doctor. 'I keep telling them not to wander off, but they always do.'

'Bloody hell,' said Strike. 'How many girlfriends have you had?'

'No, no, it's not like that,' said the Doctor. 'You see, I'm a traveller. Lots of people have travelled with me, and sometimes we… Well, sometimes, it gets a bit dangerous, the places and people we meet. So, I've had to rescue one or two. And there was one… Well, there was more than one really, but one in particular. I cared about her, and she… She's gone too.'

'What?' said Strike. 'Gone, as in… Or just gone somewhere else?'

'She's in a parallel universe,' said the Doctor.

Strike began a laugh, but stifled it. 'Yeah, right!' he said.

'I said you wouldn't believe me,' said the Doctor.

Strike asked the only thing he could think of to say. 'What was her name?'

The Doctor looked around at Strike and said, 'Rose. She was called Rose. So what about your Robin? Where is she now?'

'Now?' said Strike. 'Probably working somewhere else, I guess. Or maybe at home. I went to her wedding, and knocked her flowers over.'

'Oh, I bet you weren't popular there,' said the Doctor.

'Robin didn't seem to mind,' said Strike. 'It was the first time she smiled through the whole service. It was her husband, Matthew who didn't want me there. He didn't like her working with me, thought that I should be paying her more than I was. I told her she was worth far more than I could pay her, but I simply couldn't afford it at the time. But the thing was, no matter what obstacle there was, she still stayed. The only reason she went in the end was because I fired her.'

The Doctor frowned, and said, 'Yes, I see what you mean.' Then, after seeming to ponder over this for a moment, he said, 'Was he the jealous sort? This Matthew?'

'Oh, yeah,' said Strike. 'He made that pretty clear from the moment we met.'

'Ahh, yeah,' said the Doctor, with a clenched look. 'That's the thing you see. The jealous ones do that kind of thing.'

'What?' said Strike.

'Have you tried to talk to her since then? I mean, have you phoned her? Left a message or anything?' said the Doctor.

'Yeah, several times,' said Strike. 'But she's blocked me. So, there doesn't seem much point any more. But then…'

'Exactly!' said the Doctor. He looked at Strike, but Strike didn't speak. 'Go on,' said the Doctor.

'What?' said Strike.

'Oh come on, you're an investigator. You know how idiots like Matthew work. Just suppose Robin didn't block you, but he did. Most trouble between people anywhere starts with messages that didn't get through.'

Strike stared into nowhere for several seconds, and then nodded acknowledgment. 'Yeah, you're right. I wouldn't put it past him if he thought he could stop any further contact. I could just picture the bastard deleting her messages.'

'Exactly!' said the Doctor. 'Well, that's sorted that out then. So, all you gotta do is phone her again. Or better still, go to her. Now then, I've got to go, but how far is your office?'

'Why?' asked Strike.

'Because your leg isn't up to much, and if you don't rest it, you're going to need medical attention. So, tell me where your office is, and I'll give you a lift.'

Strike looked slightly wary of the Doctor's offer for a moment, but then said, 'Ok, cheers. It's on Denmark Street.'

'Oh, definitely give you a lift,' said the doctor with emphasis. 'That's about, what, four miles away? Right oh, follow me. You'll be there in a couple of minutes.'

'What?' said Strike, sounding totally disbelieving. 'Four miles across London? At midday? I don't think so, but lead me to your car, and I'll enjoy the ride.'

'Oh, there's no car,' said the Doctor. 'The Tardis doesn't need roads. Come on, I'll show you.' And the Doctor stood up from the pavement, and motioned for Strike to follow him.

As Strike lifted himself up from the wooden box to stand again, the Doctor began to slowly walk off in the direction of the old Police box. Strike was somewhat surprised and said, 'What? Does the phone still work, or something? Are we waiting for a cab? It'll be easier for me to walk than to wait for a cab to arrive here.'

'I knew you'd say that. Which is why I'm giving you a lift,' said the Doctor. At that moment, he arrived at the old Police box and was opening the door with a key. Pushing the door open, he said, 'Here we go. Trust me. I'm the Doctor.'

Strike decided he would humour him for a moment, and staggered the last few paces to the Police box, but stayed well back from the door in case all was not what it seemed. But as he arrived directly opposite the open door he instinctively looked inside, and a second later his jaw dropped.

'Before we go, yes I know, it's bigger on the inside,' said the Doctor. 'This is the TARDIS. Time and relative dimension in space. But I'm only taking you to Denmark Street. I promise.'

Strike stumped his way inside this thing that the Doctor had called by a word he'd never heard, and stared around him in wonder and disbelief. He suddenly grabbed a nearby handrail as the TARDIS lurched gently, and a grinding sound came that Strike remembered from about half an hour ago outside on the street. He finally turned round to ask the Doctor what this fantastic thing was, and how could it exist, when the lurching stopped, the grinding noise ceased, and the Doctor announced, 'There you are then. Exactly two minutes, as promised.'

Strike looked at the Doctor with more than an air of scepticism. 'Don't bullshit me. We haven't gone anywhere. I think you're just a nutter. I should never have listened to you. I'll hail a cab. It'll be better than listening for a second longer to you.'

At that, Strike stumped off back towards the door, and made to open it, but before he could, the Doctors voice came again, 'Ok, I see your dilemma. But before you go out there, just think about it. If we're still on that back street, and we've gone nowhere, and I'm nuts, as you think, then just walk away, hail yourself a cab, and you'll never see me again.'

