“Maybe. I want you to call him, keep the Venetia Hall, personal injury lawyer thing going.”

“Oh. OK,” she said, pulling out her own mobile and keying in the number that he had shown her, but beneath her matter-of-fact manner she was quietly elated. Venetia had been her own idea, her creation, and now Strike was turning the whole line of inquiry over to her.

She was halfway up Denmark Street in the sunshine before Robin remembered that there had been a card with the now-battered roses, and that she had left it behind, unread.

32

What’s that in the corner?

It’s too dark to see.

Blue Öyster Cult, “After Dark”

Surrounded all day long by the sounds of traffic and loud voices, Robin did not have a good opportunity to call Noel Brockbank until five o’clock that afternoon. Having seen Platinum to work as usual, she turned into the Japanese restaurant beside the lap-dancing club and took her green tea to a quiet corner table. There, she waited for five minutes to satisfy herself that any background noises Brockbank might hear could plausibly belong to a busy office situated on a main road, and keyed in the number, her heart hammering.

It was still in service. Robin listened to it ringing for twenty seconds and then, just when she had guessed that nobody was going to pick up, somebody did.

Very heavy breathing roared down the line. Robin sat still, the mobile tight against her ear. Then she jumped, as a shrill toddler’s voice said:

“HELLO!”

“Hello?” said Robin cautiously.

In the background a woman’s muffled voice said:

“What’ve you got, Zahara?”

A scraping noise and then, much louder:

“That’s Noel’s, he’s been look—”

The line went dead. Robin lowered the phone slowly, her heart still racing. She could almost see the sticky little finger that had accidentally cut the call.

The phone began to vibrate in her hand: Brockbank’s number, calling back. She took a steadying breath and answered.

“Hello, Venetia Hall.”

“What?” said a woman’s voice.

“Venetia Hall—Hardacre and Hall,” said Robin.

“What?” said the woman again. “Did you just call this number?”

She had a London accent. Robin’s mouth was dry.

“Yes, I did,” said Robin-as-Venetia. “I’m looking for Mr. Noel Brockbank.”

“Why?”

After an almost imperceptible pause Robin said:

“Could I ask who I’m speaking to, please?”

“Why?” The woman was sounding increasingly belligerent. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Venetia Hall,” said Robin, “and I’m a lawyer specializing in personal injury compensation.”

A couple sat down in front of her and began to talk loudly in Italian.

“What?” said the woman on the end of the line again.

Inwardly cursing her neighbors, Robin raised her voice and gave the same story that she had told Holly back in Barrow.

“Money for him?” said the unknown woman, with a degree less animosity.

“Yes, if his case is successful,” said Robin. “Can I ask—?”

“How did you find out about him?”

“We came across Mr. Brockbank’s records while we were researching other—”