The doctors and police finally decided that they needed nothing more from Strike at five o’clock in the morning. He refused the policemen’s offer of a lift, which he suspected was made partly to keep tabs on him as long as they could.

“We wouldn’t want this to get out before we’ve had a chance to speak to the families,” said the younger officer, whose white-blond hair stood out in the drab dawn on the forecourt where the three men were taking leave of one another.

“I’m not going to the press,” said Strike, yawning widely as he felt in his pockets for his remaining cigarettes. “I’ve got other stuff to do today.”

He had begun to walk away when a thought occurred to him.

“What was the church connection? Brockbank—what made Carver think it was him?”

“Oh,” said the mustached officer. He did not seem particularly eager to share the information. “There was a youth worker who’d transferred from Finchley to Brixton… didn’t lead anywhere, but,” he added, with an air of faint defiance, “we’ve got him. Brockbank. Got a tip-off from a homeless hostel yesterday.”

“Nice one,” said Strike. “Press love a pedophile. I’d lead with that when you talk to them.”

Neither officer smiled. Strike bade them good morning and left, wondering whether he had any money on him for a taxi, smoking left-handed because the local anesthetic was wearing off in his right hand, his broken nose stinging in the cool morning air.

“Fuckin’ Yorkshire?” Shanker said over the phone when he called to tell Strike he had a car and the detective had told him where he wanted to go. “Yorkshire?”

“Masham,” Strike had replied. “Look, I’ve already told you: I’ll pay you anything you like when I get the money. It’s a wedding and I don’t want to miss it. Time’s going to be tight as it is—anything you like, Shanker, you’ve got my word on it, and I’ll pay you when I can.”

“’Oo’s gettin’ married?”

“Robin,” said Strike.

“Ah,” said Shanker. He had sounded pleased. “Yeah, well, in that case, Bunsen, I’ll drive ya. I toldja you shouldn’t’ve—”

“—yeah—”

“—Alyssa toldja—”

“Yeah, she did, bloody loudly too.”

Strike had a strong suspicion that Shanker was now sleeping with Alyssa. He could think of few other explanations for the speed with which he had suggested her when Strike had explained the need for a woman to play a safe but essential part in the entrapment of Donald Laing. She had demanded a hundred pounds for doing the job and had assured Strike that it would have been considerably more had she not considered herself deep in his partner’s debt.

“Shanker, we can talk about all this on the way. I need food and a shower. We’re going to be bloody lucky to make it.”

So here they were, speeding north in the Mercedes Shanker had borrowed; from where, Strike did not inquire. The detective, who had had barely any sleep in the previous couple of nights, dozed for the first sixty miles, waking with a snort only when his mobile buzzed in his suit pocket.