“Aren’t you even going to tell me,” Robin asked, after several more minutes’ silence, “what your connection with that song is?”
He chewed for a while, drank more beer, ordered another pint of Doom Bar then said, “My mother had the title tattooed on her.”
He did not fancy telling Robin exactly where the tattoo had been. He preferred not to think about that. However, he was mellowing with food and drink: Robin had never showed prurient interest in his past and he supposed she was justified in a request for information today.
“It was her favorite song. Blue ?yster Cult were her favorite band. Well, ‘favorite’ is an understatement. Obsession, really.”
“Her favorite wasn’t the Deadbeats?” asked Robin, without thinking. Strike’s father was the lead singer of the Deadbeats. They had never discussed him, either.
“No,” said Strike, managing a half-smile. “Old Jonny came a poor second with Leda. She wanted Eric Bloom, lead singer of Blue ?yster Cult, but she never got him. One of the very few who got away.”
Robin was not sure what to say. She had wondered before what it felt like to have your mother’s epic sexual history online for anybody to see. Strike’s fresh pint arrived and he took a swig before continuing.
“I was nearly christened Eric Bloom Strike,” he said and Robin choked on her water. He laughed as she coughed into a napkin. “Let’s face it, Cormoran’s not much bloody better. Cormoran Blue—”
“Blue?”
“Blue ?yster Cult, aren’t you listening?”
“God,” said Robin. “You keep that quiet.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“What does it mean, ‘Mistress of the Salmon Salt’?”
“Search me. Their lyrics are insane. Science fiction. Crazy stuff.”
A voice in his head: She wanted to die. She was the quicklime girl.
He drank more beer.
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard any Blue ?yster Cult,” said Robin.
“Yeah, you have,” Strike contradicted her. “‘Don’t Fear the Reaper.’”
“Don’t—what?”
“It was a monster hit for them. ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper.’”
“Oh, I—I see.”
For one startled moment, Robin had thought that he was giving her advice.
They ate in silence for a while until Robin, unable to keep the question down any longer, though hoping she did not sound scared, asked:
“Why do you think the leg was addressed to me?”
Strike had already had time to ponder this question.
“I’ve been wondering that,” he said, “and I think we’ve got to consider it a tacit threat, so, until we’ve found out—”
“I’m not stopping work,” said Robin fiercely. “I’m not staying at home. That’s what Matthew wants.”
“You’ve spoken to him, have you?”
She had made the call while Strike was downstairs with Wardle.
“Yes. He’s angry with me for signing for it.”
“I expect he’s worried about you,” said Strike insincerely. He had met Matthew on a handful of occasions and disliked him more each time.
“He’s not worried,” snapped Robin. “He just thinks that this is it, that I’ll have to leave now, that I’ll be scared out. I won’t.”
Matthew had been appalled at her news, but even so, she had heard a faint trace of satisfaction in his voice, felt his unexpressed conviction that now, at last, she must see what a ridiculous choice it had been to throw in her lot with a rackety private detective who could not afford to give her a decent salary. Strike had her working unsociable hours that meant she had to have packages sent to work instead of the flat. (“I didn’t get sent a leg because Amazon couldn’t deliver to the house!” Robin had said hotly.) And, of course, on top of everything else, Strike was now mildly famous and a source of fascination to their friends. Matthew’s work as an accountant did not carry quite the same cachet. His resentment and jealousy ran deep and, increasingly, burst their bounds.
Strike was not fool enough to encourage Robin in any disloyalty to Matthew that she might regret when she was less shaken.
“Addressing the leg to you instead of me was an afterthought,” he said. “They put my name on there first. I reckon they were either trying to worry me by showing they knew your name, or trying to frighten you off working for me.”
“Well, I’m not going to be frightened off,” said Robin.
“Robin, this is no time for heroics. Whoever he is, he’s telling us he knows a lot about me, that he knows your name and, as of this morning, exactly what you look like. He saw you up close. I don’t like that.”
“You obviously don’t think my countersurveillance abilities are up to much.”
“Seeing as you’re talking to the man who sent you on the best bloody course I could find,” said Strike, “and who read that fulsome letter of commendation you shoved under my nose—”
“Then you don’t think my self-defense is any good.”