Chapter Text
“One thing I should be clear about,” Pat rasped between pulls on her e-cigarette, “I need to be careful with my lungs.”
“Yeah?” Strike responded, looking back at her. “Just so you know, I don’t smoke in the office. Nobody does,” he added with quiet intensity.
“It’s not that,” Pat responded. “I’ve got allergies. Got to be careful around molds; the spores irritate my lungs.” She gave a small cough. “Also, Dust mites. Pollen. Pet dander.”
“It must be difficult for you during autumn and spring,” Robin said sympathetically. “How do you manage?”
“Got an inhaler,” Pat replied, wafts of vapor spinning between her and the partners. “I stay indoors during pollen season, I don’t garden, and I don’t keep cats. And I use this,” she said, indicating the e-cigarette. “Keeps the allergens at bay.”
“Good idea,” Strike replied, already searching through the manila folder for the CV of the next candidate. “Doesn’t pay to take chances with your health.”
“Well, she’s out,” Strike said at the Tottenham, after the day’s interviews were over. “Probably too old for the job, anyway.”
“Cormoran, she’s the best qualified of the lot, and her salary requirements are within our budget. I think we should at least consider her.” Robin replied, adding. “Unless you want to explain why her age is a factor?”
“Of course, her age isn’t a factor,” Strike back-tracked, “Not really. But seriously.” Strike regarded his partner, whose face seemed balanced over the top of his pint. “Can you imagine her greeting clients? She’s about as welcoming and gracious as a pissed-off badger.”
“We need,” Robin reminded him, “someone who knows her way around a spreadsheet, who can work without constant supervision. An office manager who isn’t frightened off by the look of someone,” she hesitated, “a bit unusual. Clearly, Pat can handle all that. Or would you prefer to keep hiring temps?”
“Christ, no,” Strike said quickly. “But you’ve got to admit she’s got some brass, complaining about her lung while she’s sucking on that vape. I’ll bet she smokes more than I do.” Strike added. “Unfiltered.”
“She mentioned allergies,” Robing said, trying to swallow her laughter, “although you do have a point. I never thought I’d see you holding someone’s smoking habit against them,” she said, smiling.
“I don’t hold smoking against her. But I live with Allie, and he’s not getting turfed out by some gravel-voiced tyrant with self-inflicted emphysema,” Strike asserted. “He’s got seniority. And he can’t help being a cat any more than she can help being…” he waved his fork in the air, unable to find the right word. “Her.”
“Of course, Allie’s staying,” Robin said, laughing. “How is he, by the way? It feels like months since I’ve spent much time with him.”
“Fat and lazy,” Strike said. “I think he’s chased off all the mice.” He added cautiously, “You could come around, tell him hello, if you want. He must get sick of just looking at me.”
“I doubt that,” Robin said, a smile in her eyes. “I’ll bet the two of you have high old times, in your penthouse flat.
“Definitely,” Strike’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “We raced the other day to see if I could get him off my bed before he harked up a hairball. He won; I lost.”
“I’d have loved to have seen that,” Robin said, grinning, “Well, who does that leave? The nail technician who wants to change careers but can’t type? Or that PA with the skirt as high as her salary requirements?”
Strike winced. “Neither of them. All right, I’ll consider Pat. But we’re having a trial period first,” he insisted, as his mobile phone buzzed. “And if she complains about pet dander while I catch her sneaking a smoke, I’m telling you, out she goes.”
Robin nodded her understanding while Strike studied the screen of his phone. “Robin, I’ve got to take this. It’s Ted.”
“Right. I’ll give you some privacy then,” Robin said, standing up. “Another half before you leave to pick up Tufty from Sam?”
Strike nodded. “Hey, Ted.” Robin was waiting for their drinks at the bar when she saw her partner’s face fall.
Strike wasn’t surprised to hear Pat Chauncey coughing, given her constant vaping and raspy, subterranean voice. He was surprised when she called him on his.
“You need to get that looked at,” she growled one morning, when a bronchospasm overcame him.
“It’s just the cold,” Strike said defensively. “It irritates my chest. Always happens late in the fall.”
“It doesn’t pay to take chances, not with your health,” she replied.
“Yeah, well, the client won’t pay if we don’t figure out what’s going on with SB,” Strike said, dumping the rest of his tea down the sink. “And I need to get after him if I’m going to do that, cough or no.”
He had reached for his coat and was headed for the door when Pat extended a claw-like hand toward him, a wrapped peppermint in its palm. “Here,” she said. “It helps soothe the throat.”
He looked back at her, surprised. “Thanks, Pat.”
“I go through them, especially during pollen season,” Pat said. She looked up at him. “Maybe you should get checked for allergies.”
Strike’s scowl returned. “I don’t have allergies.” He turned away, peppermint forgotten, and left the office, door closed firmly behind him.
Pat stared at the shape of Strike still visible through the frosted glass. “Rude,” she said, returning the peppermint to her pocket.
Winter brought more coughs to the office—Pat, Barclay, and Saul Morris, as well as Strike.
