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“Jesus, Ellacott. You go through Land Rovers like some women go through fancy shoes.”
Robin choked a sob into a laugh, and wished her hands would stop shaking. “Strike, that’s as sexist as it is inaccurate,” she managed, smiling through her tears and pulling the blanket the paramedic had wrapped her in more tightly around herself. “Two Land Rovers is not that many.”
“Well,” Strike replied, determinedly keeping the tremor from his own voice. “By the looks of things, you’re going to be needing a third.”
He couldn’t quite work out how Robin had emerged looking relatively unscathed from the tangle of metal in front of him. It was hard to see where the wall ended and the vehicle began. Steam issued from the bent and buckled bonnet, fracturing the reflections that twinkled across the twisted metal, jarringly cheerful echoes of the Christmas lights festooning the next-door pub. A few dozen metres further on and she might have ploughed through the front window and ended up in the cosy bar from which onlookers now gawped. “Tell me again what happened.”
Robin sighed. “I’ve already told you once, and the police twice. He came round the corner on the wrong side of the road. I had to make a split-second choice, him or the wall. Given that I was in the larger vehicle, with the better roll cage—”
“You’d have been within your rights to hold your line.” Strike determinedly turned his back on his view of the Land Rover. He couldn’t imagine swinging into that solid stone wall by choice.
“Yes, well, I’m sure that would have been a great comfort to me when the other guy was dead, knowing it was my right of way,” Robin said angrily, and turned her head away.
Strike took a breath. This was not the moment to be anything other than supportive. Trying not to think of Robin purposefully slamming the Land Rover into immovable stone, he stepped closer to where she sat on the step of the ambulance.
“Hey,” he said gruffly, laying a big hand on her shoulder. Robin made a strangled sound and buried her face in her hands again.
“Don’t be nice,” she mumbled, her voice cracking.
“I’ll admit it’s not my forte,” Strike said, and she laughed again, tears still spilling from her eyes.
“Right, Robin.” The blonde paramedic whose name Strike had already forgotten bustled back to Robin’s side and began to remove the blood pressure cuff from her arm. “You don’t have concussion, and your blood pressure is within the normal range for someone who’s just been through something traumatic. But you might still be in shock. Do you live on your own?”
“Yes,” Robin managed, wiping her eyes again.
“I don’t want you on your own tonight.” The paramedic looked at Strike. “You her partner?”
“He’s actually—” Robin began, but Strike cut her off.
“Yes, I’m her partner,” he said firmly. “I’ll take care of her tonight.”
“Good. Make sure she eats something light, and no alcohol. Any fainting, nausea, confusion, take her straight to A&E.”
Strike nodded obediently. “Will do.”
“In that case, I don’t think we need to take you in just now,” the paramedic told Robin, who was so grateful she didn’t have to endure hours in A&E on top of an exhausting day and a traumatic end to her drive home that she simply acquiesced, nodding along as though Strike was indeed her romantic partner as the medic was assuming, rather than merely her business partner.
“I’ll send the paperwork to your GP, they may want to follow up with you.” Robin was struggling to focus now on what she was being told, thinking only of how she longed to be at home. The adrenaline from the accident was wearing off, and every muscle in her body was beginning to stiffen up. She felt as though she’d been in a boxing ring.
Finally the officialdom let her go, and Robin handed back the blanket. She retrieved her coat and handbag which the kindly young policeman - who’d looked about twelve years old - had pulled from the mangled passenger seat of the Land Rover and set gently next to her on the step of the ambulance. Slowly, aching, she followed Strike to where his BMW was parked beyond the police cordon, barely registering Strike’s scowl at the growing crowd of onlookers which parted easily for the large, surly man forging purposefully ahead without breaking his stride.
“Bloody rubber-neckers,” he said contemptuously, deliberately loud enough to be heard, and a cluster of girls near the back retreated a few steps with an air of self-consciousness. Within two minutes, Robin was safely ensconced in the passenger seat of the BMW as Strike swung a U-turn and headed back the way he had come, towards central London and Blackhorse Road.
“I’ll need to call in quickly at Denmark Street, get some overnight stuff,” he told Robin as he navigated the Christmas traffic that seemed to have made London’s streets even busier.
Robin pulled her attention back from gazing vacantly out of the window at the passing shops, eateries and lights, and looked across at him. He looked more forbidding in profile, concentrating on the traffic.
