The detective has placed an advertisement for the position online: “If you have a background in police or military investigative work and would like to pursue—

There were several more paragraphs, but Robin could not bear to read them. Instead, she looked at the byline, which was that of Dominic Culpepper, a journalist whom Strike knew personally. Possibly he had called Culpepper, who often badgered Strike for stories, and let him have this one, to make sure his need for a new assistant was disseminated as widely as possible.

Robin had not thought that she could feel any worse, but now she discovered that she had been mistaken. She really was sacked, after everything that she had done for him. She had been a disposable “Girl Friday,” an “assistant”—never a partner, never an equal—and now he was already looking for somebody with a background in the police or the military: somebody disciplined, someone who would take orders.

Rage gripped her; everything blurred, the hall, the newspaper, Matthew standing there trying to look sympathetic, and Robin had to physically resist the impulse to dive into the sitting room, where her mobile sat charging on a side table, and call Strike. She had thought of doing so many times in the last four days, but then it had been to ask—to beg—him to reconsider.

Not anymore. Now she wanted to shout at him, belittle him, accuse him of base ingratitude, hypocrisy, lack of honor—

Her burning eyes met Matthew’s and she saw, before he rearranged his expression, how delighted he was that Strike had put himself so dramatically in the wrong. Matthew, she could tell, had looked forward to showing her the newspaper. Her anguish was nothing compared to his ecstasy at her separation from Strike.

She turned away, heading for the kitchen, resolving that she would not shout at Matthew. If they rowed it would feel like a triumph for Strike. She refused to allow her ex-boss to sully her relationship with the man whom she had to—the man whom she wanted to marry in three days’ time. Clumsily dumping a saucepan of spaghetti into a colander, Robin spattered herself with boiling water and swore.

“Pasta again?” said Matthew.

“Yes,” said Robin coldly. “Is that a problem?”

“God, no,” said Matthew, approaching her from behind and putting his arms around her. “I love you,” he said into her hair.

“I love you too,” said Robin mechanically.

The Land Rover was packed with everything they would need for their stay up north, for the wedding night at Swinton Park Hotel and for their honeymoon “somewhere hot,” which was all that Robin knew about the destination. They set off at ten o’clock the following morning, both wearing T-shirts in the bright sunshine, and as Robin got into the car she remembered that misty morning in April when she had driven away, Matthew in hot pursuit, when she had been desperate to get away, to get to Strike.

She was a much better driver than Matthew, but when the two of them made a journey together, he always took the wheel. Matthew sang Daniel Bedingfield’s “Never Gonna Leave Your Side” as he turned onto the M1. An old song, it dated from the year that they had both started university.