Chapter Twenty-four

With one case resolved, and it being Sunday, Robin has no urgent tasks at hand. Strike has promised to text when he wakes up, so she can again spend the night at his place. Her room is currently decorated by neatly labelled cardboard boxes, so she prefers his cramped apartment. For the moment, she has enough spare time to at first wonder what to do with it. What can be packed away at this stage has been, and she's caught up on all her chores. Glancing around her mostly empty bedroom, it occurs to her that getting a jump on cleaning for the move would be a good idea, and laughs at her eager tone, when she declares, "Dusting!"

Not even when she sees that one wall socket is significantly cleaner than the other does she realise why that bothers her. It's only when she unplugs the lamp, and feels something shift, that the cold blackness of panic reaches for her. She's used exactly this type of listening device while undercover. Robin doesn't even at first notice that she's mumbling the chant she learned at Chapman Farm, but it's pushed the anxiety down far enough that she's able to grab her phone and keys with trembling hands before fleeing her apartment.

By an extreme effort of will, Strike manages to avoid shouting directions at his cabbie, and they're soon outside Robin's place. The guy did well, so Strike tips him as promised and adds another fifty, saying, "Wait here."

"You got it."

There's a familiar PC guarding the front door of the apartment, and he reminds himself "Stevie" as he approaches. She smiles and subtly directs his attention down the street, where Murphy is squatting by the open door of his car, apparently talking to someone inside. With a wave of thanks, Strike heads that way. Sure enough, Robin is sitting in the passenger seat, looking shaken but beautiful, with her overnight bag at her feet. She spots him and smiles like nothing is wrong. Incredible.

Murphy is standing, so Strike nods a hello, and then asks, "Awright, Rob?"

She nods, saying only, "All right."

When Murphy laughs, they both look at him, and he tells Strike, "I forgot that you grew up in Cornwall."

Strike wonders, with gratitude, whether Murphy has been entertaining Robin, rather than interviewing her as he'd first thought. He's already noticed the extremely casual attire of jeans and jumper, suggesting that it's his day off. Playing along, he smiles and explains to Robin, "In St. Mawes, two people saying 'awright' is considered a conversation."

She merely smiles, and then reveals, "I was telling Ryan how security at your apartment is pretty tight nowadays."

Seems like she's not in the mood for entertainment. He's not surprised. Looking to Murphy, Strike explains, "I'd say that only Buckingham Palace is tighter, but Fagan broke in twice, and he wouldn't manage that at my place. She'll be fine there, and she's moving in a few weeks."

The detective nods, saying, "Good, good. Techs will be a while yet, so she needs to clear out for tonight at least. And I'm a bit worried how much info might have been garnered about her daily movements."

"No problem. We just closed our biggest case, so she can take some time_"

Her tone indulgent but firm, Robin reminds the men, "I am here. I do get a say in this, right?"

Murphy mutters an apology as Strike rests a hand on Robin's shoulder, and explains, "We don't yet know who is monitoring you, or for who long. Could be white supremacists again, or it could be someone actually serious about hurting you. Of course you get a say, but you put more than yourself at risk if you choose unwisely, so I'd like to discuss options with Murph before we decide together, okay?"

She glares at him, and then says, "Well, do it somewhere else. You're both pissing me off."

He leans down to kiss her angry mouth, and then follows Murphy out of earshot but not out of sight, where he hears, "At least two bugs, one by her bed, the other in the living area along with a camera in the smoke detector. A point in our favour, if you can call it that, is that we don't know how long they've been there, so_"

Struggling to contain his growing anger, despite there being no practicable target for it, Strike interrupts, "They might also have footage and audio of a serving DCI with his then girlfriend. Fuck. If this is Patterson, I'll_"

"Leave it to the Met. You know that this will be made a priority." Nodding towards his car, Murphy adds, "You have better things to do."

Strike acquiesces "Right," and it turning to leave when he says, "Murph, I don't think this has anything to do with the dra...with the mercs who paid us a visit; it wouldn't make any sense for them to watch her personally."

"Yeah, this really does feel personal. They didn't find anything in Priestwood's room, so there's no question that she's the target. If I hadn't met him, Max would be our top suspect, but there must be some other explanation." Again nodding to his car, he says, "Anyway, I'll keep in touch. Get her out of here."

Just glad that Robin is relatively okay, Strike salutes him, saying, "Yes, boss."

On the way to his apartment, barely big enough for one occupant, let alone two, Strike asks, "If you'd rather stay at a motel...?"

Robin is leaning on his shoulder, clutching one of his hands. She shakes her head, saying, "No, thank you." Looking up at him, she asks, "Unless...?"

He smiles, that neither of them is currently up to finishing sentences, and says, "No. Assuming you're willing, I'd content to spend at least the next twenty-four hours staring into your eyes."

She laughs and immediately denies him that privilege, vowing, "I'm okay with that." With a glance at their apparently oblivious driver, she lowers her voice to say, "Strike, this makes no sense."

Wondering if she realises that she's repeating herself, he suggests, "Unless there's another dragon?"

Robin tenses, making him immediately regret his words, but then she relaxes against him, saying only, "I'm tired."

Of being hunted. "Yeah, same."

If any of their team have questions about their bosses choosing to take Monday off, they don't voice them, making Strike wonder if word has spread about Robin's apartment being under surveillance for God knows how long. Nor does anyone question the second paragraph of the email, putting Pat in charge until further notice. Strike has persuaded Robin to linger in bed this foggy London morning. He returns to the bedroom to see that she's on her laptop, and he asks, "What happened to sleeping in?"

She waves away his concern, saying, "I slept. Look at this."

The first thing he notices is a name, familiar from the Ponsford case, and he exclaims, "You found him?" Robin merely offers him the laptop, so he sits beside her and reads her detailed notes, dimly aware of her leaving the bed and visiting the bathroom—resolving never to mention that her peeing is audible—before she returns to sit beside him. And he greets her with, "Do you know, your fiancée is an idiot?"

She grins, and asks, "How so?"

"I've investigated it a little, of course, even though we hadn't officially taken the case. But, given that the passport was only ever used once, I assumed it was a forgery...though now I think about it, a decent forger would have added a few stamps to it." He shakes his head at his own stupidity, and concludes, "So I started with what I thought might be his real name."

She nods, and says, "Turns out the Arthur Ewart Ponsford is the fake name. Unless you found something?"

"Nothing but dead ends before the 1980s, suggesting that he bought a new identity." Tapping the screen, he says, "And this might explain it." And then he returns her laptop and kisses her, before declaring, "This is why I need you as my partner; we approach the same goal line, but from different angles." Nervous about suggesting it, even though she seems strong, he asks, "How would you feel about visiting Rose Ponsford today, just to get the ball rolling?"

Robin looks keen, but asks, "You wouldn't rather stay here?"

At first unable to reconcile this hesitation with that familiar fire blazing behind her eyes, he then realises, "You're worried about me?"

"Well, yeah; they were recording you as well. I know your memory is amazing, but I doubt even you are up to recalling everything private we discussed at my place."

That hadn't occurred to him, and his eyes flicker as his mind attempts this impossible task. But then he abandons it, to look into his lover's eyes, and declare, "Fuck 'em. I have nothing to hide."