A paunchy middle-aged businessman, he was considerably wealthier than his crumpled, nondescript appearance would suggest. His face, which was entirely forgettable, neither handsome nor homely, was today screwed up in consternation.

“She’s dumped me,” he told Strike without preamble.

He dropped onto the mock-leather sofa in an eruption of fake flatulence that took him by surprise; for the second time, Strike assumed, that day. It must have been a shock to the man to be dumped, when his usual procedure was to collect evidence of infidelity and present it to the blonde in question, thus severing the connection. The better Strike had got to know his client, the more he had understood that, for Two-Times, this constituted some kind of satisfying sexual climax. The man appeared to be a peculiar mixture of masochist, voyeur and control freak.

“Really?” said Strike, getting to his feet and heading towards the kettle; he needed caffeine. “We’ve been keeping a very close eye on her and there hasn’t been a hint of another man.”

In fact, he had done nothing about Platinum all week except to take Raven’s calls, a few of which he had allowed to go to voicemail while he had been tailing Mad Dad. He now wondered whether he had listened to all of them. He hoped to Christ that Raven had not been warning him that another rich man had shown up, ready to defray some of Platinum’s student expenses in return for exclusive privileges, or he would have to say good-bye to Two-Times’s cash for good.

“Why’s she dumped me then?” demanded Two-Times.

Because you’re a fucking weirdo.

“Well, I can’t swear there isn’t someone else,” said Strike, choosing his words carefully as he poured instant coffee into a mug. “I’m just saying she’s been bloody clever about it if there is. We’ve been tailing her every move,” he lied. “Coffee?”

“I thought you were supposed to be the best,” grumbled Two-Times. “No, I don’t drink instant.”

Strike’s mobile rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and checked the caller: Wardle.

“Sorry, I need to take this,” he told his disgruntled client, and did so.

“Hi, Wardle.”

“Malley’s ruled out,” said Wardle.

It was a mark of Strike’s exhaustion that these words meant nothing to him for a second or two. Then the realization dawned that Wardle was talking about the gangster who had once cut off a man’s penis, and of whose probable guilt in the matter of the leg Wardle had seemed convinced.

“Digger—right,” said Strike, to show that he was paying attention. “He’s out, is he?”

“It can’t’ve been him. He was in Spain when she was killed.”

“Spain,” repeated Strike.

Two-Times drummed his thick fingers on the arm of the sofa.

“Yeah,” said Wardle, “bloody Menorca.”

Strike took a swig of coffee so strong he might as well have emptied boiling water straight into the jar. A headache was building in the side of his skull. He rarely got headaches.

“But we’ve made progress with those two whose pictures I showed you,” said Wardle. “The bloke and the girl who were posting on that freaks’ website where Kelsey was asking questions about you.”