There were friends all over London who would welcome his eagerly to their homes, who would throw open their guest rooms and their fridges, eager to c… - Robert Galbraith

". . . you know who Polworth is?"

"Your best mate," said Robin.

"He's my oldest mate," Strike corrected her. "My best mate . . . "

For a split second he wondered whether he was going to say it, but the whisky had lifted the guard he usually kept upon himself: why not say it, why not let go?

" . . . is you."

Robin was so amazed, she couldn't speak. Never, in four years, had Strike come close to telling her what she was to him. Fondness had had to be deduced from offhand comments, small kindnesses, awkward silences or gestures forced from him under stress. She'd only once before felt as she did now, and the unexpected gift that had engendered the feeling had been a sapphire and diamond ring, which she'd left behind when she walked out on the man who'd given it to her.

She wanted to make some kind of return, but for a moment or two, her throat felt too constricted.

"I . . . well, the feeling's mutual," she said, trying not to sound too happy.

Strike knew how deeply ingrained was the belief that the evil conceal their dangerous predilections for violence and domination. When they wear them like bangles for all to see, the gullible populace laughs, calls it a pose, or finds it strangely attractive.

All love, ultimately, is self-love.