“Did he admit to talking to Kelsey online?”

“Hard for him to deny it when we’ve got her laptop and all Tempest’s records. He asked Kelsey about her plans for her leg and offered to meet her and she brushed him off—online, anyway. Bloody hell, we’ve got to look into him,” said Wardle in response to Strike’s skeptical look, “he’s got no alibi, a motorbike, a thing for amputation and he tried to meet her!”

“Yeah, of course,” said Strike. “Any other leads?”

“That’s why I wanted to meet you. We’ve found your Donald Laing. He’s in Wollaston Close, in Elephant and Castle.”

“He is?” said Strike, genuinely taken aback.

Savoring the fact that he had surprised Strike for once, Wardle smirked.

“Yeah, and he’s a sick man. We found him through a JustGiving page. We got on to them and got his address.”

That was the difference between Strike and Wardle, of course: the latter still had badges, authority and the kind of power Strike had relinquished when he left the army.

“Have you seen him?” asked Strike.

“Sent a couple of guys round and he wasn’t in, but the neighbors confirmed it’s his flat. He rents, lives alone and he’s pretty ill, apparently. They said he’s gone home to Scotland for a bit. Friend’s funeral. Supposed to be back soon.”

“Likely bloody story,” muttered Strike into his pint. “If Laing’s got a friend left in Scotland I’ll eat this glass.”

“Have it your own way,” said Wardle, half amused, half impatient. “I thought you’d be pleased we’re chasing up your guys.”

“I am,” said Strike. “Definitely ill, is he?”

“The neighbor reckons he needs sticks. He’s been in and out of hospital a lot, apparently.”

The leather-padded screen overhead was showing last month’s Arsenal–Liverpool match with the sound turned down. Strike watched as van Persie sank the penalty that he had thought, watching back on his tiny portable at the flat, might help Arsenal to a desperately needed win. It hadn’t happened, of course. The Gunners’ fortunes were currently sinking with his own.

“You seeing anyone?” asked Wardle abruptly.

“What?” said Strike, startled.

“Coco liked the look of you,” said Wardle, making sure that Strike saw him smirking as he said it, the better to impress upon Strike that he thought this ludicrous. “The wife’s friend, Coco. Red hair, remember?”

Strike remembered that Coco was a burlesque dancer.

“I said I’d ask,” said Wardle. “I’ve told her you’re a miserable bastard. She says she doesn’t mind.”

“Tell her I’m flattered,” said Strike, which was the truth, “but yeah, I’m seeing someone.”

“Not your work partner, is it?” asked Wardle.

“No,” said Strike. “She’s getting married.”

“You missed a trick there, mate,” said Wardle, yawning. “I would.”

“So, let me get this straight,” said Robin in the office next morning. “As soon as we find out that Laing actually does live in Wollaston Close, you want me to stop watching it.”

“Hear me out,” said Strike, who was making tea. “He’s away, according to the neighbors.”