He was about to turn off the computer when he changed his mind and, with even more reluctance than he had brought to the job of searching for his mother in the nude, typed in Brittany Brockbank.

There were a few of them on Facebook, on Instagram, working for companies of which he had never heard, beaming out of selfies. He scrutinized the images. They were nearly all in their twenties, the age she would be now. He could discount those who were black, but there was no telling which of the others, brunette, blonde or redhead, pretty or plain, photographed beaming or moody or caught unawares, was the one he sought. None were wearing glasses. Was she too vain to wear them in a picture? Had she had her eyes lasered? Perhaps she eschewed social media. She had wanted to change her name, he remembered that. Or perhaps the reason for her absence was more fundamental—she was dead.

He looked at his watch again: time to go and change.

It can’t be her, he thought, and then, let it not be her.

Because if it was her, it was his fault.

6

Is it any wonder that my mind’s on fire?

Blue Öyster Cult, “Flaming Telepaths”

Robin was unusually vigilant on the journey home that evening, surreptitiously comparing every man in the carriage with her memory of the tall figure in black leathers who had handed her the gruesome package. A thin young Asian man in a cheap suit smiled hopefully as she caught his eye for the third time; after that, she kept her eyes on her phone, exploring—when reception permitted—the BBC website and wondering, like Strike, when the leg would become news.

Forty minutes after leaving work she entered the large Waitrose near her home station. The fridge at home had almost nothing in it. Matthew did not enjoy food shopping and (although he had denied it during their last row but one) she was sure that he thought she, who contributed less than a third of the household income, ought to bolster her contribution by performing those mundane tasks he did not like.

Single men in suits were filling their baskets and trolleys with ready meals. Professional women hurried past, grabbing pasta that would be quick to cook for the family. An exhausted-looking young mother with a tiny baby screaming in its buggy wove around the aisles like a groggy moth, unable to focus, a single bag of carrots in her basket. Robin moved slowly up and down the aisles, feeling oddly jumpy. There was nobody there who resembled the man in black motorcycle leathers, nobody who might be lurking, fantasizing about cutting off Robin’s legs… cutting off my legs…

“Excuse me!” said a cross middle-aged woman trying to reach the sausages. Robin apologized and moved aside, surprised to find that she was holding a pack of chicken thighs. Throwing it into her trolley, she hurried off to the other end of the supermarket where, among the wines and spirits, she found relative quiet. Here she pulled out her mobile and called Strike. He answered on the second ring.