“She understands I never wrote back? That I never had actual contact with her?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve explained that to her. She still wants to talk to you. I dunno,” said Wardle slightly impatiently, “you got sent her sister’s leg—you know what people are like when they’re in shock. Plus, it’s you, isn’t it?” said Wardle, with a faint edge in his voice. “She probably thinks the Boy Wonder will solve it while the police are blundering.”

Robin and Strike avoided looking at each other and Wardle added grudgingly:

“We could’ve handled Hazel better. Our guys interrogated her partner a bit more aggressively than she liked. It put her on the defensive. She might like the idea of having you on the books: the detective who’s already saved one poor innocent from the nick.”

Strike decided to ignore the defensive undertone.

“Obviously, we had to question the bloke who was living with her,” Wardle added for Robin’s benefit. “That’s routine.”

“Yes,” said Robin. “Of course.”

“No other men in her life, except the sister’s partner and this alleged boyfriend?” asked Strike.

“She was seeing a male counselor, a skinny black guy in his fifties who was visiting family in Bristol on the weekend she died, and there’s a church youth group leader called Darrell,” said Wardle, “fat guy in dungarees. He cried his eyes out all through the interview. He was present and correct at the church on the Sunday; nothing checkable otherwise, but I can’t see him wielding a cleaver. That’s everyone we know about. Her course is nearly all girls.”

“No boys in the church youth group?”

“They’re nearly all girls as well. Oldest boy’s fourteen.”

“How would the police feel about me seeing Hazel?” Strike asked.

“We can’t stop you,” Wardle said, shrugging. “I’m for it, on the understanding that you’ll pass on anything useful, but I doubt there’s anything else there. We’ve interviewed everyone, we’ve been through Kelsey’s room, we’ve got her laptop and personally I’d bet none of the people we’ve talked to knew anything. They all thought she was off on a college placement.”

After thanks for the coffee and a particularly warm smile for Robin, which was barely returned, Wardle left.

“Not a word about Brockbank, Laing or Whittaker,” Strike grumbled as Wardle’s clanging footsteps faded from earshot. “And you never told me you’d been ferreting around on the net,” he added to Robin.

“I had no proof she was the girl who’d written the letter,” said Robin, “but I did think Kelsey might have gone online looking for help.”

Strike heaved himself to his feet, took her mug from her desk and was heading for the door when Robin said indignantly:

“Aren’t you interested in what I was going to tell you?”

He turned, surprised.

“That wasn’t it?”

“No!”

“Well?”

“I think I’ve found Donald Laing.”

Strike said nothing at all, but stood looking blank, a mug in each hand.

“You’ve—what? How?”

Robin turned on her computer, beckoned Strike over and began typing. He moved around to look over her shoulder.