Friday morning arrived before the depressing pattern of no leads changed. As he was lurking in the doorway of an especially dismal clothing store named World Flair, Strike’s mobile rang and Robin spoke in his ear:

“Jason’s coming to London tomorrow. The leg guy. From the wannabe amputee website.”

“Great!” said Strike, relieved at the mere prospect of interviewing someone. “Where are we meeting him?”

“It’s ‘them,’” said Robin, with a definite note of reservation in her voice. “We’re meeting Jason and Tempest. She’s—”

“Excuse me?” interrupted Strike. “Tempest?”

“I doubt it’s her birth name,” said Robin drily. “She’s the woman Kelsey was interacting with online. Black hair and glasses.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember,” repeated Strike, supporting the mobile between jaw and shoulder while he lit a cigarette.

“I’ve just got off the phone with her. She’s a big activist in the transabled community and she’s pretty overwhelming, but Jason thinks she’s wonderful and he seems to feel safer with her there.”

“Fair enough,” said Strike. “So where are we meeting Jason and Tempest?”

“They want to go to Gallery Mess. It’s the café at the Saatchi Gallery.”

“Really?” Strike seemed to remember that Jason worked in an Asda, and was surprised that his first craving on arriving in London was contemporary art.

“Tempest’s in a wheelchair,” said Robin, “and apparently it’s got really good disabled access.”

“OK,” said Strike. “What time?”

“One,” said Robin. “She—er—asked whether we’d be paying.”

“I suppose we’ll have to.”

“And listen—Cormoran—would it be all right if I took the morning off?”

“Yeah, of course. Everything OK?”

“Everything’s fine, I’ve just got some—some wedding stuff to sort out.”

“No problem. Hey,” he added, before she could hang up, “shall we meet up somewhere first, before we question them? Agree our interviewing strategy?”

“That’d be great!” said Robin, and Strike, touched by her enthusiasm, suggested they meet in a sandwich shop on the King’s Road.

43

Freud, have mercy on my soul.

Blue Öyster Cult, “Still Burnin’”

The next day, Strike had been in Pret A Manger on the King’s Road for five minutes when Robin arrived, carrying a white bag over her shoulder. He was as uninformed about female fashion as most male ex-soldiers, but even he recognized the name Jimmy Choo.

“Shoes,” he said, pointing, after he had ordered her a coffee.

“Well done,” said Robin, grinning. “Shoes. Yes. For the wedding,” she added, because after all, they ought to be able to acknowledge that it was happening. A strange taboo had seemed to exist around the subject since she had resumed her engagement.

“You’re still coming, right?” she added as they took a table beside the window.

Had he ever agreed that he was attending her wedding, Strike wondered. He had been given the reissued invitation, which like the first had been of stiff cream card engraved in black, but he could not remember telling her that he would be there. She watched him expectantly for an answer, and he was reminded of Lucy and her attempts to coerce him into attending his nephew’s birthday party.