Robin rolled her eyes and handed the Twix back to Strike. Her mobile rang. Strike watched, dazed, as she picked it up.

“Mum… hi,” said Robin.

Their eyes met. Strike read Robin’s unexpressed desire to save her mother, at least temporarily, from what had just happened, but no diversionary tactics were necessary because Linda was gabbling without allowing Robin to speak. Robin laid the mobile on her knees and switched it to speakerphone, her expression resigned.

“… let her know as soon as possible, because lily of the valley is out of season, so if you want it, it’ll be a special order.”

“OK,” said Robin. “I’ll skip lily of the valley.”

“Well, it would be great if you could call her directly and tell her what you do want, Robin, because it isn’t easy being the intermediary. She says she’s left you loads of voicemails.”

“Sorry, Mum,” said Robin. “I’ll call her.”

“You’re not supposed to be using that in here!” said a second cross nurse.

“Sorry,” said Robin again. “Mum, I’ll have to go. I’ll speak to you later.”

“Where are you?” Linda asked.

“I’m… I’ll ring you later,” said Robin, and cut the call.

She looked at Strike and asked:

“Aren’t you going to ask me which of them I think it was?”

“I’m assuming you don’t know,” said Strike. “If he was wearing a balaclava and your eyes were full of ink.”

“I’m sure about one thing,” said Robin. “It wasn’t Whittaker. Not unless he changed into sweatpants the moment I left him. Whittaker was wearing jeans and he was—his physique wasn’t right. This guy was strong, but soft, you know? Big, though. As big as you.”

“Have you told Matthew what’s happened?”

“He’s on his w—”

He thought, when her expression changed to one of near horror, that he was about to turn and see a livid Matthew bearing down upon them. Instead, the disheveled figure of Detective Inspector Roy Carver appeared at the foot of Robin’s bed, accompanied by the tall, elegant figure of Detective Sergeant Vanessa Ekwensi.

Carver was in shirtsleeves. Large wet patches of sweat radiated out from his armpits. The constantly pink whites of his bright blue eyes always made him look as though he had been swimming in heavily chlorinated water. His thick, graying hair was full of large flakes of dandruff.

“How are—?” began Detective Sergeant Ekwensi, her almond-shaped eyes on Robin’s forearm, but Carver interrupted with an accusatory bark.

“What’ve you been up to, then, eh?”

Strike stood up. Here at last was the perfect target for his so far suppressed desire to punish somebody, anybody, for what had just happened to Robin, to divert his feelings of guilt and anxiety onto a worthy target.

“I want to talk to you,” Carver told Strike. “Ekwensi, you take her statement.”

Before anyone could speak or move, a sweet-faced young nurse stepped obliviously between the two men, smiling at Robin.

“Ready to take you to X-ray, Miss Ellacott,” she said.