Troubled Blood: A Cormoran Strike Novel

by Galbraith, Robert

  “It happened—in the—in the supermarket.”

  “Oh no,” whispered Robin. “Oh God.”

  “I started bleeding… at court… we’re in the middle of a… mas­sive case… couldn’t leave…” said Ilsa. “And then… and then… heading home…”

  She became incoherent. Tears started in Robin’s eyes as she sat with the phone clamped to her ear.

  “… knew… something bad… so I got out of the cab… and I went… into the supermarket… and I was in… the loo… and I felt… felt… and then… a little… blob… a tiny bod—bod—body…”

  Robin put her face in her hands.

  “And… I didn’t know… what to do… but… there was a woman… in the loo with… and she… it had happened… to her… so kind…”

  She dissolved again into incoherence. Snorts, gulps and hiccups filled Robin’s ear before words became intelligible again.

  “And Nick said… it was my fault. Said… all my fault… working… too hard… I didn’t take… enough care… didn’t put… the baby first.”

  “He didn’t,” said Robin. She liked Nick. She couldn’t believe he’d have said such a thing to his wife.

  “He did, he said I should’ve… come home… that I… put w—work… before the b—baby—”

  “Ilsa, listen to me,” said Robin. “If you got pregnant once, you can get pregnant again.”

  “No, no, no, I can’t,” said Ilsa, dissolving again into tears, “it was our third go at IVF. We agreed… agreed… no more after this. No more.”

  The doorbell rang.

  “Ilsa, I’ve got to get the door, it might be Cormoran—”

  “Yes, yes, go… it’s fine… it’s all fine.”

  Before Robin could stop her, Ilsa had hung up. Hardly knowing what she was doing, Robin ran downstairs and flung open the door.

  But naturally, it wasn’t Strike. He’d never arrived on time for any out-of-work event to which she’d invited him, whether drinks, house-warming party or even her wedding. Instead she found herself facing Jonathan, the brother who most resembled her: tall and slender, with the same strawberry blond hair and blue eyes. The resemblance was even closer this evening, because both siblings looked peaky. Jonathan, too, had shadows under his eyes, not to mention a slightly gray cast to his skin.

  “Hey, Robs.”

  “Hi,” said Robin, accepting Jonathan’s hug and trying to act pleased to see him, “come in.”

  “This is Courtney,” said Jonathan, “and that’s Kyle.”

  “Hiya,” giggled Courtney, who was holding a can. She was an exquisitely pretty girl, with large dark eyes and long black hair, and she seemed slightly tipsy. Kyle, who accidentally bashed Robin with his large rucksack on entering, was a couple of inches taller than she was, skinny, with a high-fade haircut, large, bloodshot eyes and a neatly groomed beard.

  “Hi there,” he said, holding out his hand and smiling down at Robin. A stranger might have thought he was welcoming her to his flat, rather than the other way around. “Robin, yeah?”

  “Yes,” said Robin, forcing a smile. “Lovely to meet you. Come upstairs; we’re eating on the top floor.”

  Lost in thoughts of Ilsa, she followed the three students. Courtney and Kyle were giggling and whispering together, Courtney a little clumsy on her feet. On reaching the living area, Robin introduced all three guests to Max, while Kyle dumped his none-too-clean rucksack on their host’s cream sofa.

  “Thanks very much for letting us stay,” said Jonathan to Max, who’d laid the table for six. “Something smells really good.”

  “I’m vegan,” piped up Courtney. “But I can just eat, like, pasta, or whatever.”

  “I’ll do some pasta, don’t you worry about that,” Robin told Max hastily, as she surreptitiously lifted Kyle’s dirty rucksack off the sofa, trying not to make a big deal of what she was doing. Courtney promptly knelt on the sofa with her damp trainers still on, and said to Robin,

  “Is this the sofa bed?”

  Robin nodded.

  “We’ll have to sort out who sleeps where,” said Courtney, with a glance at Kyle. Robin thought she saw her brother’s smile falter.

  “Actually, why don’t we put all the bags in my bedroom for now?” Robin suggested, as Jonathan swung his holdall onto the sofa, too. “And keep this area clear for after dinner?”

