“What does it look like?”

“Gold. Mirrors. Dim lighting.” When she looked at him expectantly, he said, “There’s a pole in the middle, where they dance.”

“Not lap dances?”

“There are private booths for them.”

“What do the girls wear?”

“I dunno—not much—”

His mobile rang: Elin.

Robin turned her face away, toying with what looked like a pair of reading glasses on the table in front of her, but which actually contained the small camera with which she photographed Platinum’s movements. She had found this gadget exciting when Strike first handed it to her, but the thrill had long since worn off. She drank her tomato juice and stared out of the window, trying not to listen to what Strike and Elin were saying to each other. He always sounded matter-of-fact when on the phone to his girlfriend, but then, it was difficult to imagine Strike murmuring endearments to anyone. Matthew called her both “Robsy” and “Rosy-Posy” when he was in the right mood, which was not often these days.

“… at Nick and Ilsa’s,” Strike was saying. “Yeah. No, I agree… yeah… all right… you too.”

He cut the call.

“Is that where you’re going to stay?” Robin asked. “With Nick and Ilsa?”

They were two of Strike’s oldest friends. She had met and liked both of them on a couple of visits to the office.

“Yeah, they say I can stay as long as I want.”

“Why not with Elin?” asked Robin, risking rebuff, because she was perfectly aware of the line Strike preferred to maintain between his personal and professional lives.

“Wouldn’t work,” he said. He didn’t seem annoyed that she had asked, but showed no inclination to elaborate. “I forgot,” he added, glancing back across the street to the Japanese Canteen. The table where the man in camouflage jacket and shades had sat was now unoccupied. “I got you this.”

It was a rape alarm.

“I’ve already got one,” said Robin, pulling it out of her coat pocket and showing him.

“Yeah, but this one’s better,” said Strike, showing her its features. “You want an alarm of at least 120 decibels and it sprays them with indelible red stuff.”

“Mine does 140 decibels.”

“I still think this one’s better.”

“Is this the usual bloke thing of thinking any gadget you’ve chosen must be superior to anything I’ve got?”

He laughed and drained his pint.

“I’ll see you later.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m meeting Shanker.”

The name was unfamiliar to her.

“The bloke who sometimes gives me tip-offs I can barter with the Met,” Strike explained. “The bloke who told me who’d stabbed that police informer, remember? Who recommended me as a heavy to that gangster?”

“Oh,” said Robin. “Him. You’ve never told me what he was called.”

“Shanker’s my best chance for finding out where Whittaker is,” said Strike. “He might have some information on Digger Malley as well. He runs with some of the same crowd.”

He squinted across the road.

“Keep an eye out for that camouflage jacket.”