Out of deference to the listening Linda, Strike had omitted to add that he was sure Brockbank would still be working in the sex industry, where vulnerable women might be most easily found.

“OK,” Robin had replied, leaving Strike’s list where he had put it on her desk. “I’ll see Mum off and come back—”

“No, I want you to do it from home. Keep a record of all the calls; I’ll reimburse you.”

A mental picture of the Destiny’s Child Survivor poster had flickered in Robin’s mind.

“When do I come back into the office?”

“Let’s see how long that takes you,” he said. Correctly reading her expression, he had added: “Look, I think we’ve just lost Two-Times for good. I can cover Mad Dad alone—”

“What about Kelsey?”

“You’re trying to trace Brockbank,” he said, pointing at the list in her hand. Then (his head was pounding, though Robin did not know it), “Look, everyone’ll be off work tomorrow, it’s a bank holiday, the royal wedding—”

It could not have been clearer: he wanted her out of the way. Something had changed while she had been out of the office. Perhaps Strike was remembering that, after all, she had not been trained by the military police, had never seen dismembered limbs before a leg was delivered to their door, that she was not, in short, the kind of partner who was of use to him in this extremity.

“I’ve just had five days off—”

“For Christ’s sake,” he said, losing patience, “you’re only making lists and phone calls—why d’you have to be in here to do it?”

You’re only making lists and phone calls.

She remembered how Elin had called her Strike’s secretary.

Sitting in the taxi with her mother, a lava slide of anger and resentment swept away rationality. He had called her his partner in front of Wardle, back when he had needed her to look at the photographs of a dismembered body. There had been no new contract, though, no formal renegotiation of their working relationship. She was a faster typist than Strike, with his wide hairy fingers: she dealt with the bulk of the invoices and emails. She did most of the filing too. Perhaps, Robin thought, Strike himself had told Elin that she was his secretary. Perhaps calling her partner had been a sop to her, a mere figure of speech. Maybe (she was deliberately inflaming her own resentment now, and she knew it) Strike and Elin discussed Robin’s inadequacies during their sneaky dinners away from Elin’s husband. He might have confided in Elin how much he now regretted taking on a woman who, after all, had been a mere temp when she had come to him. He had probably told Elin about the rape too.

It was a difficult time for me too, you know.

You’re only making lists and phone calls.

Why was she crying? Tears of rage and frustration were trickling down her face.

“Robin?” said Linda.

“It’s nothing, nothing,” said Robin savagely, wiping under her eyes with the heels of her hands.