“An’ where did you find ou’ abou’ us, eh?”

“We came across your case notes while we were investigating—”

“Investigatin’ wha’?”

Why did she have such a feeling of menace? He couldn’t be anywhere near her, but she scanned her surroundings all the same. The sunny, gracious street was deserted.

“Investigating similar non-combat-related injuries to other servicemen,” she said, wishing that her voice had not risen to such a high pitch.

More silence. A car rolled towards her round the corner.

Damn it, Robin thought desperately as she realized that the driver was the obsessive father she was supposed to be observing covertly. He had looked her full in the face as she turned towards his car. She ducked her head and walked slowly away from the school.

“So wha’ do I ’ave ter do then, eh?” asked Noel Brockbank in her ear.

“Could we meet and have a chat about your history?” Robin asked, her chest actually painful, so fast was her heart pounding.

“I though’ you’d read our ’istory?” he said and the hairs on the back of Robin’s neck stood up. “A cun’ called Cameron Strike gave us brain damage.”

“Yes, I saw that in your file,” said Robin breathlessly, “but it’s important to take a statement so we can—”

“Take a statemen’?”

There was a pause that felt suddenly dangerous.

“Sure you’re no’ a horney?”

Robin Ellacott, northerner, understood; Venetia Hall, Londoner, almost certainly would not. “Horney” was the Cumbrian word for policeman.

“Not a what—I’m sorry?” she said, doing her best to sound politely confused.

Mad Dad had parked outside his estranged wife’s house. Any moment now, his sons would be leaving with their nanny for a play date. If he accosted them, Robin needed to photograph the encounter. She was falling down on the paying job: she ought to be photographing Mad Dad’s movements.

“Police,” said Brockbank aggressively.

“Police?” she said, still striving for that tone of mingled disbelief and amusement. “Of course not.”

“You sure abou’ tha’, are you?”

The front door of Mad Dad’s wife’s house had opened. Robin saw the nanny’s red hair and heard a car door open. She forced herself to sound offended and confused.

“Yes, of course I am. Mr. Brockbank, if you’re not interested—”

Her hand was slightly damp on the phone. Then, taking her by surprise, he said:

“All right, I’ll mee’ you.”

“Excellent,” said Robin as the nanny led the two little boys onto the pavement. “Whereabouts are you?”

“Shoreditch,” said Brockbank.

Robin felt every nerve tingle. He was in London.

“So, where would be convenient to—?”

“Wha’s tha’ noise?”

The nanny was screaming at Mad Dad, who was advancing on her and the boys. One of his sons began wailing.

“Oh, I’m actually—it’s just my day for picking up my son from school,” said Robin loudly over the background shrieks and shouts.

Silence again on the end of the line. Matter-of-fact Venetia Hall would surely break it, but Robin found herself paralyzed by what she tried to tell herself was an irrational fear.