He did not fancy telling Robin exactly where the tattoo had been. He preferred not to think about that. However, he was mellowing with food and drink: Robin had never showed prurient interest in his past and he supposed she was justified in a request for information today.

“It was her favorite song. Blue Öyster Cult were her favorite band. Well, ‘favorite’ is an understatement. Obsession, really.”

“Her favorite wasn’t the Deadbeats?” asked Robin, without thinking. Strike’s father was the lead singer of the Deadbeats. They had never discussed him, either.

“No,” said Strike, managing a half-smile. “Old Jonny came a poor second with Leda. She wanted Eric Bloom, lead singer of Blue Öyster Cult, but she never got him. One of the very few who got away.”

Robin was not sure what to say. She had wondered before what it felt like to have your mother’s epic sexual history online for anybody to see. Strike’s fresh pint arrived and he took a swig before continuing.

“I was nearly christened Eric Bloom Strike,” he said and Robin choked on her water. He laughed as she coughed into a napkin. “Let’s face it, Cormoran’s not much bloody better. Cormoran Blue—”

“Blue?”

“Blue Öyster Cult, aren’t you listening?”

“God,” said Robin. “You keep that quiet.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“What does it mean, ‘Mistress of the Salmon Salt’?”

“Search me. Their lyrics are insane. Science fiction. Crazy stuff.”

A voice in his head: She wanted to die. She was the quicklime girl.

He drank more beer.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard any Blue Öyster Cult,” said Robin.

“Yeah, you have,” Strike contradicted her. “‘Don’t Fear the Reaper.’”

“Don’t—what?”

“It was a monster hit for them. ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper.’”

“Oh, I—I see.”

For one startled moment, Robin had thought that he was giving her advice.

They ate in silence for a while until Robin, unable to keep the question down any longer, though hoping she did not sound scared, asked:

“Why do you think the leg was addressed to me?”

Strike had already had time to ponder this question.

“I’ve been wondering that,” he said, “and I think we’ve got to consider it a tacit threat, so, until we’ve found out—”

“I’m not stopping work,” said Robin fiercely. “I’m not staying at home. That’s what Matthew wants.”

“You’ve spoken to him, have you?”

She had made the call while Strike was downstairs with Wardle.

“Yes. He’s angry with me for signing for it.”

“I expect he’s worried about you,” said Strike insincerely. He had met Matthew on a handful of occasions and disliked him more each time.

“He’s not worried,” snapped Robin. “He just thinks that this is it, that I’ll have to leave now, that I’ll be scared out. I won’t.”

Matthew had been appalled at her news, but even so, she had heard a faint trace of satisfaction in his voice, felt his unexpressed conviction that now, at last, she must see what a ridiculous choice it had been to throw in her lot with a rackety private detective who could not afford to give her a decent salary. Strike had her working unsociable hours that meant she had to have packages sent to work instead of the flat. (“I didn’t get sent a leg because Amazon couldn’t deliver to the house!” Robin had said hotly.) And, of course, on top of everything else, Strike was now mildly famous and a source of fascination to their friends. Matthew’s work as an accountant did not carry quite the same cachet. His resentment and jealousy ran deep and, increasingly, burst their bounds.