The Running Grave (Cormoran Strike, #7)

by Robert Galbraith

As Strike turned off the engine, Robin undid her seat belt, half rose from her seat, threw her arms around him, buried her face in his shoulder and burst into tears. ‘Thank you.’ ‘’S all right,’ said Strike, putting his arms around her and speaking into her hair. ‘My job, innit… you’re out,’ he added quietly, ‘you’re OK now…’ ‘I know,’ sobbed Robin. ‘Sorry… sorry…’ Both were in very inconvenient positions in which to hug, especially as Strike still had his seat belt on, but neither let go for several long minutes. Strike gently rubbed Robin’s back, and she held him in a tight grip, occasionally apologising while his shirt collar grew wet. Instead of recoiling when he pressed his lips to the top of her head, she tightened her hold on him. ‘It’s all right,’ he kept saying. ‘It’s OK.’ ‘You don’t know,’ sobbed Robin, ‘you don’t know…’ ‘You can tell me later,’ said Strike. ‘There’s plenty of time.’ He didn’t want to let her go, but he’d dealt with enough traumatised people in the army – had indeed been one of those people himself, after the car in which he’d been travelling had been blown up, taking half his leg with it – to know that being asked to re-live calamity in its immediate aftermath, when what was really needed was physical comfort and kindness, meant a debrief ought to wait.