“Three months,” said Alison, shaking out her Daily Express. “Is he any good, this man?”
Robin had noticed Alison’s contemptuous expression as she took in the dilapidated condition, and undeniable grubbiness, of the little waiting room, and she had just seen, online, the pristine, palatial office where the other woman worked. Her answer was therefore prompted by self-respect rather than any desire to protect Strike.
“Oh yes,” she replied coolly. “He’s one of the best.” She slit open a pink, kitten-embellished envelope with the air of a woman who daily dealt with exigencies much more complex and intriguing than Alison could possibly imagine.
Complex is the right word; Robin is shocked and alarmed by the contents.
“Mr. Strike—before you go, I think you ought to see this.” Still flushed, Robin took, from on top of the pile of opened letters beside her computer, a sheet of bright pink writing paper and a matching envelope, both of which she had put into a clear plastic pocket. Strike noticed her engagement ring as she held the things up.
“It’s a death threat,” she said.
“Oh yeah,” said Strike. “Nothing to worry about. They come in about once a week.”
“But—”
“It’s a disgruntled ex-client. Bit unhinged. He thinks he’s throwing me off the scent by using that paper.”
“Surely, though—shouldn’t the police see it?”
“Give them a laugh, you mean?”
“It isn’t funny, it’s a death threat!” she said, and Strike realized why she had placed it, with its envelope, in the plastic pocket. He was mildly touched.
“Just file it with the others,” he said, pointing towards the filing cabinets in the corner. “If he was going to kill me he’d have made his move before now. You’ll find six months’ worth of letters in there somewhere. Will you be all right to hold the fort for a bit while I’m out?”
“I’ll cope,” she said, and he was amused by the sour note in her voice, and her obvious disappointment that nobody was going to fingerprint the be-kittened death threat.
When the next one arrives, Robin can't understand why Strike won't take this seriously.
“Yeah, well, we’ll see about that,” said Strike, deliberately ominous. “And listen, Robin, if another death threat comes in—they usually arrive on Mondays…”
“Yes?” she said eagerly.
“File it,” said Strike. He could not be sure—it seemed unlikely; she struck him as so prim—but he thought he heard her mutter, “Sod you, then,” as she hung up.
It takes the third one arriving for Strike to tell Robin the full story of Brian Mathers.
“Will you please read this? Please?”
It was Monday morning, and Strike had just returned from a smoke in the sunny street and a chat with the girl from the record shop opposite. Robin’s hair was loose again; she obviously had no more interviews today. This deduction, and the effects of sunlight after rain, combined to lift Strike’s spirits. Robin, however, looked strained, standing behind her desk and holding out a pink piece of paper embellished with the usual kittens.
“Still at it, is he?” Strike took the letter and read it through, grinning.
“I don’t understand why you aren’t going to the police,” said Robin. “The things he’s saying he wants to do to you…”
“Just file it,” said Strike dismissively, tossing the letter down and rifling through the rest of the paltry pile of mail.
Typical for the Strike series, a detail that we think is insignificant backdrop turns out to play a role in the case resolution. On Strike's instructions, Robin tells Bristow about the kitten-bedecked threat letters at Rochelle's funeral, which allows Strike to lay a trap for him.
So, I judged the Umbridgesque letters significant enough to commemorate in an ornament. The nice part about a project like this is, the tackier the better. I combined a few different fonts to "simulate the nutter writing. "
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