“Well, if he’s not worried, he should be,” said Linda. “Somebody sent you part of a dead woman, Robin. It’s not so long ago that Matt called us to say you were in hospital with concussion. I’m not telling you to resign!” she added, refusing to be cowed by Robin’s reproachful expression. “I know this is what you want! Anyway”—she forced the larger half of her Fat Rascal into Robin’s unresisting hand—“I wasn’t going to ask whether Matt was worried. I was going to ask whether he was jealous.”

Robin sipped her strong Bettys Blend tea. Vaguely she contemplated taking some of these tea bags back to the office. There was nothing as good as this in Ealing Waitrose. Strike liked his tea strong.

“Yes, Matt’s jealous,” she said at last.

“I’m assuming he’s got no reason?”

“Of course not!” said Robin hotly. She felt betrayed. Her mother was always on her side, always—

“There’s no need to get fired up,” said Linda, unruffled. “I wasn’t suggesting you’d done anything you shouldn’t.”

“Well, good,” said Robin, eating the scone without noticing it. “Because I haven’t. He’s my boss, that’s all.”

“And your friend,” suggested Linda, “judging by the way you talk about him.”

“Yes,” said Robin, but honesty compelled her to add, “it’s not like a normal friendship, though.”

“Why not?”

“He doesn’t like talking about personal stuff. Blood out of a stone.”

Except for one notorious evening—barely mentioned between them since—when Strike had got so drunk he could hardly stand, voluntary information about his private life had been virtually nonexistent.

“You get on well, though?”

“Yeah, really well.”

“A lot of men find it hard to hear how well their other halves get on with other men.”

“What am I supposed to do, only ever work with women?”

“No,” said Linda. “I’m just saying: Matthew obviously feels threatened.”

Robin sometimes suspected that her mother regretted the fact that her daughter had not had more boyfriends before committing herself to Matthew. She and Linda were close; she was Linda’s only daughter. Now, with the tearoom clattering and tinkling around them, Robin realized that she was afraid that Linda might tell her it wasn’t too late to back out of the wedding if she wanted to. Tired and low though she was, and in spite of the fact that they had had several rocky months, she knew that she loved Matthew. The dress was made, the church was booked, the reception almost paid for. She must plow on, now, and get to the finishing line.

“I don’t fancy Strike. Anyway, he’s in a relationship: he’s seeing Elin Toft. She’s a presenter on Radio Three.”

She hoped that this information would distract her mother, an enthusiastic devourer of radio programs while cooking and gardening.

“Elin Toft? Is she that very beautiful blonde girl who was on the telly talking about Romantic composers the other night?” asked Linda.

“Probably,” said Robin, with a pronounced lack of enthusiasm, and in spite of the fact that her diversionary tactic had been successful, she changed the subject. “So you’re getting rid of the Land Rover?”