Then he spoke in a voice more menacing than Robin had ever heard, the more so because he half crooned the words, so close to the receiver that he seemed to be breathing into her ear.

“Do A know you, little girl?”

Robin tried to speak, but no sound came out. The line went dead.

33

Then the door was open and the wind appeared…

Blue Öyster Cult, “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper”

“I messed up with Brockbank,” said Robin. “I’m really sorry—but I don’t know how I messed up! Plus I didn’t dare take pictures of Mad Dad, because I was too close.”

It was nine o’clock on Friday morning and Strike had arrived, not from the upstairs flat but from the street, fully dressed and carrying his backpack again. Robin had heard him humming as he came up the stairs. He had stayed overnight at Elin’s. Robin had called him the previous evening to tell him about the Brockbank call, but Strike had not been at liberty to talk for long and had promised that they would do so today.

“Never mind Mad Dad. We’ll get him another day,” said Strike, busy at the kettle. “And you did great with Brockbank. We know he’s in Shoreditch, we know I’m on his mind and we know he was suspicious that you might be police. So is that because he’s been fiddling with kids up and down the country, or because he’s recently hacked a teenager to death?”

Ever since Brockbank had spoken his last six words into her ear, Robin had felt slightly shaken. She and Matthew had barely talked to each other the previous evening and, having no outlet for a sudden feeling of vulnerability that she did not entirely understand, she had placed all her reliance on seeing Strike face to face and getting to discuss the meaning of those six ominous words: Do A know you, little girl? Today, she would have welcomed the serious, cautious Strike who had taken the sending of the leg as a threat and warned her about staying out after dark. The man now cheerfully making himself coffee and talking about child abuse and murder in a matter-of-fact tone was bringing her no comfort. He could have no idea what Brockbank had sounded like, crooning inside her ear.

“We know something else about Brockbank,” she said in a tight voice. “He’s living with a little girl.”

“He might not be living with her. We don’t know where he left the phone.”

“All right, then,” said Robin, feeling even more tightly wound. “If you want to be pedantic: we know he’s in close contact with a little girl.”

She turned away on the pretext of dealing with the mail she had scooped from the doormat on her arrival. The fact that he had arrived humming had irked her. Presumably his night with Elin had been a welcome distraction, providing recreation and recuperation. Robin would have loved a respite from her hypervigilant days and evenings of frigid silence. The knowledge that she was being unreasonable did nothing to diminish her resentment. She scooped the dying roses in their dry plastic bag off the desk and pushed them headfirst into the bin.