“No,” said Strike.

Sudden comprehension was illuminating her pretty face.

“’Ang on,” she said slowly. “I know ’oo you are—you’re that Strike! You’re Cameron Strike! The detective ’oo solved the Lula Landry case and—Jesus—didn’t someone just send you a leg?”

“Er—yeah, they did.”

“Noel was fucking obsessed with you!” she said. “All I ever heard ’im talk about, practically. After you was on the news.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah, ’e kept saying you give ’im a brain injury!”

“I can’t take full credit. You knew him well, did you?”

“Not that well!” she said, correctly interpreting Strike’s meaning. “I knew ’is friend from up north, John. He was a great guy, one of my regular punters before ’e went off to Saudi. Yeah, they was at school together, I fink. ’E felt sorry for Noel ’cause ’e was ex-forces and ’e’d ’ad a few problems, so ’e recommended him for ’ere. Said ’e was down on his luck. ’E got me to rent Noel a room at my place an’ all.”

Her tone said plainly that she felt John’s sympathy for Brockbank had been misplaced.

“How did that go?”

“’E was all right at first, but once ’is guard come down ’e just ranted all the time. About the army, about you, about ’is son—’e’s obsessed with ’is son, getting ’is son back. ’E says it’s your fault he can’t see ’im, but I don’t see ’ow ’e works that out. Anyone could see why his ex-wife didn’t want ’im near the kid.”

“And why’s that?”

“Mama found ’im with ’er granddaughter on ’is lap and ’is ’and up ’er skirt,” said Ingrid. “She’s six.”

“Ah,” said Strike.

“’E left owing me two weeks’ rent and that’s the last I ever saw of ’im. Good bloody riddance.”

“D’you know where he went after he was sacked?”

“No idea.”

“So you haven’t got any contact details?”

“I’ve prob’bly still got his mobile number,” she said. “I don’t know whether ’e’ll still be using it.”

“Could you give—?”

“Do I look like I’ve got a mobile on me?” she asked, raising her arms high. The lycra and boots outlined every curve. Her erect nipples were clearly visible through the thin fabric. Invited to look, Strike forced himself to maintain eye contact.

“Could you meet me later and give it to me?”

“We’re not allowed to exchange contact details with punters. Terms and conditions, sweet’art: why we’re not allowed to carry phones. Tell you what,” she said, eyeing him up and down, “seeing as it’s you and seeing as ’ow I know you punched the bastard and you’re a war ’ero and everyfing, I’ll meet you up the road when I clock off.”

“That,” said Strike, “would be great. Thanks very much.”

He did not know whether he imagined a flirtatious glint in her eye. Possibly he was distracted by the smell of massage oil and his recent thoughts of warm, slippery bodies.

Twenty minutes later, having waited long enough for Mama to assume that relief had been sought and given, Strike left the Thai Orchid and crossed the road to where Robin was waiting in the car.