“How much money?”

“That depends.” Robin took a deep breath. “Where is Mr. Brockbank?”

“At work.”

“Can I ask where—?”

“I’ll get him to call you. This number, yeah?”

“Yes, please,” said Robin. “I’ll be here in the office tomorrow from nine.”

“Vene—Ven—what was your name?”

Robin spelled Venetia for her.

“Yeah, all right, then. I’ll get him to call. Bye, then.”

Robin rang Strike to tell him what had happened as she walked towards the Tube, but his number was engaged.

Her spirits ebbed as she descended into the Underground. Matthew would be at home by now. It felt as though it had been a long time since she had seen her ex-fiancé and she dreaded their reunion. Her mood sank still further as she traveled home, wishing she had a valid reason to stay away, but grudgingly obedient to her promise to Strike that she would not stay out after dark.

Forty minutes later she arrived at West Ealing station. Walking towards the flat with dread in her heart, her second attempt to call Strike went through.

“Bloody good work!” he said when she told him that she had successfully contacted Brockbank’s phone. “You say this woman had a London accent?”

“I think so,” said Robin, feeling that Strike was missing a more important point, “and a small daughter, by the sounds of it.”

“Yeah. Expect that’s why Brockbank’s there.”

She had expected him to show more concern for a child in close proximity with a man he knew to be a child rapist, but no; he briskly changed the subject.

“I’ve just been on the phone to Hazel Furley.”

“Who?”

“Kelsey’s sister, remember? Who wants to meet me? I’m going to see her on Saturday.”

“Oh,” said Robin.

“Can’t do it before then—Mad Dad’s back from Chicago. Just as well. Two-Times won’t support us forever.”

Robin did not respond. She was still thinking about the toddler who had answered the phone. Strike’s reaction to that news had disappointed her.

“Are you all right?” asked Strike.

“Yes,” said Robin.

She had reached the end of Hastings Road.

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.

He agreed to it and hung up. Feeling unexpectedly worse for having spoken to Strike, she headed with some trepidation towards her front door.

She need not have worried. The Matthew who had returned from Masham was no longer the man who begged Robin hourly to talk to him. He slept on the sofa. Over the next three days they moved carefully around each other, Robin with cool politeness, he with an air of ostentatious devotion that tipped, at times, into parody. He hurried to wash up cups as soon as she had finished drinking from them and on Thursday morning asked her respectfully how work was going.

“Oh, please,” was Robin’s only response as she strode past him to the front door.

His family, she guessed, had told him to back off, to give her time. They had not yet discussed how they were going to tell everyone else that the wedding was off: Matthew clearly did not wish to have that discussion. Day to day, Robin stopped short of initiating the conversation. Sometimes she asked herself whether this cowardice revealed her own secret desire to put her ring back on. At others, she was sure that her reluctance sprang from exhaustion, disinclination for what she knew would be the worst and most painful confrontation yet, and a need to marshal her forces before the final break. Little though she had encouraged her mother’s forthcoming visit, Robin was subconsciously hoping to draw enough strength and comfort from Linda to do what had to be done.