“Shh! Be quiet! Stop it! Shh! No!”

The door opened and Robin had just caught a glimpse of a hard-faced woman of around fifty when a rough-coated Jack Russell came pelting out, growling and barking with ferocity, and sank its teeth into Strike’s ankle. Fortunately for Strike, but less so for the Jack Russell, its teeth connected with steel. It yelped and Robin capitalized on its shock by stooping swiftly, grabbing it by the scruff of the neck and lifting it up. So surprised was the dog at finding itself dangling in midair that it simply hung there.

“No biting,” said Robin.

Apparently deciding that a woman brave enough to pick it up was worthy of respect, the dog allowed her to take a firmer grip, twisted in midair and attempted to lick her hand.

“Sorry,” said the woman. “He was my mother’s. He’s a bloody nightmare. He likes you, look. Miracle.”

Her shoulder-length brown hair had gray roots. Deep marionette lines lay either side of a thin-lipped mouth. She was leaning on a stick, one of her ankles swollen and bandaged, the foot encased in a sandal that displayed yellowing toenails.

Strike introduced himself, then showed Lorraine his driving license and a business card.

“Are you Lorraine MacNaughton?”

“Yeah,” she said hesitantly. Her eyes flickered to Robin, who smiled reassuringly over the Jack Russell’s head. “You’re a—what did you say?”

“A detective,” said Strike, “and I was wondering whether you could tell me anything about Donald Laing. Telephone records show he was living here with you a couple of years ago.”

“Yeah, he was,” she said slowly.

“Is he still here?” Strike asked, although he knew the answer.

“No.”

Strike indicated Robin.

“Would it be all right if my colleague and I come in and ask you a few questions? We’re trying to find Mr. Laing.”

There was a pause. Lorraine chewed her inner lip, frowning. Robin cradled the Jack Russell, which was now enthusiastically licking her fingers where, no doubt, it could taste traces of Danish pastry. Strike’s torn trouser leg flapped in a light breeze.

“All right, come in,” said Lorraine, and she backed away on her crutches to admit them.

The frowzy front room smelled strongly of stale cigarette smoke. There were countless old-ladyish touches: crocheted tissue-box covers, cheap frilled cushions and an array of fancily dressed teddy bears arranged on a polished sideboard. One wall was dominated by a painting of a saucer-eyed child dressed as a pierrot. Strike could no more imagine Donald Laing living here than he could visualize a bullock bedded down in the corner.

Once inside, the Jack Russell scrabbled to get down out of Robin’s arms, then started barking at Strike again.

“Oh, shut up,” groaned Lorraine. Sinking down onto the faded brown velvet sofa, she used both arms to lift her bandaged ankle back onto a leather pouffe, reached sideways to retrieve her packet of Superkings and lit up.

“I’m supposed to keep it raised,” she explained, cigarette waggling in her mouth as she picked up a full cut-glass ashtray and set it on her lap. “District nurse is in every day to change the dressings. Sit down.”