Robin replaced the receiver. Strike was now in full throat, snoring like a traction engine with his mouth open, legs wide apart, feet flat on the floor, arms folded.
She sighed, looking at her sleeping boss. Strike had never shown any animosity towards Matthew, had never passed comment on him in any way. It was Matthew who brooded over the existence of Strike, who rarely lost an opportunity to point out that Robin could have earned a great deal more if she had taken any of the other jobs she had been offered before deciding to stay with a rackety private detective, deep in debt and unable to pay her what she deserved. It would ease her home life considerably if Matthew could be brought to share her opinion of Cormoran Strike, to like him, even admire him. Robin was optimistic: she liked both of them, so why could they not like each other?
With a sudden snort, Strike was awake. He opened his eyes and blinked at her.
‘I was snoring,’ he stated, wiping his mouth.
‘Not much,’ she lied. ‘Listen, Cormoran, would it be all right if we move drinks from Friday to Thursday?’
‘Drinks?’
‘With Matthew and me,’ she said. ‘Remember? The King’s Arms, Roupell Street. I did write it down for you,’ she said, with a slightly forced cheeriness.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Yeah. Friday.’
‘No, Matt wants – he can’t do Friday. Is it OK to do Thursday instead?’
‘Yeah, fine,’ he said groggily. ‘I think I’m going to try and get some sleep, Robin.’
‘All right. I’ll make a note about Thursday.’
‘What’s happening on Thursday?’
‘Drinks with – oh, never mind. Go and sleep.’
She sat staring blankly at her computer screen after the glass door had closed, then jumped as it opened again.
‘Robin, could you call a bloke called Christian Fisher,’ said Strike. ‘Tell him who I am, tell him I’m looking for Owen Quine and that I need the address of the writer’s retreat he told Quine about?’
‘Christian Fisher… where does he work?’
‘Bugger,’ muttered Strike. ‘I never asked. I’m so knackered. He’s a publisher… trendy publisher.’
‘No problem, I’ll find him. Go and sleep.’
When the glass door had closed a second time, Robin turned her attention to Google. Within thirty seconds she had discovered that Christian Fisher was the founder of a small press called Crossfire, based in Exmouth Market.
As she dialled the publisher’s number, she thought of the wedding invitation that had been sitting in her handbag for a week now. Robin had not told Strike the date of her and Matthew’s wedding, nor had she told Matthew that she wished to invite her boss. If Thursday’s drinks went well…
‘Crossfire,’ said a shrill voice on the line. Robin focused her attention on the job in hand.