“Could he have tracked her down?” Strike wondered aloud, after a silence.

“Sorry—what? Who?”

“Could Brockbank have tracked Brittany down and killed her after all this time? Or am I barking up the wrong tree because I feel so fucking guilty?”

He gave the door of the Land Rover a soft thump with his fist.

“The leg, though,” said Strike, arguing against himself. “It’s scarred just like hers was. That was a thing between them: ‘I tried to saw off your leg when you were little and your mum walked in.’ Fucking evil bastard. Who else would send me a scarred leg?”

“Well,” said Robin slowly, “I can think of a reason a leg was chosen, and it might not have anything at all to do with Brittany Brockbank.”

Strike turned to look at her.

“Go on.”

“Whoever killed that girl could have sent you any part of her and achieved the same result,” said Robin. “An arm, or—or a breast”—she did her best to keep her tone matter-of-fact—“would have meant the police and the press swarming all over us just the same. The business would still have been compromised and we’d have been just as shaken up—but he chose to send a right leg, cut exactly where your right leg was amputated.”

“I suppose it ties in with that effing song. Although—” Strike reconsidered. “No, I’m talking crap, aren’t I? An arm would’ve worked just as well for that. Or a neck.”

“He’s making clear reference to your injury,” Robin said. “What does your missing leg mean to him?”

“Christ knows,” said Strike, watching her profile as she talked.

“Heroism,” said Robin.

Strike snorted.

“There’s nothing heroic about being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“You’re a decorated veteran.”

“I wasn’t decorated for being blown up. That happened before.”

“You’ve never told me that.”

She turned to face him, but he refused to be sidetracked.

“Go on. Why the leg?”

“Your injury’s a legacy of war. It represents bravery, adversity overcome. Your amputation’s mentioned every single time they talk about you in the press. I think—for him—it’s tied up with fame and achievement and—and honor. He’s trying to denigrate your injury, to tie it to something horrible, divert the public’s perception away from you as hero towards you as a man in receipt of part of a dismembered girl. He wants to cause you trouble, yes, but he wants to diminish you in the process. He’s somebody who wants what you’ve got, who wants recognition and importance.”

Strike bent down and took a second can of McEwan’s out of the brown bag at his feet. The crack of the ring pull reverberated in the cold air.

“If you’re right,” said Strike, watching his cigarette smoke curl away into the darkness, “if what’s riling this maniac is that I got famous, Whittaker goes to the top of the list. That was all he ever wanted: to be a celebrity.”

Robin waited. He had told her virtually nothing about his stepfather, although the internet had supplied her with many of the details that Strike had withheld.