As Cynthia’s face crumpled, Strike and Robin both looked tactfully away, Robin at the cat at the window and Strike at the seascape over the mantelpiece. The rain drummed against the window, the cat in his lap purred, and he remembered the lily urn bobbing away. With a twist in his chest, and in spite of his satisfaction at having done what he’d set out to do, he wished he could have called Joan, and told her the end of Margot Bamborough’s story, and heard her say she was proud of him, one last time.

73

For naturall affection soone doth cesse,

And quenched is with Cupids greater flame:

But faithfull friendship doth them both suppresse,

And them with maystring discipline doth tame,

Through thoughts aspyring to eternall fame.

For as the soule doth rule the earthly masse,

And all the seruice of the bodie frame,

So loue of soule doth loue of bodie passe,

No lesse then perfect gold surmounts the meanest brasse.

Edmund Spenser

The Faerie Queene

Robin woke a few days later to autumn sunshine streaming through the gap in her curtains. Glancing at her mobile, she saw to her amazement that it was ten in the morning, which meant she’d just enjoyed the longest sleep she’d had all year. Then she remembered why she was having a lie-in: today was the ninth of October, and it was her birthday.

Ilsa had arranged a dinner in her honor the following evening, which was a Friday. Ilsa had chosen and booked the smart restaurant, to which she and Nick, Vanessa and her fiancé Oliver, Barclay, Hutchins and their wives, Max, his new boyfriend (the lighting director on his TV show) and Strike were all invited. Robin had no plans for today, her actual birthday, which Strike had insisted she take off. She now sat up in bed, yawning, and looked at the packages lying on her chest of drawers opposite, which were all from her family. The small package from her mother had the appearance of a piece of jewelry, doubtless in tribute to this milestone birthday. Just as she was about to get out of bed, her phone beeped and she saw a text from Strike.

I know you’re supposed to be having a day off but something’s come up. Please can you meet me at the Shakespeare’s Head, Marlborough St, 5p.m. Dress smart, might need to go on somewhere upmarket.

Robin read this twice, as though she might have missed a “happy birthday.” Surely—surely— he hadn’t forgotten again? Or did he think that, by planning to turn up at the dinner Ilsa had planned, he was doing all that was required, and the actual day of her birth required no acknowledgment? True, she felt at a slightly loose end without work and with none of her friends available, but Strike wasn’t to know that, so it was with very mixed feelings that she texted back: OK.

However, when she arrived upstairs in her dressing gown to fetch a cup of tea, Robin found a large box sitting on the kitchen table, with a card on top of it, her name on the envelope in Strike’s unmistakeable cramped, hard-to-read writing. Max, she knew, had left the flat early to film outdoor scenes in Kent, taking Wolfgang with him, who’d sleep in the car and enjoy a lunchtime walk. As she hadn’t heard the doorbell, she had to conclude that Strike had somehow transferred both box and card to Max ahead of time, to surprise her with this morning. This argued degrees of planning and effort that seemed highly uncharacteristic. Moreover, she’d never received a proper card from Strike, not even when he’d bought her the green dress after solving their first case.

The front of the birthday card was somewhat generic and featured a large glittery pink number thirty. Inside, Strike had written:

Happy birthday. This isn’t your real present,

you’ll get that later. (Not flowers)

Love Strike x

Robin looked at this message for far longer than it warranted. Many things about it pleased her, including the kiss and the fact that he’d called himself “Strike.” She set the card on the table and picked up the large box which, to her surprise, was so light it felt empty. Then she saw the product name on the side: Balloon in a Box.

Opening the lid, she pulled out a balloon in the shape of a donkey’s head, tied by a thick ribbon to a weighted base. Grinning, she set it down on the table, made herself tea and breakfast, then texted Strike.

Thanks for the balloon donkey. Perfect timing. My old one’s nearly deflated.

She received an answer sixty seconds later.

Great. I was worried it was so obvious, everybody would’ve got you one. See you at 5.

Light-hearted now, Robin drank tea, ate her toast and returned downstairs to open her family’s presents. Everybody had bought her slightly more expensive versions of last year’s gifts, except for her parents, who’d sent a beautiful pendant: a single round opal, which was her birthstone, shimmering green and blue, surrounded by tiny diamonds. The accompanying card read: “Happy thirtieth, Robin. We love you, Mum and Dad x.”

Robin felt her luck, these days, at having two loving parents. Her work had taught her how many people weren’t that fortunate, how many people had families that were broken beyond repair, how many adults walked around carrying invisible scars from their earliest childhood, their perceptions and associations forever altered by lack of love, by violence, by cruelty. So she called Linda to thank her, and ended up talking to her mother for over an hour: inconsequential chatter, most of it, but cheering, nevertheless. It was easier to ring home now that her divorce was over. Robin hadn’t told her mother that Matthew and Sarah were expecting a baby: she’d let Linda find that out in her own time, and work off her initial outrage out of Robin’s earshot.

Toward the end of the call, Linda, who’d disapproved of Robin’s dramatic change of career ever since her first injury incurred on the job, mentioned the continuing press coverage concerning Margot Bamborough.

“You really did an incredible thing, there,” said Linda. “You and, er… Cormoran.”

“Thanks, Mum,” said Robin, as surprised as she was touched.

“How’s Morris?” her mother asked, in a would-be casual tone.

“Oh, we sacked him,” said Robin cheerfully, forgetting that she hadn’t told her mother that, either. “His replacement’s starting next week. Woman called Michelle Greenstreet. She’s great.”

After showering, Robin returned to her bedroom to blow dry her hair properly, ate lunch watching TV, then returned downstairs to change into the figure-hugging blue dress that she’d last worn when persuading Shifty’s PA to give up her secrets. She added the opal necklace, which, since she’d left her engagement ring behind when leaving Matthew, was now the most valuable piece of jewelry she owned. The beautiful stone, with its iridescent flecks, lifted the appearance of the old dress, and for once pleased with her appearance, Robin picked up the second of her handbags, which was slightly smarter than the one she usually took to the office, and went to pick up her mobile phone from her bedside table.

The drawer of the bedside table was slightly open and, looking down, Robin glimpsed the Thoth tarot pack, sitting inside. For a moment, she hesitated; then, under the smiling eyes of the balloon donkey she’d installed in the corner of her bedroom, she checked the time on her phone. It was still early to leave the house, if she wanted to meet Strike in Marlborough Street at five. Setting down her bag, she took out the tarot pack, sat down on her bed and began shuffling the cards before turning the first card over and laying it down in front of her.