“‘Nuclear Site Boundary’?” Robin read from a sign on the wall, slowing the Land Rover to a crawl as they proceeded up the road.

“Building submarines,” said Strike, looking up at the barbed wire. “Police warnings everywhere—look.”

The cul-de-sac was deserted. It terminated in a small parking area beside a children’s play park. As she parked, Robin noticed a number of objects stuck in the barbed wire on top of the wall. The ball had undoubtedly landed there by accident, but there was also a small pink doll’s pushchair, tangled up and irretrievable. The sight of it gave her an uncomfortable feeling: somebody had deliberately thrown that out of reach.

“What are you getting out for?” asked Strike, coming around the back of the vehicle.

“I was—”

“I’ll deal with Brockbank, if he’s in there,” said Strike, lighting up. “You’re not going anywhere near him.”

Robin got back into the Land Rover.

“Try not to punch him, won’t you?” she muttered at Strike’s retreating figure as he walked with a slight limp towards the house, his knee stiff from the journey.

Some of the houses had clean windows and ornaments neatly arranged behind the glass; others had net curtains in various states of cleanliness. A few were shabby and, on the evidence of grimy interior windowsills, dirty. Strike had almost reached a maroon door when he suddenly stopped in his tracks. Robin noticed that a group of men in blue overalls and hard hats had appeared at the end of the street. Was one of them Brockbank? Was that why Strike had stopped?

No. He was merely taking a phone call. Turning his back on both the door and the men, he moved slowly back towards Robin, his stride no longer purposeful but with the aimless ramble of a man intent only on the voice in his ear.

One of the men in the overalls was tall, dark and bearded. Had Strike seen him? Robin slipped out of the Land Rover again and, on pretext of texting, took several photographs of the workmen, zooming in on them as closely as she could. They turned a corner and walked out of sight.

Strike had paused ten yards away from her, smoking and listening to the person talking on his mobile. A gray-haired woman was squinting at the pair of them from an upstairs window of the nearest house. Thinking to allay her suspicions, Robin turned away from the houses and took a picture of the huge nuclear facility, playing the tourist.

“That was Wardle,” said Strike, coming up behind her. He looked grim. “The body isn’t Oxana Voloshina’s.”

“How do they know?” asked Robin, stunned.

“Oxana’s been home in Donetsk for three weeks. Family wedding—they haven’t spoken to her personally, but they’ve talked to her mother on the phone and she says Oxana’s there. Meanwhile, the landlady’s recovered enough to tell police that she was especially shocked when she found the body because she thought Oxana had gone back to Ukraine for a holiday. She also mentioned that the head didn’t look very like her.”