During one morning meeting, Pat said. “I’m going to the shops for tissues and cold remedies at noon. And I’ve got a doctor’s appointment for a flu vaccine later this week. If anyone needs it, I’ll book them an appointment. We need to nip this in the bud, before it goes any further.”
Robin nodded. “I’m texting Andy Hutchins to keep in touch with us by phone. He doesn’t need a respiratory infection on top of his health problems.”
“Good idea,” Strike said, choking back a cough with difficulty. He was determined not raise Pat’s concerns for his health again. “But I don’t think this is anything viral, Pat. It’s just the cold."
“It could be the building, old as it is. When’s the last time they checked air quality here?" Pat asked. "I can call the landlord for you, if you like.”
“Call the landlord?” Strike said. “Christ, there’s no need to do that.” He smothered another cough.
“Buildings like this one have been standing for centuries,” Pat argued. “God knows what’s been plastered into these walls. It’s best to get these things checked out.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Strike said. The mobile in his pocket buzzed. “It’s not the building, Pat, it’s winter. Give me a minute,” he added, standing and walking toward his office. Pat, Robin, and the subcontractors heard him say, “What’s up, Luce?” before the door to the inner office closed.
Robin glanced at the door. “Pat, we may need to redistribute the work in case Cormoran needs to go to Cornwall in a hurry.” She glanced at Barclay and Morris. “I can handle a few extra shifts. Would doing the same create a problem on your end?” “I’m fine with it,” Barclay nodded. “Boss-lady,” Morris agreed, smirking.
“Already on it,” rasped the office manager, tapping away on the computer screen. She shot a dark look at the door of the partner’s office. “It wouldn't hurt him to see a doctor as well. It doesn’t do to take chances with your health,” she repeated.
“A sentiment I’m sure he agrees with, Pat,” Robin said. “He’s just got a lot on his plate right now.” The door to the partners’ office reopened, and Strike rejoined them. “Everything all right?” Robin asked diplomatically.
“Yeah, I just need to go down to Cornwall the day after tomorrow,” Strike said. “Give Luce a break and help Ted with some things.” He looked at Robin. “I’ll need to be gone for a few days.”
“No problem,” Robin said loyally. “We’ll look after everything here.” Barclay and Morris nodded. “Tell me the dates, and I’ll book your train,” Pat said.
“Cheers,” Strike said to the group, but looking at Robin. “I know you’ll, uhm, keep an eye on things here while I’m gone. Well,” he said, reaching for his coat, “I’m off to watch Twinkletoes. Stay in touch, everyone.” He coughed as he went out the door.
“He’s going to have a lot more on his plate if he gets ill,” Pat said. “People and buildings all need to be checked so they stay healthy.”
“I’ll look into it, Pat,” Robin promised.
Strike returned from Cornwall to find the kettle steaming and a quiet office, except for Pat’s typing. “Anything happen while I was out?” he asked.
“Not really,” Pat replied. That dancer’s still behaving, no one knows what SB's up to, and the missing lady doctor’s still missing.”
“Something seems different,” Strike insisted, walking to the kitchenette for his tea. “Just can’t figure out what.” He sniffed the air and looked around at Pat, still tapping away. “Your cough’s gone.”
“Robin brought in an air purifier,” Pat said, e-cigarette waggling in her teeth. It’s in the corner. You can hear it when nobody’s talking.”
Strike directed his gaze to an occasional table next to the fake-leather, flatulent sofa. While the table still held its fake pot plant, a small white plastic box now sat underneath it. As he approached, he heard a whine of white noise.
“How much did that cost?” he asked Pat. She shrugged her shoulders. “No idea. Robin brought it in one morning on her own.” Strike’s scowl deepened. He knew what Robin earned and what bills she had to pay. “That should have been paid for through petty cash,” he grumbled. “If it was a necessary purchase.”
“Not my business,” Pat replied, rattling the computer keys so they sounded like playing cards caught in bicycle spokes. “I just found her setting it up one morning. Nobody’s coughing.” She pointed out.
Strike grunted. “I’m not arguing about the coughing; I’m concerned about the expense.”
Pat didn’t look up from her keyboard. “Sounds like something you should take up with your partner.”
“Don’t worry; I will.” Strike grunted. “I’m going upstairs to work.”
Robin’s phone rang 15 minutes later while she was roaming the corridors of the National Museum. “Got a minute?” Strike said heavily.
“Uhm, just let me get outside,” Robin said, already hearing the truculence in her partner’s voice. “Are you back in London?”
“Yes, I’m bloody well back in London, and I’ve got a bone to pick with you." Strike gave a short cough. "What’s this about paying for air purifiers out of your pocket?”
“Well, it was an executive decision, and I made it,” Robin said. “I’m not taking it back.”
“Fuck if you’re not Ellacott! At least tell me why!”
“Because,” Robin said. “It was either find something that would clean the air in the office or risk Pat calling the landlord for an air quality inspection. And you know what they’d find if they tested the air, Strike,” she reminded him.
