“There’s nothing we can do about that kid,” said Strike.

A most enjoyable stab of anger shot through Robin.

“I won’t worry about her, then,” she snapped.

Trying to extract a bill from an envelope, she accidentally ripped the whole thing in two.

“You think she’s the only child at risk from an abuser? There’ll be hundreds of them, right now, just in London.”

Robin, who had half expected him to soften now that she had revealed how angry she was, looked round. He was watching her, eyes slightly narrowed, with no air of sympathy.

“Keep worrying all you want, but it’s wasted energy. There’s nothing you or I can do about that kid. Brockbank’s not on any registers. He hasn’t got any convictions. We don’t even know where she is or what she’s—”

“Her name’s Zahara,” said Robin.

To her horror, her voice turned to a strangled squeal, her face flooded with color and tears started in her eyes. She turned away again, although not fast enough.

“Hey,” said Strike kindly, but Robin made a wild flapping gesture with her hand to stop him talking. She refused to break down; all that was holding her together was her ability to keep moving forwards, to keep doing the job.

“I’m fine,” she said through clenched teeth. “I am. Forget it.”

She could not now confess how menacing she had found Brockbank’s sign-off. “Little girl,” he had called her. She was not a little girl. She was not broken or childlike—not anymore—but Zahara, whoever she was…

She heard Strike leave for the landing, and a moment later a large wad of toilet paper appeared in her swimming sights.

“Thank you,” she said thickly, taking it from Strike’s hand and blowing her nose.

Several silent minutes passed while Robin periodically dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose, avoiding looking at Strike, who was perversely remaining in her part of the office rather than heading for his own.

“What?” Robin said at last, anger rising again at the fact that he was simply standing there watching her.

He grinned. In spite of everything, she experienced a sudden desire to laugh.

“Are you going to stand there all morning?” she asked, trying to sound cross.

“No,” said Strike, still grinning, “I just wanted to show you something.”

He ferreted in his backpack and pulled out a glossy property brochure.

“Elin’s,” he said. “She went to see it yesterday. She’s thinking of buying a flat there.”

All desire to laugh fled. How exactly did Strike think that it would cheer Robin up, to know that his girlfriend was thinking of buying a ludicrously expensive flat? Or was he about to announce (Robin’s fragile mood began to collapse in on itself) that he and Elin were moving in together? Like a film flickering rapidly before her eyes she saw the upstairs flat empty, Strike living in luxury, herself in a tiny box room on the edge of London, whispering into her mobile so that her vegan landlady did not hear her.