3
“AND YOU’RE SURE HE’S A detective, are you? Because anyone can do that. Anyone can google people.”
Matthew was irritable after a long day, a disgruntled client and an unsatisfactory encounter with his new boss. He did not appreciate what struck him as naive and misplaced admiration for another man on the part of his fiancée.
“He wasn’t googling people,” said Robin. “I was the one doing the googling, while he was working on another case.”
“Well I don’t like the sound of the set-up. He’s sleeping in his office, Robin; don’t you think there’s something a bit fishy there?”
“I told you, I think he’s just split up with his partner.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet he has,” said Matthew.
Robin dropped his plate down on top of her own and stalked off into the kitchen. She was angry at Matthew, and vaguely annoyed with Strike, too. She had enjoyed tracking Lula Landry’s acquaintance across cyberspace that day; but seeing it retrospectively through Matthew’s eyes, it seemed to her that Strike had given her a pointless, time-filling job.
“Look, I’m not saying anything,” Matthew said, from the kitchen doorway. “I just think he sounds weird. And what’s with the little afternoon walks?”
“It wasn’t a little afternoon walk, Matt. We went to see the scene of the—we went to see the place where the client thinks something happened.”
“Robin, there’s no need to make such a bloody mystery about it,” Matthew laughed.
“I’ve signed a confidentiality agreement,” she snapped over her shoulder. “I can’t tell you about the case.”
“The case.”
He gave another short, scoffing laugh.
Robin strode around the tiny kitchen, putting away ingredients, slamming cupboard doors. After a while, watching her figure as she moved around, Matthew came to feel that he might have been unreasonable. He came up behind her as she was scraping the leftovers into the bin, put his arms around her, buried his face in her neck and cupped and stroked the breast that bore the bruises Strike had accidentally inflicted, and which had irrevocably colored Matthew’s view of the man. He murmured conciliatory phrases into Robin’s honey-colored hair; but she pulled away from him to put the plates into the sink.
Robin felt as though her own worth had been impugned. Strike had seemed interested in the things she had found online. Strike expressed gratitude for her efficiency and initiative.
“How many proper interviews have you got next week?” Matthew asked, as she turned on the cold tap.
“Three,” she shouted over the noise of the gushing water, scrubbing the top plate aggressively.
She waited until he had walked away into the sitting room before turning off the tap. There was, she noticed, a fragment of frozen pea caught in the setting of her engagement ring.