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“Hi.” Strike started and looked up. Robin was standing there in her trench coat, her face pink, long red-gold hair loose, tousled and gilded in the early sunlight streaming through the window. Just then, Strike found her beautiful. “Why are you so early?” he heard himself ask. “Wanted to know what’s going on.” She stripped off her coat and Strike looked away, mentally castigating himself.

Strike’s mobile rang, piercing in the silence. Only when he had put it to his ear and heard Leonora Quine did he realize that he had been hoping it would be Robin.

As Strike sat down at a table for two beside the wall he found himself wondering what Robin would make of the place, whether she would be amused or irritated by its ostentatious traditionalism.

“Surveillance course in January,” said Strike. “So next time you pull a bag of dog shit out of a bin no one notices you doing it.” She laughed, delighted. “Thank you. Thank you!” “Most women would’ve expected flowers.” “I’m not most women.” “Yeah, I’ve noticed that,” said Strike, taking a chocolate biscuit.

The idea of a hug hovered briefly in the air, but she held out her hand with mock blokeyness, and he shook it. “Have a great time in Cornwall.” “And you in Masham.” On the point of relinquishing her hand, he gave it a quick twist. He had kissed the back of it before she knew what had happened. Then, with a grin and a wave, he was gone.

有教养的人都说谎——何况，你是女人；你永远不能说出内心的想法

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