Strike had scrambled into the front seat as best he could, keeping his head low. Robin put her foot down and drove away at once.

“She didn’t give me a second look when I was following her,” Strike pointed out, hoisting himself into a sitting position.

“You still shouldn’t let her see you if you can help it,” said Robin sententiously, “in case she noticed you and it reminds her.”

“Sorry, forgot you’re Highly Commended,” said Strike.

“Oh sod off,” said Robin with a flash of temper. Strike was surprised.

“I was joking.”

Robin turned into a parking space further up the street, out of sight of the Crow’s Nest entrance, then checked her handbag for a small package she had bought earlier in the afternoon.

“You wait here.”

“The hell I will. I’ll be in the car park, keeping an eye out for Brockbank. Give me the keys.”

She handed them over with ill grace and left. Strike watched her walking towards the pub, wondering about that sudden spurt of temper. Perhaps, he thought, Matthew belittled what he probably saw as meager achievements.

The Crow’s Nest stood where Ferry and Stanley Roads met and formed a hairpin bend: a large, drum-shaped building of red brick. Holly was still standing in the doorway, smoking and drinking her pint. Nerves fluttered in the pit of Robin’s stomach. She had volunteered for this: now hers was the sole responsibility for finding out where Brockbank was. Her stupidity at bringing the police down on them earlier had made her touchy, and Strike’s ill-timed humor had reminded her of Matthew’s subtly belittling comments about her countersurveillance training. After formal congratulations on her top marks Matthew had implied that what she had learned was, after all, no more than common sense.

Robin’s mobile rang in her coat pocket. Aware of Holly’s eyes on her as she approached, Robin pulled out the phone to check the caller’s name. It was her mother. On the basis that it would look slightly more unusual to switch off the call than to take it, she raised it to her ear.

“Robin?” came Linda’s voice as Robin passed Holly in the doorway without looking at her. “Are you in Barrow-in-Furness?”

“Yes,” said Robin. Confronted by two inner doors, she chose the one on the left, which brought her into a large, high-ceilinged and dingy bar room. Two men in the now-familiar blue overalls were playing pool at a table just inside the door. Robin sensed, rather than saw, the turning of several heads towards the stranger. Avoiding all eye contact, she drifted towards the bar as she continued her call.

“What are you doing there?” asked Linda and, without waiting for a response, “We’ve had the police on the phone, checking whether Dad lent you the car!”

“It was all a misunderstanding,” said Robin. “Mum, I can’t really talk now.”

The door opened behind her and Holly walked past, thickly tattooed arms folded, giving Robin a sideways look of appraisal and, she sensed, animosity. Apart from the short-haired barmaid, they were the only two females in the place.