Chapter Twenty-two

With a rare free morning, the partners have satisfied all physical needs, and are sitting up in Strike's bed, each working on their laptops. On hearing the chime that means he's received an email, Robin's eyes instinctively flick to his screen, but she forces her gaze away before seeing any details. Only a minute later, he reveals, "Rose Ponsford, asking if we've got an opening yet."

"I thought she wasn't in a hurry?"

Strike shrugs, saying, "I guess something changed." When he taps away at his keyboard for a few seconds, she guesses why, and waits while pondering which case to drop if necessary. She's opened her mouth to suggest something when his computer chimes again, and he reveals, "Fuck, her mum has cancer."

All else forgotten, Robin says, "Shit, please offer her my sympathies." And then she recaptures the thread of her thoughts. "You know, we could drop Honbold. It hasn't been that long, but other than one trip to France, Pooh lives like a nun. I know he's paying well, but..." She trails off when Strike reaches for his phone, trusting he has a good reason.

She guesses that he's dialled Honbold because his first words are, "Did you have anyone follow her to Paris?" She can't make out more than a few words from the phone, but Strike soon says only, "Doable." And then concludes, "I'll be in touch."

He puts the phone aside, and asks Robin, "Do you speak French?"

"Not really. A few phrases."

He grins, saying, "Then I guess I'm going to Paris, though my limited French is very rusty."

"You think Pooh has a lover there?"

"Or he went with her, though she's smart enough to sit away from him. I've only just realised what seemed off when I was reviewing the case earlier; she's a wealthy woman with no family there, but spent a weekend in Paris and returned with no brand name shopping bags: not Givenchy, Dior or Louis Vuitton. Nothing. If you've ever been waiting at St. Pancras for someone returning from there, you'll know what I mean."

Robin wonders if it was Charlotte he'd been waiting for, and then banishes the thought to suggest, "Pooh could have had any purchases shipped to London."

"Which is something women do when they're flying home from a holiday, not zipping back from a mini-break by rail, where there aren't the same limits on luggage."

Robin has never been the sort of woman they're discussing, so doesn't bother theorising further. "Yeah, maybe. And Honbold is willing to pay for a ticket? You'll knacker your knee again if you drive that far."

He doesn't appear offended, merely revealing, "He's spending thousands in the hope of saving millions. I could practically hear him drooling as he okayed it."

Robin screws up her face, saying, "Gross." And then asks, "When would you leave?"

Strike's large fingers are again attacking his keyboard, as he says, "She's off again tonight, though we don't know exactly when, so soon as I can arrange a ticket and accommodation. I'll get in place the other end and wait for her."

Sad that their quiet time is over, Robin sighs and closes her laptop, saying, "Right, then we'd better have an early lunch. I can't imagine that Eurostar offers enough food to satisfy you." And he laughs.

Robin is soon wearing t-shirt and knickers, heading towards the kitchen when Strike says, "Rob?" She turns, and he smiles, saying, "I love you."

He's got that look in his eyes, that means he's closing on his quarry. She probably has a similar expression when about to solve a mystery. She walks around the bed and kisses him, saying, "Don't forget your passport."

Looking blissfully happy, and years younger, he promises, "Yes, boss."

Robin doesn't want Strike to leave, but can't think of a reason for him to stay, and admits, "You know, I think that I'm becoming a clingy girlfriend."

His wide smile proves that he doesn't mind, even as his arms slip around her waist, and he says, "Technically fiancée, given that we've submitted the paperwork."

Robin rolls her eyes, and concedes, "Clingy fiancée, then."

He kisses her, and says, "Same."

She's told herself that his excitement about leaving her behind is really about maybe solving this case, but logic doesn't penetrate to that insecure girl who dwells permanently within her, so she pouts, "You hide it well."

Strike releases Robin long enough to frame her face with his warm hands, and lift her gaze to his, before vowing, "I love you, Robin Ellacott. To me you are perfect." With a grin and a slight shrug, he amends, "Almost perfect."

And then he kisses her, until the insecure woman is replaced by the confident woman. When he finally releases her, Robin is dizzy with desire, but retains enough poise to guess, "Tom Waits?"

"And football."

So she tells him, "Actually, I listened to some Tom Waits while we were apart for a few days, and I can sort of see the appeal."

Strike rocks backwards in shock, but he recovers quickly, again embracing her to eagerly ask, "Which album?"

"Well, it was really only one song. It made me feel better, so I put it on repeat."

Just then they both hear his train being announced, and Robin moves to release him, but he holds her tight, asking, "Which song?"

Delighted to have a new way of gently teasing him, Robin kisses him and says, "See you soon, Oxford."

No doubt recognising that she won't yield, Strike growls his disapproval and hoists his holdall onto one shoulder, accusing, "Not nice, Ellacott."

"No. But you'll be thinking of me now."

Strike grins, kisses her one last time, and quietly vows, "I've been doing that since I mauled your left tit."

That evening, Robin in on a stakeout when Strike calls, asking, "Awright, Rob?"

A quiet thrill goes through her at the sound of his voice, and she carols, "Tip top and tickety-boo. Yourself?"

He laughs, and says, "Missing you. What song?"

Smiling, she points out, "I'm pretty sure you're on duty, and I definitely am."

"Didn't feel like Nick and Ilsa's without me this time?"