  Neither Courtney nor Kyle showed any inclination to move, so Robin and Jonathan took the bags downstairs together. Once they were in Robin’s room, Jonathan took a box of chocolates out of his holdall and gave them to his sister.

  “Thanks, Jon, that’s lovely. D’you feel OK? You look a bit pale.”

  “I was blunted last night. Listen, Robs… don’t say anything to Courtney about her being, like, my girlfriend or whatever.”

  “I wasn’t going to.”

  “Good, because…”

  “You’ve split up?” Robin suggested sympathetically.

  “We weren’t ever—we hooked up a couple of times,” muttered Jonathan, “but—I dunno, I think she might be into Kyle now.”

  Courtney’s laugh rang out from the upper floor. With a perfunctory smile at his sister, Jonathan returned to his friends.

  Robin tried to call Ilsa back, but her number was engaged. Hoping this meant that she’d located Nick, Robin texted:

  Just tried to call you. Please let me know what’s going on. I’m worried about you. Robin xxx

  She went back upstairs and started cooking pumpkin ravioli for Courtney. Apparently sensing that the casserole would soon be leaving the oven, Wolfgang slunk around Max’s and Robin’s ankles. Checking her watch, Robin noted that Strike was already fifteen minutes late. His record was an hour and a half. She tried, without much success, not to feel angry. After the way he’d treated her for being late this morning…

  Robin was just draining the ravioli when the doorbell finally rang.

  “D’you want me—?” said Max, who was pouring drinks for Jonathan, Courtney and Kyle.

  “No, I’ll do it,” said Robin shortly.

  When she opened the door, she knew immediately that Strike, who was peering down at her with unfocused eyes, was drunk.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said thickly. “Can I have a pee?”

  She stood back to let him pass. He reeked of Doom Bar and cigarettes. Tense as she was, Robin noted that he hadn’t thought to bring Max a bottle of anything, in spite of the fact he’d apparently spent all afternoon in the pub.

  “The bathroom’s there,” she said, pointing. He disappeared inside. Robin waited on the landing. He seemed to take a very long time.

  “We’re eating up here,” she said, when at last he emerged.

  “More stairs?” mumbled Strike.

  When they reached the open-plan living area, he seemed to pull himself together. He shook hands with Max and Jonathan in turn and said quite coherently that he was pleased to meet them. Courtney temporarily abandoned Kyle and bounced over to say hello to the famous detective, and Strike looked positively enthusiastic as he took in her looks. Suddenly very conscious of her own washed-out and puffy-eyed appearance, Robin turned back to the kitchen area to put Courtney’s ravioli in a bowl for her. Behind her, she heard Courtney saying,

  “And this is Kyle.”

  “Oh, yeah, you’re the detective?” Kyle said, determinedly unimpressed.

  Jonathan, Courtney, Kyle and Max already had drinks, so Robin poured herself a large gin and tonic. While she was adding ice, a cheerful Max came back into the kitchen to fetch Strike a beer, then got the casserole out of the oven and onto the table. Wolfgang whined as the object of his devotion was lifted out of his reach.

  While Max served everyone at the table, Robin set Courtney’s ravioli down in front of her.

  “Oh God, no, wait,” said Courtney. “Is this vegan? Where’s the packet?”

  “In the bin,” said Robin.

  “Tuh,” said Courtney, and she got up and walked into the kitchen. Max and Robin were the only tw
o people at the table whose eyes didn’t automatically follow Courtney. Robin downed half her gin before picking up her knife and fork.

  “No, it’s OK,” called Courtney, from beside the bin. “It’s vegan.”

  “Oh good,” said Robin.

  To Robin’s left, Max began asking Strike’s opinion on various aspects of his character’s personality and past. Courtney returned to the table and began to wolf down her pasta, drinking and topping up her wine regularly as she went while telling Jonathan and Kyle her plans about a protest march at university. Robin joined in neither conversation, but ate and drank in silence, one eye on the mobile beside her plate in case Ilsa texted or rang back.

  “… couldn’t happen,” Strike was saying. “He wouldn’t’ve been allowed to join up in the first place, conviction for possession with intent to supply. Total bollocks.”