“You don’t need to actually stay,” she told him. “I’ll be fine.”
“You heard the paramedic.”
“Yeah, but they always say stuff like that.”
Ignoring his own habitual disregard for medical advice, Strike said, “Nevertheless. I think I should be on your sofa bed tonight. You shouldn’t be alone.” Privately, he was a little worried about her. She was still ghostly pale, and seemed distracted.
She wasn’t going to deter him, Robin could see. She shrugged, and resumed her gaze out of the window, telling herself she wasn’t secretly pleased that Strike was staying. She was more shaken up than she cared to admit, and was feeling dangerously close to tears again as it began to dawn on her that she would no longer be driving to Masham tomorrow for Christmas. Was it possible to get a train ticket for Christmas Eve, if you were only trying to book the day before?
They pulled up outside their office building, and Strike put the BMW’s hazard lights on. “If a traffic warden turns up, tell them to wait and I’ll explain to them why this is necessary,” he said grimly, and hurried to the door, pulling his keys from his pocket as he went.
Left alone and still jumpy, nerves jangling, Robin felt tears gathering again, and got out her phone and started to look up train times and availability for tomorrow, just for something to do.
Up in his attic flat, Strike grabbed a holdall and shoved in spare clothes, the pyjamas he had bought for sleeping at Robin’s and which had only ever served that very purpose, toothbrush and toothpaste, deodorant, chargers for his phone and vape. On impulse, he grabbed a thin, oblong, badly wrapped package from his kitchen table and added this to the bag too. Robin might need a little cheering up tonight.
He descended to the street and clambered back into the car. Robin looked, if anything, more miserable than she had when he’d left her ten minutes previously.
“All right?”
“Yes,” she said tightly, and Strike nodded. Now was not the time to press her. He swung the car back into the street, and they drove on to Blackhorse Road in silence.
It didn’t take long to get parked and carry his holdall up to Robin’s flat. She was moving gingerly, and Strike wondered if she might have whiplash. All the more reason to stay and keep an eye on her tonight. Robin unlocked her front door and they went in.
Strike gazed around the space he seldom saw these days, and in fact hadn’t seen in all the months since Robin and Murphy had split up. The picture of the two of them in Masham was gone, he noticed at once, and several ornaments had moved. The philodendron, which had well over doubled in size since he had gifted it to her, looked to be thriving and took pride of place on the centre of the bookshelf. A tastefully decorated Christmas tree stood to one side of the television, and gave out a soft glow when Robin moved automatically to switch its lights on. The flat was cosy, homely and warm in comparison with his spartan and cold attic space.
“I’m just going to change,” Robin said, moving towards her bedroom. She entered it and closed the door, and Strike moved to hang up his coat and place his holdall below it by the front door, then stood by the window and busied himself ordering takeaway pizzas so that he wouldn’t have time for this thoughts to stray towards the idea of Robin undressing in the next room.
Food ordered, he went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. He could hear the shower running now, and was glad - hot water would ease aching muscles if she was feeling stiff after the accident, and a warm shower was always a comfort.
By the time Robin emerged from her bedroom, bare-footed and in fleecy pyjamas with a long cardigan tied around her, the pizza had arrived and mugs of tea were made. She thanked him, and they sat at Robin’s little table and ate slices of the warm, doughy bread slathered with tomato and cheese, olives for Robin and pepperoni for Strike. Robin only managed about half of hers, but the combination of warm shower and hot food had brought some colour back to her face.
“You’re looking better,” Strike commented carefully. “Are you feeling all right?”
“Mostly,” Robin replied. “Still pretty sore, though. Am I really not allowed a glass of wine?” she sighed, full of pizza and tea and wishing she could have a little glass to relax her aching muscles.
“Nope,” Strike said, collecting up pizza boxes and taking them to the kitchen as Robin moved their mugs across to the coffee table and sat down on the sofa. “You can have paracetamol if you’re in pain. Wine will have to wait until tomorrow night in Masham, if you’re still feeling okay.”
Robin’s face fell at the mention of her hometown. “I can’t get a train tomorrow,” she said sadly. “I didn’t book a ticket, I was going to drive, and the trains are all full now.” Absurdly, she felt tears start at the back of her eyes again. She was a grown woman; what did it matter if she was a few days late going to Masham? There would still be plenty of food left, and she’d likely manage to miss the chaos of Annabel racing about and two babies crying. She should be secretly pleased, but suddenly she yearned for home and the fireside at her parents’ house and being surrounded by family.