“Well, reimburse yourself out of petty cash,” Strike said, unwilling to concede the entire argument. He sat down at his kitchen table, and Allie jumped into his lap. “Maybe we can account for it as an office expense.”
“I’d rather hold off on reimbursement until the new year, if you don’t mind, “ Robin said. “It’s getting close to Christmas, and there are a few unpaid invoices still outstanding.”
“Shit,” Strike said. “How close are we running to the line?” Robin told him. “Take it out anyway.”
“Strike, that will leave your draw short this month.”
“That’s my worry, not yours, Ellacott,” Strike said, calculating expenses in his head as he stroked the cat's arching back. “I’ll manage.”
“How about we share the expense?” Robin asked. “That way it won’t be so bad. That machine is already paying for itself. I haven’t heard anyone cough since I installed it.”
“All right, but from now on, the agency pays for filters or whatever the damn thing needs,” Strike said, rubbing one of Allie’s ears. “Oh, you decided you missed me, after all?” he asked the purring cat without thinking.
“Strike?” Robin squeaked, her voice an octave higher than normal.
“Oh. Sorry, I ducked upstairs to say “hi” to Allie.” Strike replied quickly. He coughed.
“Right. Well, I’ll leave you two to get re-acquainted,” Robin said. “Unless there was something else you wanted to discuss?”
“Nope. I’m going to catch forty winks, and then I’ll take over the evening shift on SB. Give Barclay a night off,” Strike said. “And since Pat’s breathing easier, give her a call. See if she can lean on those reluctant payers. That way we can all have a merry fuckin’ Christmas.” He coughed again.
“Strike, are you sure you’re all right?" Robin asked.
“Don’t you start,” Strike said between coughs. “I’m not sick; it’s just a bit cold in this flat. A dram of scotch will clear everything up. Talk to you later.” He hung up the phone and scratched between Allie’s ears. “Everybody thinks they know better than we do,” he grumbled. The cat stared back, a pair of unblinking, acid green eyes. “Well, they don’t,” Strike affirmed. “We’re both doing fine. You just stay up here and don’t bother tha - achoo!-Pat.” Strike reached for a tissue. “We’ll show ‘em. Nobody’s getting sick over - achoo! - Christmas.”
Although the worst of his illness had passed, Strike was still weak and pasty the day after Boxing Day. The sudden bout of vomiting, on top of his fever and sore throat, had left him with an unpleasant feeling of weakness and a tendency toward dizziness when he stood. Of course, he’d rather die than admit as much to Pat.
“I - uhm,” he choked, as he opened the door to the office to see Pat tapping away on her keyboard. “I thought I’d get some work done down here.”
Pat regarded him with a gimlet eye. “You feeling better?” she asked. “How was your Christmas?”
“Yeah. I’m fine.” Strike said. Reluctantly, he added. “I appreciate the soup, Pat. Nice of you.”
“No bother,” she said, eyeing him critically. “Although I was getting concerned. You sounded like you were harking up a lung three days ago, and you look like you’ve dropped a stone since. When are you going to see a doctor?” She demanded.
Strike’s impulse of gratitude collapsed along with his effort toward goodwill, “When I have time and not one minute before,” he said, turning to the kitchenette. “Have you got the December invoices ready?”
A flourish of keystrokes came from Pat’s keyboard. “In your inbox,” she replied testily. “Along with that nutter’s report.”
“Great,” Strike called, his face toward the teakettle. “I’ll look over them while I have a cuppa.” He sneezed. “I’m not contagious, and I don’t need a doctor,” he called, anticipating Pat’s next remark. “And I don’t have allergies either. I just need a couple of minutes to go over all this, then I’ll drive out to Stoke Newington.”
“Right,” Pat said darkly, not taking her eyes off her monitor. “You’re the boss.” She watched as Strike carried his tea into his office, closing the door firmly behind him. “Even if you are a stubborn arse,” she muttered to the closed inner door before turning back to her typing.
Forty minutes later, the door to Strike’s office inched open, and Pat’s monkeyish face edged inside. She stared at her employer, tilted back in his chair, and snoring full throttle. Using a degree of stealth any burglar might admire, Pat crept across the room and studied her employer. Reaching out, she removed a few long, stray fibers caught on the arm of Strike’s jumper before backing away. Regaining her own desk, Pat examined the stiff coarse strands under a light, her eyebrow lifting as she noted the striped shafts. “No allergies, my eye,” she grumbled, carefully disposing of the hairs before wiping her hands and arms thoroughly with a series of cleaning wipes. After decontaminating her area with more wipes and using her inhaler, Pat cocked an ear toward the partner’s office and listened to the continual refrain of snoring. Nodding, she reached for the telephone. “Hello, Andy,” she said when the call was picked up. “It’s Pat. Yeah, do you have anything on for tonight? Think you could keep an eye on that blonde in Stoke Newington? Yeah, he’s not well, though he won’t admit it. Thanks, Andy, I’ll make sure it’s counted on your hours.” Her call completed, Pat adjusted the ever-changing rota, turned off her computer, and picked up her coat. “Silly bugger, at least now he’ll get some proper sleep,” she muttered as she went out the door.