Strike, now scowling, pulled at the door and said, 'I haven't got time for this bullsh…'

'Alright, alright,' interjected the Doctor. 'But just hang on, just a minute, and hear the rest. Just suppose for a minute we are now in your office on Denmark Street. If you walk out of here, right back into your office, will you promise me that you will phone Robin? That you'll go and see her? Because from what you've told me, she sounds like my Rose. Someone worth fighting for. Promise?'

Strike looked at the Doctor, and said, 'Yeah, alright. I promise.'

'And rest that leg,' said the Doctor. 'You know you have to.'

'Yeah. Rest the leg,' said Strike. He then turned round, and his jaw dropped for the second time that day as he opened the door of the TARDIS and walked right into the inner office where Robin's desk stood.

After a few seconds to take this in, he turned back to the door of the TARDIS, but the door was firmly shut. The strange grinding noise began again, and Strike staggered backwards in disbelief, colliding with Robin's desk, as the Police box called the TARDIS slowly faded away from view, and there was only a wisp of whirling dust in the area of the floor where it had stood. And then, silence, broken only by the muffled sounds from the street outside.

Astonished, Strike didn't move for several seconds. Then he looked up at the ceiling, not really knowing where to look, and shouted, 'Thanks! Doctor! Thanks! Whoever you are.'

Strike then stood upright again, as he had staggered back into more or less a sitting position on the edge of Robin's desk, and was about to walk into the main office when the phone on the desk rang, and he immediately whirled round to answer it, and the pain which shot through his leg told him immediately he shouldn't have.

'Strike! Hello mate. Just ringing to let you know we got a result.' It was DI Wardle. 'We got Brockbank. His girlfriend is going to testify. As soon as she realised your partner was telling the truth, that Noel was abusing her daughter, she couldn't be more helpful. Believe me, he's going down for a long time. It's a shame you let Robin go. Nice girl. But anyway, I didn't think I'd get you directly just yet. I was driving down the Powell Estate about forty-five minutes ago, and I saw you there. Nearly stopped to give you a lift, but I guessed you were on surveillance, or something. You got back to your office quick, considering you were limping quite badly. I hope your leg's ok. Was gonna leave you a message.'

Strike was dumbfounded. 'Er, right. Thanks. That's great. Er, listen, I have to go at the moment. Meet for a pint at some point?'

'Yeah, cheers mate. I'd like that. See ya.' Wardle rang off.

But hardly seconds after Wardle had hung up, the phone rang again.

'Hello' said Strike, not daring to wonder who it was this time.

'Hello, Bunsen, how's it going? Have you done it yet?' It was Shanker.

'Done what?' asked Strike, in bewilderment.

'Rung her up!' said Shanker. 'I've just bin talking to a mate of yours for the past hour. Some Doctor or other. Sez you really got the hots for her.'

'What? Who?' asked Strike, now more confused than ever. 'Shanker, what are you on about?'

'Robin, o' course,' said Shanker. 'He sez he told you to ring her. He sez I should make sure you do. So get crackin' eh! And by the way, he told me to tactfully ask her to check her phone as well. Well, you know me, Bunsen, tact isn't in my vocabulary. So I just told her straight, that husband o' yours blocked your phone, I sez. Check it for blocked calls, I sez. I think if you ring her now, you might get a surprise. Go on then, Bunsen. What are you waiting for? You can let me know 'ow you get on next time we meet for a pint. See ya again mate.'

Before Strike could say anything else, Shanker had hung up, and Strike wondered how on earth he could have been talking with this Doctor character for the last hour when he'd been talking to him in a back street on the Powell Estate. And how the hell did he know Shanker, anyway?

Strike leaned on the desk with both hands, breathing heavily, trying to make sense of the morning so far. The last hour had been a whirlwind. But he'd had the sign he not only needed, but this time the one he wanted. He was now ready. He would phone Robin. Pulling his mobile from his pocket, he keyed in the number, and was surprised to hear it wasn't blocked, but was ringing. It rang only twice before it was answered.

'Hello. Robin speaking.'

'Robin, it's Cormoran. How are you?'

'Cormoran! Is it really you? I thought…'

'Yeah, I think we both thought a lot of things. Can we talk?' said Strike.

'Of course we can. Listen, I've had a message. Shanker called me. He said I should check my phone. I have. Matthew deleted not only my messages, but my entire call history before the wedding. Then he blocked your number.'

'The little…' Strike didn't finish the sentence.

'"Bastard", is what I said when I found out,' said Robin.

'What will you do?' said Strike. 'I mean, I guess you'll be having words.'

'Oh sod him,' said Robin. 'He's for the high jump when he gets home. No way is he having my phone again. And no way is he dictating who I work for any more. If he doesn't like it, he'll have to leave. That's all there is to it. But he'll have to wait until I get home first. Can I come to yours? Shanker says a friend of yours who passed the message said you've done your leg in. We can talk, and you can rest your leg. Want anything fetching on my way?'

Strike, who now had a million questions in his head, but was now happier than he had been in a long time, smiled, and said, 'No, Robin. That's quite alright. You don't need to fetch anything, except yourself. I'll have the kettle on, and by the way, I want you to come back. If you want to, of course. Take all the time you need to think about it.'

'I already have,' said Robin. 'I do.'