Strike, carefully not looking at Robin as he returned to the living room to give her time to regain her composure, said slowly, feeling his way, “Well, if you have to stay here, we could make the most of it. I don’t have any plans.” He sat down in the arm chair on the other side of the coffee table.
Robin looked at him in surprise. “I thought you were going to Nick and Ilsa’s?”
Strike shrugged. “I told everyone that so people wouldn’t get on my case. And I told Nick and Ilsa I was going to Lucy’s.” He sighed. “I just couldn’t be arsed with Christmas with a baby, no matter how welcoming the Herberts are. And Lucy is even more determined than ever to have a ‘proper’ traditional Christmas since Joan died. She is the family matriarch now, I suppose. But it’s exhausting.” He cast his partner a sideways grin. “I was going to sleep in, eat bacon rolls and spend the afternoon in the pub. Sounded like bliss by comparison.”
Robin looked across at him, a slow smile spreading on her face. “I could get on board with that idea.”
“We probably won’t find anywhere that isn’t fully booked for Christmas dinner, and/or exorbitantly expensive,” Strike said, relieved that she no longer looked upset. “But we can make do, I’m sure."
Robin was grinning now. “Want to know a secret?”
“Go on,” Strike said, intrigued, his heart twisting with fondness at her impish expression.
“My secret weakness is pigs in blankets. I buy trays of the frozen ones at Christmas. I’ve got two boxes in my freezer. And,” she went on, leaning in conspiratorially, “my contribution to the Ellacott extended family Christmas this year was posh Christmas crackers, a pudding from Fortnum and Mason and a bottle of whisky for my dad. It’s all over there.” She waved at a large canvas bag stood by the front door, and giggled a little. “We could have pigs-in-blankets sandwiches and pull the crackers, fill up on pudding and drink the whisky.”
Strike sat back and laughed. “Good God, Ellacott, that sounds like a perfect Christmas,” he said fervently. “If we just had some cheese—”
“Somewhere will have some cheese left tomorrow, I’m sure,” Robin said, her sadness forgotten as this new, carefree Christmas opened up in front of her, spent with her best friend and—
Strike clapped his hands together. “It’s a deal!” He said, feeling inordinately cheerful himself. He hadn’t minded the idea of Christmas alone; it would by no means have been his first. But suddenly his next few days were looking infinitely better, with good, undemanding company and no insistent adherence to tradition, with someone who—
Robin picked up her mug and took a swig of tea. “I can’t believe I am once again without a Land Rover,” she sighed. “It’s starting to feel like it’s not meant to be, since the old one died.”
His heart gladdened by the return of rosy-cheeked, happy Robin, Strike couldn’t bear to see her melancholy mood return. He hauled himself to his feet and crossed to his holdall, extracted the poorly wrapped gift and bought it back, handing it wordlessly to his partner.
She looked up at him in surprise as she took it. “What’s this?”
“Early Christmas present,” he told her, sitting back down in his chair and reaching for his tea. “It’s not your actual present, it’s just something I’ve been working on for ages, and it just finally came through, so I wrapped it for Christmas.”
A small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, Robin ripped off the paper and two items fell into her lap; battered and old, with dents and rust spots, but their numbers and letters still clear against backgrounds that had been cleaned carefully, though were still showing signs of age. They were, quite clearly, the original numberplates from her old, scrapped Land Rover.
Robin picked them up and turned them this way and that, staring at them stupidly, unable to work out how two pieces of a long-gone vehicle could now be in her hands. Eventually she looked up at Strike. “How on earth did you get these?”
Hoping he didn’t look as self-conscious as he felt, Strike shrugged. “I remember you mentioned the name of your garage once,” he said. “I rang them and explained, and they gave me the number of the guys they use for scrap. I spoke to them and they said I could go down and have a look. It wasn’t hard to find, and they let me take the plates for a moderate bribe and a promise I that wouldn’t use them for nefarious purposes. Being semi-famous has its perks.”
Robin was stroking the rear plate now, her fingertips running over a dent on the bottom edge. “I did that,” she said absently. “Reversed into a gatepost on my uncle’s farm.”
“Robin Ellacott, driver extraordinaire, reversed into a post?” Strike teased, and she grinned.
