13

In the presence of another world.

Blue Öyster Cult, “In the Presence of Another World”

On Saturday morning, Robin and her mother took the ancient family Land Rover from their small hometown of Masham to the dressmaker’s in Harrogate where Robin’s wedding dress was being altered. The design had been modified because it had initially been made for a wedding in January and was now to be worn in July.

“You’ve lost more weight,” said the elderly dressmaker, sticking pins down the back of the bodice. “You don’t want to go any thinner. This dress was meant for a bit of curve.”

Robin had chosen the fabric and design of the dress over a year ago, loosely based on an Elie Saab model that her parents, who would also be forking out for half of her elder brother Stephen’s wedding in six months’ time, could never have afforded. Even this cut-price version would have been impossible on the salary Strike paid Robin.

The lighting in the changing room was flattering, yet Robin’s reflection in the gilt-framed mirror looked too pale, her eyes heavy and tired. She was not sure that altering the dress to make it strapless had been successful. Part of what she had liked about the design in the first place had been the long sleeves. Perhaps, she thought, she was simply jaded from having lived with the idea of the dress for so long.

The changing room smelled of new carpet and polish. While Robin’s mother Linda watched the dressmaker pin, tuck and twitch the yards of chiffon Robin, depressed by her own reflection, focused instead on the little corner stand carrying crystal tiaras and fake flowers.

“Remind me, have we fixed on a headdress?” asked the dressmaker, who had the habit of using the first person plural so often found in nursing staff. “We were leaning towards a tiara for the winter wedding, weren’t we? I think it might be worth trying flowers with the strapless.”

“Flowers would be nice,” Linda agreed from the corner of the dressing room.

Mother and daughter closely resembled each other. Though her once slender waist had thickened and the faded red-gold hair piled untidily on top of her head was now laced with silver, Linda’s blue-gray eyes were her daughter’s and they rested now upon her second child with an expression of concern and shrewdness that would have been comically familiar to Strike.

Robin tried on an array of fake floral headdresses and liked none of them.

“Maybe I’ll stick with the tiara,” she said.

“Or fresh flowers?” suggested Linda.

“Yes,” said Robin, suddenly keen to get away from the carpet smell and her pale, boxed-in reflection. “Let’s go and see whether the florist could do something.”

She was glad to have the changing room to herself for a few minutes. As she worked her way out of the dress and pulled her jeans and sweater back on, she tried to analyze her low mood. While she regretted that she had been forced to miss Strike’s meeting with Wardle, she had been looking forward to putting a couple of hundred miles between her and the faceless man in black who had handed her a severed leg.