This comment, too, had been made by Pippa2011.
‘Pippa sounds a handful, doesn’t she?’ commented Strike. ‘Anything about what Kent does for a living on here? I’m assuming she’s not paying the bills with her erotic fantasies.’
‘That’s a bit odd, too. Look at this bit.’
On 28 October, Kathryn had written:
Like most Writers I also have a day job. I can’t say to much about it for secuty reasons. This week security has been tightened at our Facility again which means in consequence that my officious Co-Worker (born again Christian, sanctimnious on the subject of my private life) an excuse to suggest to management that blogs e.tc should be viewed in case sensitive Information is revealed. Frotunately it seems sense has prevailed and no action is being taken.
‘Mysterious,’ said Strike. ‘Tightened security… women’s prison? Psychiatric hospital? Or are we talking industrial secrets?’
‘And look at this, on the thirteenth of November.’
Robin scrolled right down to the most recent post on the blog, which was the only entry after that in which Kathryn claimed to have been fatally stabbed.
My beloved sister has lost her long battle with breast cancer three days ago. Thank you all for your good wishes and support.
Two comments had been added below this, which Robin opened.
Pippa2011 had written:
So sorry to hear this Kath. Sending you all the love in the world xxx.
Kathryn had replied:
Thanks Pippa your a real friend xxxx
Kathryn’s advance thanks for multiple messages of support sat very sadly above the short exchange.
‘Why?’ asked Strike heavily.
‘Why what?’ said Robin, looking up at him.
‘Why do people do this?’
‘Blog, you mean? I don’t know… didn’t someone once say the unexamined life isn’t worth living?’
‘Yeah, Plato,’ said Strike, ‘but this isn’t examining a life, it’s exhibiting it.’
‘Oh God!’ said Robin, slopping tea down herself as she gave a guilty start. ‘I forgot, there’s something else! Christian Fisher called just as I was walking out the door last night. He wants to know if you’re interested in writing a book.’
‘He what?’
‘A book,’ said Robin, fighting the urge to laugh at the expression of disgust on Strike’s face. ‘About your life. Your experiences in the army and solving the Lula Landry—’
‘Call him back,’ Strike said, ‘and tell him no, I’m not interested in writing a book.’
He drained his mug and headed for the peg where an ancient leather jacket now hung beside his black overcoat.
‘You haven’t forgotten tonight?’ Robin said, with the knot that had temporarily dissolved tight in her stomach again.
‘Tonight?’
‘Drinks,’ she said desperately. ‘Me. Matthew. The King’s Arms.’
‘No, haven’t forgotten,’ he said, wondering why she looked so tense and miserable. ‘’Spect I’ll be out all afternoon, so I’ll see you there. Eight, was it?’
‘Six thirty,’ said Robin, tenser than ever.
‘Six thirty. Right. I’ll be there… Venetia.’
She did a double-take.
‘How did you know—?’
‘It’s on the invitation,’ said Strike. ‘Unusual. Where did that come from?’
‘I was – well, I was conceived there, apparently,’ she said, pink in the face. ‘In Venice. What’s your middle name?’ she asked over his laughter, half amused, half cross. ‘C. B. Strike – what’s the B?’
‘Got to get going,’ said Strike. ‘See you at eight.’
‘Six thirty!’ she bellowed at the closing door.