“I was fourteen, I couldn’t see out of the back window properly yet,” she said. “I’d begged and begged my uncle to let me have a go.” She paused a moment, thinking, then asked, “So you must have had these for months and months. Why did you wait so long to give them to me?”
“I wanted you to have them for the new Land Rover. Well, the former new Land Rover,” Strike said, smiling. “But I couldn’t just give them to you to stick on, I had to buy the registration. And I couldn’t do that until the old Land Rover was officially scrapped and the numberplate retired, and then I could order it new. And all that took months. The DVLA are bloody useless,” he added crossly, “and they don’t answer the sodding phone.”
Robin laughed a little tearfully. “True that,” she said. “Strike - thank you.”
“No worries,” he said a little gruffly. “And there you are - you’ll have to get another Land Rover now, so you can put the plates on her.”
Robin smiled mistily. “And I’ll always have a part of the original one with me when I’m out in it,” she said. “Strike, this is…this is one of the most thoughtful gifts anyone has ever given me. The time you’ve taken…” She trailed off.
“Only one of the most thoughtful?” Strike teased, willing his cheeks not to heat up.
Robin smiled in a way that made his heart turn over. “The second most thoughtful,” she said softly. “But seeing as you bought me the winner as well…” And she pushed up her sleeve to reveal the charm bracelet nestled around her wrist.
Time seemed to stand still for a moment. He’d never seen her wear it; had almost wondered if she’d changed her mind about liking it in the year since he’d given it to her. He’d supposed she couldn’t really wear it while she was still seeing Murphy, but they’d been split up for weeks, months now, and…nothing.
Robin was standing now, placing the numberplates down on the coffee table next to their mugs of tea, and stepping towards him. She bent and kissed his cheek warmly, her hand on his shoulder, and Strike sat there and let her do it, unsure of what to do with his hands, and having missed the moment to stand to meet her.
“Thank you,” she murmured into his ear, making goosebumps wash down his spine, and then she pulled back just a little and kissed him full on the mouth.
For a moment it was as chaste as the lips she’d pressed to his stubble, but then her hand found his cheek and her lips parted against his, and then somehow his hand was in her hair and they were kissing properly, him sat on an armchair and her bent awkwardly over him. She kissed him slowly, softly, then drew back a little and murmured: “This won’t do.” She grinned at his confused look, and half turned to lower herself onto his lap.
“This okay?” she asked, smiling timidly.
“Absolutely,” Strike growled, and kissed her again, properly this time, his arm sliding around her and pulling her close, her gorgeous backside miraculously resting on his lap.
Silence reigned for a long minute while they kissed, and then Robin pulled away and grinned at him, a little breathless.
“Robin,” Strike murmured, gazing up at her, mesmerised.
“Yes?”
“I’m not sure this is entirely how I’m supposed to be looking after you.”
Robin laughed softly and sank down against him, her head resting on his shoulder. The twinkling lights of the Christmas tree danced across her hair, making glitters of gold. “Probably not,” she replied. “But there isn’t much more than this on offer, I’m afraid. I hurt everywhere. I’m going to be so sore tomorrow.”
“Mm.”
“But…” She hesitated, peeping up at him. “Perhaps you could…join me in my bed? What if I need a glass of water or something in the night?”
“I’d get it for you,” Strike said at once.
“Then you’d probably better come and sleep in the bed, I think,” Robin said, blushing, and buried her face in his neck.
Strike chuckled. “You’ll hear no argument from me.”
Silence fell. Somewhere outside, among the noise of traffic and passers-by, they could hear faint Christmas carols playing tinnily.
“Strike?”
“Mm?”
“I love you.”
He squeezed her gently, his heart overflowing and his throat tight. “I love you too.”
“I’m sorry it’s taken me so long.”
“It’s fine.”
“I just…Chapman Farm, and the silver vault case, and Ryan, and therapy—”
“Robin. It’s fine. I understand.”
“Thank you for waiting.”
Strike laughed softly. “What was a few more months?”
“Mm.”
She was growing heavy against him, soft and relaxed.
“Robin? Let’s get you to bed.”
She sighed. “Yeah. I could sleep for a week.”
“Well, you can have about thirty-six hours. You promised me pigs-in-blankets sandwiches and whisky for Christmas, remember.”
Robin laughed, and snuggled closer against his chest, and Strike wrapped both arms around her and rested his cheek gently on her head.