His fingers hovered over the keyboard. He got as far as Leda Strike nak before deleting, letter by letter, with an angry, jabbing forefinger. There were places no normal man wanted to go, phrases you did not want to leave on your internet search history, but also, unfortunately, tasks you did not want to delegate.

He contemplated the search box he had emptied, the cursor blinking dispassionately at him, then typed fast in his usual two-fingered style: Donald Laing.

There were plenty of them, especially in Scotland, but he could rule out anyone who had been paying rent or voting in elections while Laing had been in jail. After careful elimination and bearing in mind Laing’s approximate age, Strike narrowed his focus to a man who appeared to have been living with a woman called Lorraine MacNaughton in Corby in 2008. Lorraine MacNaughton was now registered as living there alone.

He deleted Laing’s name and substituted Noel Brockbank. There were fewer of them in the UK than there had been Donald Laings, but Strike reached a similar dead end. There had been an N. C. Brockbank living alone in Manchester in 2006, but if that was Strike’s man, it suggested that he had split up with his wife. Strike was not sure whether that would be a good or a bad thing…

Slumping back in Robin’s chair, Strike moved on to considering the likely consequences of being sent an anonymous severed leg. The police would have to ask the public for information soon, but Wardle had promised to warn Strike before they gave a press conference. A story this bizarre and grotesque would always be news, but interest would be increased—and it gave him no pleasure to reflect on it—because the leg had been sent to his office. Cormoran Strike was newsworthy these days. He had solved two murders under the noses of the Met, both of which would have fascinated the public, even had a private detective not solved them: the first, because the victim had been a beautiful young woman, the second, because it had been a strange, ritualistic killing.

How, Strike wondered, would the sending of the leg affect the business he had been working so hard to build up? He could not help feeling that the consequences were likely to be serious. Internet searches were a cruel barometer of status. Sometime soon, Googling Cormoran Strike would not return to the top of the page glowing encomiums on his two most famous and successful cases, but the brutal fact that he was a man in receipt of a body part, a man who had at least one very nasty enemy. Strike was sure he understood the public well enough, or at least the insecure, frightened and angry section of it that was the private investigator’s bread and butter, to know they were unlikely to be drawn to a business that received severed legs in the post. At best, new clients would assume that he and Robin had troubles enough of their own; at worst, that they had, through recklessness or ineptitude, got into something way over their heads.