“D’you want to try Brockbank’s number now?” Robin asked, recalling Strike’s attention from the back view of Ingrid as she walked away.

“What? No. That wants thinking about. We might only have one shot if he picks up.” He checked his watch. “Let’s get going, I don’t want to be too late in Cor—”

The phone in his hand rang.

“Wardle,” said Strike.

He answered, putting the phone onto speaker so that Robin could listen.

“What’s going on?”

“We’ve ID’d the body,” said Wardle. A note in his voice warned them that they were about to recognize a name. The tiny pause that followed allowed the image of that little girl with her small bird-like eyes to slide in panic through Strike’s mind.

“She’s called Kelsey Platt and she’s the girl who wrote to you for advice on how to cut off her leg. She was genuine. Sixteen years old.”

Equal amounts of relief and disbelief crashed over Strike. He groped for a pen, but Robin was already writing.

“She was doing a City and Guilds in childcare at some vocational college, which is where she met Oxana Voloshina. Kelsey usually lived in Finchley with her half-sister and the sister’s partner. She told them she was going away on a college placement for two weeks. They didn’t report her missing—they weren’t worried. She wasn’t expected back until tonight.

“Oxana says Kelsey didn’t get on with her sister and asked whether she could stay there for a couple of weeks, get some space. Looks like the girl had it all planned out, writing to you from that address. The sister’s a total mess, understandably. I can’t get much sense out of her yet, but she’s confirmed the handwriting on the letter was genuine and the thing the girl had about wanting to get rid of her leg didn’t seem to come as a total shock to her. We got DNA samples off the girl’s hairbrush. It matches. It’s her.”

With a creak of the passenger seat, Strike leaned closer to Robin to read her notes. She could smell the cigarette smoke on his clothes and a tiny whiff of sandalwood.

“There’s a partner living with the sister?” he asked. “A man?”

“You won’t pin it on him,” said Wardle, and Strike could tell that Wardle had already had a good try. “Forty-five, retired fireman, not in great nick. Knackered lungs and a watertight alibi for the weekend in question.”

“The weekend—?” began Robin.

“Kelsey left her sister’s on the night of April first. We know she must’ve died on the second or third—you got handed her leg on the fourth. Strike, I’m going to need you back in here for more questions. Routine, but we’re going to have to take a formal statement about those letters.”

There seemed little else to be said. After accepting Strike’s thanks for letting them know, Wardle rang off, leaving a silence that seemed to Robin to quiver with aftershocks.

28

… oh Debbie Denise was true to me,