  “Really? The writers did quite a lot of research—”

  “Should’ve known that, then.”

  “… so yeah, basically, you dress up in your underwear and short skirts and stuff,” Courtney was saying, and when Kyle and Jon laughed she said, “Don’t, it’s serious—”

  “… no, this is useful,” said Max, scribbling in a notebook. “So if he’d been in jail before the army—”

  “If he’d done more than thirty months, the army wouldn’t’ve taken him…”

  “I’m not wearing suspenders, Kyle—anyway, Miranda doesn’t want—”

  “I don’t know how long he’s supposed to have done,” said Max. “I’ll check. Tell me about drugs in the army, how common—?”

  “—so she says, ‘D’you not understand how problematic the word ‘slut’ is, Courtney?’ And I’m like, ‘Er, what d’you think—’”

  “‘What d’you think a fucking SlutWalk’s for?’” said Kyle, talking over Courtney. He had a deep voice and the air of a young man who was used to being listened to.

  The screen of Robin’s mobile lit up. Ilsa had texted back.

  “Excuse me,” she muttered, though nobody was paying her any attention, and she headed into the kitchen area to read what Ilsa had said.

  Didn’t mean to worry you. Nick home, shitfaced. He’s been in the pub with Corm. We’re talking. He says he didn’t mean it the way I took it. What other way was there? X

  Robin, who felt entirely on Ilsa’s side, nevertheless texted back:

  He’s a dickhead but I know he really loves you. Xxx

  As she poured herself another double gin and tonic, Max called to her, asking her to bring Strike another beer from the fridge. When Robin set the open bottle down in front of Strike he didn’t thank her, but merely took a long pull on it and raised his voice, because he was having difficulty trying to make himself heard over Kyle and Courtney, whose conversation had now migrated to the unknown Miranda’s views on pornography.

  “… so I’m, like, you do understand that women can actually choose what to do with their own bodies, Miran—Oh shit, sorry—”

  Courtney’s expansive gesture had knocked over her wine glass. Robin jumped up to get the kitchen roll. By the time she got back, Courtney’s glass had been refilled by Kyle. Robin mopped up the wine while the two separate conversations grew steadily louder on either side of her, binned the sodden kitchen roll, then sat back down, wishing she could just go to bed.

  “… troubled background, that’s fucking original, guess what, plenty of people join the army because they want to serve, not to escape…”

  “Pure whorephobia,” boomed Kyle. “I s’pose she thinks waitresses love every fucking minute of their jobs, does she?”

  “… and he can’t have been in 1 Rifles if he’s your age. The bat­talion was only formed…”

  “… labor for hire, where’s the fucking difference?”

  “… think it was end 2007…”

  “… and some women enjoy watching porn, too!”

  Courtney’s words fell loudly into a temporary lull. Everyone looked round at Courtney, who’d blushed and was giggling with her hand over her mouth.

  “It’s all right, we’re talking feminism,” said Kyle, with a smirk. “Courtney isn’t suggesting, y’know—after-dinner entertainment.”

  “Kyle!” gasped Courtney, slapping his upper arm and dissolving into further giggles.

  “Who wants pudding?” Robin asked, standing up to collect the empty plates. Max, too, got to his feet.

  “I’m sorry Strike’s so pissed,” Robin murmured to Max, as she tipped a few uneaten pieces of ravioli into the bin.

  “Are you kidding?” said Max, with a slight smile. “This is pure gold. My character’s an alcoholic.”

  He’d gone, bearing a homemade cheesecake to the table, before Robin could tell him that Strike didn’t usually drink this much; indeed, this was only the second time she’d ever known him drunk. The first time he’d been sad and quite endearing, but tonight there was a definite undercurrent of aggression. She remembered the shouted “Go fuck yourself” she’d heard through the office door that afternoon and again wondered to whom Strike had been talking.

  Robin followed Max back to the table, carrying a lemon tart and a third large gin and tonic. Kyle was now treating the entire table to his views on pornography. Robin didn’t much like the expression on Strike’s face. He’d often displayed an instinctive antipathy toward the kind of young man you could least imagine in the army; she trusted he was going to keep his feelings to himself tonight.

