“No,” said Stephanie, wiping her nose, “next night. We stayed over in the van at the lead singer’s ’ouse. ’E lives in Enfield.”

Robin would not have believed that it was possible to feel simultaneously disgusted and delighted. If Stephanie had been with Whittaker on the night of the fifth of June, Whittaker could not have killed Heather Smart.

“Was he—your boyfriend—was he there?” she asked in a quiet voice. “All the time, while you were—you know—?”

“The fuck’s going on ’ere?”

Robin looked up. Stephanie snatched her hand away, looking frightened.

Whittaker was standing over them. Robin recognized him immediately from the pictures she had seen online. He was tall and broad-shouldered, yet scrawny. His old black T-shirt was washed out almost to gray. The heretic priest’s golden eyes were fascinating in their intensity. In spite of the matted hair, the sunken, yellowing face, in spite of the fact that he repulsed her, she could yet feel the strange, manic aura of him, a magnetic pull like the reek of carrion. He woke the urge to investigate provoked by all dirty, rotten things, no less powerful because it was shameful.

“’Oo are you?” he asked, not aggressively, but with something close to a purr in his voice. He was looking unabashedly right down the front of her sundress.

“I bumped into your girlfriend outside the chippy,” said Robin. “I bought her a drink.”

“Didjoo now?”

“We’re closing,” said the waitress loudly.

The appearance of Whittaker had been a little too much for her, Robin could tell. His flesh tunnels, his tattoos, his maniac’s eyes, his smell would be desirable in very few establishments selling food.

Stephanie looked terrified, even though Whittaker was ignoring her completely. His attention was entirely focused on Robin, who felt absurdly self-conscious as she paid the bill, then stood and walked, Whittaker just behind her, out onto the street.

“Well—good-bye then,” she said weakly to Stephanie.

She wished that she had Strike’s courage. He had urged Stephanie to come away with him right underneath Whittaker’s nose, but Robin’s mouth was suddenly dry. Whittaker was staring at her as though he had spotted something fascinating and rare on a dung heap. Behind them, the waitress was bolting the doors. The sinking sun was throwing cold shadows across the street that Robin only knew as hot and smelly.

“Jus’ bein’ kind, were you, darlin’?” Whittaker asked softly, and Robin could not tell whether there was more malice or sweetness in his voice.

“I suppose I was worried,” said Robin, forcing herself to look into those wide-apart eyes, “because Stephanie’s injuries look quite serious.”

“That?” said Whittaker, putting out a hand to Stephanie’s purple and gray face. “Come off a pushbike, din’choo, Steph? Clumsy little cow.”

Robin suddenly understood Strike’s visceral hatred for this man. She would have liked to hit him too.

“I hope I’ll see you again, Stephanie,” she said.

She did not dare give the girl a number in front of Whittaker. Robin turned and began to walk away, feeling like the worst kind of coward. Stephanie was about to walk back upstairs with the man. She ought to have done more, but what? What could she say that would make a difference? Could she report the assault to the police? Would that constitute an interference with Carver’s case?