Strike slid his phone back into his pocket, frowning. He hoped this news would focus Wardle’s mind on someone other than Malley.

“Get back in the car,” said Strike, lost in thought, and he set off towards Brockbank’s house again.

Robin returned to the driver’s seat of the Land Rover. The woman in the upper window was still staring.

Two policewomen in high-visibility tabards came walking down the street. Strike had reached the maroon door. The rap of metal on wood echoed down the street. Nobody answered. Strike was preparing to knock again when the policewomen reached him.

Robin sat up, wondering what on earth the police wanted with him. After a brief conversation all three of them turned and headed towards the Land Rover.

Robin pushed down the window, feeling suddenly and unaccountably guilty.

“They want to know,” Strike called, when within earshot, “whether I’m Mr. Michael Ellacott.”

“What?” said Robin, completely confused by the mention of her father’s name.

The ludicrous thought came to her that Matthew had sent the police after them—but why would he have told them that Strike was her father? And then the realization came to her, voiced as soon as understood.

“The car’s registered in Dad’s name,” she said. “Have I done something wrong?”

“Well, you’re parked on a double yellow line,” said one of the policewomen drily, “but that’s not why we’re here. You’ve been taking photographs of the facility. It’s all right,” she added, as Robin looked panicked. “People do it every day. You were caught on the security cameras. Can I see your driving license?”

“Oh,” said Robin weakly, aware of Strike’s quizzical look. “I only—I thought it would make an arty picture, you know? The barbed wire and the white building and—and the clouds…”

She handed over her documentation, studiously avoiding Strike’s eye, mortified.

“Mr. Ellacott’s your father, is he?”

“He lent us the car, that’s all,” said Robin, dreading the idea of the police contacting her parents and them finding out that she was in Barrow, without Matthew, ring-less and single…

“And where do you two live?”

“We don’t—not together,” said Robin.

They gave their names and addresses.

“You’re visiting someone, are you, Mr. Strike?” asked the second policewoman.

“Noel Brockbank,” said Strike promptly. “Old friend. Passing, thought I’d look him up.”

“Brockbank,” repeated the policewoman, handing Robin her license, and Robin hoped that the woman might know him, which would surely go a long way to repairing her gaffe. “Good Barrovian surname, that. All right, on you go. No more photos round here.”

“I’m. So. Sorry,” Robin mouthed at Strike as the policewomen walked away. He shook his head, grinning through his annoyance.

“‘Arty photo’… the wire… the sky…”

“What would you have said?” she demanded. “I could hardly tell them I was taking pictures of workmen because I thought one of them might be Brockbank—look—”

But when she brought up the picture of the workmen she realized that the tallest of them, with his ruddy cheeks, short neck and large ears, was not the man they sought.