  “… form of entertainment, just like any other,” Kyle was saying, with an expansive gesture. Fearful of more accidents, Robin discreetly moved the almost empty wine bottle out of hitting range. “When you look at it objectively, strip it from all the puritanical bullshit—”

  “Yeah, exactly,” said Courtney, “women have got agency over their own—”

  “—movies, gaming, it all stimulates the pleasure centers in your brain,” said Kyle, now pointing at his own immaculately groomed head. “You could make an argument that movies are emotional pornography. All this moralistic, manufactured outrage about porn—”

  “I can’t eat either of those if they’ve got dairy in them,” Courtney whispered to Robin, who pretended she hadn’t heard.

  “—women want to make a living out of their own bodies, that’s the literal definition of female empowerment and you could argue it has more societal benefit than—”

  “When I was in Kosovo,” said Strike unexpectedly and all three students turned to look at him, with startled expressions. Strike paused, fumbling to get his cigarettes out of his pocket.

  “Cormoran,” said Robin, “you can’t smo—”

  “No problem,” said Max, getting up, “I’ll bring an ashtray.”

  It took Strike three attempts to make his lighter work and in the meantime everybody watched him in silence. Without raising his voice, he’d dominated the room.

  “Who’d like cheesecake?” Robin said into the silence, her voice artificially cheery.

  “I can’t,” said Courtney, with a slight pout. “But I might be able to have the lemon tart, if it’s—?”

  “When I was in Kosovo,” Strike repeated, exhaling as Max returned, placed an ashtray in front of him and sat back down again, “—cheers—I investigated a porn case—well, human trafficking. Coupla soldiers had paid for sex with underage girls. They were filmed without their knowledge an’ the videos ended up on PornHub. Case ended up part of an international civilian investigation. Whole load of pre-pubescent boys and girls had been trafficked into porn. The youngest was seven.”

  Strike took a large drag of his cigarette, squinting through the smoke at Kyle.

  “What societal benefit would you say that had?” he asked.

  There was a short, nasty silence in which the three students stared at the detective.

  “Well, obviously,” said Kyle, with a small half-laugh, “that’s—that’s a completely different thing. Nobody’s talking about kids—that’s not—that’s illegal, isn’t it? I’m talking about—”

&nb
sp; “Porn industry’s full of trafficking,” said Strike, still watching Kyle through his smoke. “Women and kids from poor countries. One of the little girls in my case was filmed with a plastic bag over her head, while a bloke anally raped her.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Robin saw Kyle and Courtney throw her darting looks and knew, with an elevator drop in the area of her solar plexus, that her brother must have shared her history with his friends. Max was the only person at the table who seemed entirely relaxed. He was watching Strike with the dispassionate attention of a chemist checking an ongoing experiment.

  “The video of that kid was viewed over a hundred thousand times online,” said Strike. Cigarette jammed in his mouth, he now helped himself to a large piece of cheesecake, effectively demolishing it to get a third of it onto his plate. “Plenty of pleasure centers stimulated there, eh?” he went on, looking up at Kyle.

  “No, but that’s completely different, though,” said Courtney, rallying to Kyle’s defense. “We were talking about women who—it’s up to women, grown women, to decide what they want to do with their own bod—”

  “Did you cook all this?” Strike asked Max through a mouthful of cheesecake. He still had a lit cigarette in his left hand.

  “Yes,” said Max.

  “Bloody good,” said Strike. He turned back to Kyle. “How many waitresses d’you know who got trafficked into it?”

  “Well, obviously none but—I mean, you’re bound to’ve seen that bad stuff, aren’t you, being police—”

  “As long as you don’t have to see it, all good, eh?”

  “Well, if you feel like that…” said Kyle, red in the face now, “if you’re so against it, you must never’ve—you’ve never used porn, then, you don’t—?”

  “If nobody else wants pudding,” said Robin loudly, standing up and pointing toward the sofa area, “shall we have coffee over there?”

  Without waiting for an answer, she headed for the kitchen area. Behind her, she heard the scraping of a couple of chairs. After switching on the kettle, she headed downstairs to the bathroom, where, after she’d peed, she sat for five minutes on the toilet with her face in her hands.