Page 277 of The Hallmarked Man
Pauline
The Old Forge’s kitchen contained an Aga set into a brick wall, and had enough seating for eight people. Wooden model lighthouses stood on the window sills, but the depth of the darkness outside obscured any view of coast or sea.
Robin had been cooking and drinking wine for ten minutes when her mobile buzzed and she guessed it was going to be Murphy. Taking her carbonara sauce off the heat, she reached for it and read:
Maybe this is insecurity, but it’s the truth. You say you love me, but I feel like you withhold part of yourself from me. Sometimes I even feel like you’re humouring me. I’ve felt all along like I’m dragging you into living together, but I can’t remember you ever showing real enthusiasm for it and when I told you we’d been gazumped, I couldn’t hear any disappointment.
What you said about the baby earlier: you’re wrong. It isn’t that I want you to act like I think women should act, it’s that you’ve never once acknowledged that it was our kid you lost. I’ve felt like I can’t show any sadness about the baby because it’ll make you feel pressured.
There’s a distance between us sometimes and I don’t know if that’s just who you are, and this is how you love, or whether you’re fooling both of us about what you really feel. And if it’s the second one, I’d rather know now.
Robin stood staring at this message, so shocked she was only recalled to her surroundings when she realised the cheese sauce was starting to spit in the pan, and turned hastily back to attend to it. Cold waves of panic and fear were breaking over her. So Murphy knew… what? She loved him, didn’t she? Yes, she thought – knew – she did. But he’d sensed…
Strike entered the kitchen, still leaning on his stick but feeling better for having showered, his wet hair looking little different than it usually did.
‘Smells great,’ he said, and he set about laying the smaller of the two tables in the room.
‘How’s the face?’ asked Robin.
‘Had worse,’ grunted Strike.
‘There are alcohol wipes at the bottom of the bag if you need them.’
When she’d tipped the spaghetti into a large dish and placed it on the table, Robin said,
‘Give me a mo – dig in, don’t wait,’ and headed out into the hall, picked up her holdall and took it upstairs, choosing the nearest bedroom at random, which was decorated in yellow and contained three beds, including a double: designed, as she dimly registered, for a family… Sitting on the bed, she read Murphy’s message again, then typed out her answer, sentence by painful sentence.
You know I love you.
Did she, though? Really? Trying to tamp down yet another upsurge of anxiety and guilt Robin continued,
I don’t know what you mean about distance.
Didn’t she? Perhaps she did – but wouldn’t any couple be feeling some strain, after her long stay at Chapman Farm, Murphy’s terrible shooting case, the hassle of house hunting, and, of course, the ectopic pregnancy?
Robin typed on:
I was sad about the baby, I’ve cried about it, but finding out I can’t have kids naturally was horrible. I’m still processing it, and you pressuring me to talk about it, and make decisions about my eggs, isn’t helping. Please understand that I need time to get my head around what happened and what I’m going to do next.
That, at least, was honest.
Can we please talk about this properly once I’m home? I’m with Strike, we’re still working, and I can’t have a conversation about this without him hearing.
She hesitated, reminding herself of the good times she’d had with Murphy. She knew him to be a good, kind man, didn’t she? So she ended:
I really do love you xxxxx
She pressed send, feeling a hollowness that had nothing to do with hunger. Her phone buzzed; she was afraid of what she was about to read, but looking down, saw only another text from Wynn Jones.
So is the only way I get to speak to you being interviewed?
Yes, Robin texted back automatically. Then, not wanting to stay upstairs for too long in case Strike asked whether everything was all right, she headed back down the wooden staircase.
‘Sorry,’ said Strike as she walked back into the kitchen, his mouth full of spaghetti, ‘starving.’
‘It’s fine, I told you not to wait,’ said Robin, with forced cheeriness, topping up her wine glass. ‘I think I’m getting close to talking to Wynn Jones. He’s just texted me again.’
Strike swallowed.