"No. They had a backup dinner invite, so I said we'll catch up next time. Tonight I'm_"

"I checked the rota; you're stuck in Greenwich, in your car, hoping to snap a pic of Giggles with her legs open."

Not genuinely upset, Robin is smiling slightly as she protests, "Must you be so crude? It's not like I enjoy this part of the job."

"Yeah, I know. But it pays the rent." And then he pleads, "Come on, Rob, I'm bored. Pooh wasn't on the first likely train, which means I'm stuck at Gare Du Nord pretending to read while nursing a beer that is already warm."

Robin grins and accuses, "Soft southerner."

He's heard it before, so he simply repeats, "What song?"

Other than the lights are still on, there's no sign of life in the apartment she's watching, so Robin reclines her seat a little, and begins quietly singing, "Well, I hope that I don't fall in love with you..."

Pleasant memories of Robin keeping him amused, Strike finally spots his target, and texts his driver to meet him outside, remembering in time to do so in French. From a distance, he stalks Pooh through the station. If she has travelled with her lover, they're both being very careful, because he detects nothing amiss. Ostensibly checking out a magazine on men's health, Strike is wearing one of the tools of his trade—the tiny camera disguised as spectacles—and he keeps them trained on his target. Finally, a breakthrough; a vaguely familiar man who looks half Pooh's age walks past her, his eyes on the taxi stand outside, and their hands touch as he passes. It's not enough to satisfy Honbold, but Strike's instincts and experience tell him that it wasn't an accident.

Quickly making a decision, he leaves the stations and enters the waiting car, where he's greeted with, "M'sieur?"

"Attendez." He's not sure if that's quite right until the driver's only reply is a nod. When Strike sees the young man emerge onto the footpath, he attempts, "Suis cet homme?"

Even to Strike's ears his accent sounds atrocious, but the driver points, asking, "Follow 'im?"

Grateful to abandon his mutilation of the man's native language, he says, "Yes."

The driver is already complying when he says, "Bravo, m'sieur; tres beau...uh...handsome."

Strike snorts a laugh, realising that his intent towards Pooh's young man has been misconstrued, but he doesn't bother correcting the mistake, merely saying, "Merci."

Robin wakes in daylight, gasping and sweating, her hands still trying to remove the fingers from her throat, that she realises in that instant were only in her subconscious...and, of course, her memory. Turning to Strike for comfort, she remembers that he's in Paris, and then marvels how, in only a few weeks, she's become accustomed to relying on him. But then—she thinks, with a smile—it's really been much longer.

She knows, from unfortunate experience, that this lingering feeling of being in peril, of being watched, is a symptom of her PTSD. So she takes the time to calm her mind, reminding herself that she is safe, that she is strong. It helps, a little. What helps more is picking up her phone and seeing a text from Strike, asking her to call him when she wakes, and she complies, hearing, "Hey, where are you?"

Sitting bolt upright when she notices that the background sounds suggest he's on a train, Robin squeaks, "You're done already?"

"Yep. On my back, though I'll be a while yet. Are you at home?"

"Yes, but I'll come to you."

"No, it's fine; King's Cross is literally just across the road."

"Still, I'm not waiting around here when I could be there to meet you."

He chuckles, and tenderly observes, "Wow, you really are getting clingy."

He sounds happy about that, so Robin smiles and promises. "I am. I love you, Oxford."

Strike groans, and complains, "This train is too fucking slow."

Scanning her memory for a moment, Robin teases, "Three hundred kilometres an hour is too slow?"

"When I'm separated from you, yes."

Taking a deep, unsteady breath, Robin says, "Right, I'm gonna hang up and get dressed. Because, if you say one more nice thing, I'm gonna cry."

Of course, Robin spots Strike—towering above the crowd returning from Paris—before he sees her, and is heartened by his scanning gaze, because she knows that he's looking for her. Indeed, when she raises an arm, he stops looking around and returns the gesture, adding a huge smile. Only when he's closer does she notice the shopping bag clutched along with his holdall in his right hand. She's ever owned any Louis Vuitton, but recognises the distinctive yellow bag with the blue handles. When he's close enough for conversation, she nods to the bag, and jokes, "You just bought that to lend credence to your theory, didn't you?"

He smiles, dumps the holdall between his feet, and offers her the shopping bag, saying, "No, I bought this for my fiancée, because..." Affecting a convincing Texan drawl, he continues, "My mama didn' raise no stupid children."

Too happy to express it with mere words, Robin ignores the gift to throw her arms around his neck and greet his lips with hers. A moment later their tongues also meet, and he moans into her mouth, sending a shiver through her frame. And then he straightens, lets out an unsteady breath, and suggests, "Home, I think."

Delighted not only that he's here, but that he seems just as desperate to connect after only one night apart, she gasps, "Whose?"

Grabbing his holdall, and again offering her the shopping bag, he says, "Mine. I need to type up the report. We'll catch a taxi. The sooner I'm done, the sooner we'll get paid, and the sooner you can prove how much you missed me."

Robin giggles, and teases, "Maybe." Accepting her gift without looking inside, Robin walks with him towards the exit while asking, "So, you did it? You caught her out?"

Glancing around them, Strike says only, "Later."

She understands why he doesn't want to discuss details in public, but complains, "I hate waiting."

He spares her a glance and a grin, and then holds her hand and increases their pace, promising, "Same." Robin knows that he's not just talking about the case. But, then, neither was she.