Strike arrived looking irritable.

“We’ve lost Radford,” he said, dumping his backpack beside the high window table at which she was sitting. “He’s just phoned me.”

“No!”

“Yep. He thinks you’re too newsworthy to plant in his office now.”

The press had had the story of the severed leg since six that morning. Wardle had kept his word to Strike and warned him ahead of time. The detective had been able to leave his attic flat in the small hours with enough clothes in his holdall for a few days’ absence. He knew the press would soon be staking out the office, and not for the first time.

“And,” said Strike, returning to Robin with a pint in his hand and easing himself up onto a bar stool, “Khan’s bottled it too. He’s going to go for an agency that doesn’t attract body parts.”

“Bugger,” said Robin, and then: “What are you smirking about?”

“Nothing.” He did not want to tell her that he always liked it when she said “bugger.” It brought out the latent Yorkshire in her accent.

“They were good jobs!” said Robin.

Strike agreed, his eyes on the front of Spearmint Rhino.

“How’s Platinum? Raven checked in?”

As Raven had just called, Robin was able to inform Strike that there was, as ever, no news. Platinum was popular with punters and had so far that day given three lap dances that had proceeded, judged by the rules of the establishment, in total propriety.

“Read the stories?” he asked, pointing at an abandoned Mirror on a nearby table.

“Only online,” said Robin.

“Hopefully it’ll bring in some information,” said Strike. “Someone must’ve noticed they’re missing a leg.”

“Ha ha,” said Robin.

“Too soon?”

“Yes,” said Robin coldly.

“I did some digging online last night,” said Strike. “Brockbank might’ve been in Manchester in 2006.”

“How d’you know it was the right man?”

“I don’t, but the guy was around the right age, right middle initial—”

“You remember his middle initial?”

“Yeah,” said Strike. “It doesn’t look like he’s there anymore, though. Same story with Laing. I’m pretty sure he was at an address in Corby in 2008, but he’s moved on. How long,” Strike added, staring across the street, “has that bloke in the camouflage jacket and shades been in that restaurant?”

“About half an hour.”

As far as Strike could tell, the man in sunglasses was watching him back, staring out across the street through two windows. Broad-shouldered and long-legged, he looked too large for the silver chair. With the sliding reflections of traffic and passersby refracting off the window Strike found it difficult to be sure, but he appeared to be sporting heavy stubble.

“What’s it like in there?” Robin asked, pointing towards the double doors of Spearmint Rhino under their heavy metallic awning.

“In the strip club?” asked Strike, taken aback.

“No, in the Japanese restaurant,” said Robin sarcastically. “Of course in the strip club.”

“It’s all right,” he said, not entirely sure what he was being asked.