“’S’up?” he said. He repeatedly clicked the fingers of both hands hanging at his sides as he moved into the room. Click, click, click. “You all alone, yeah?”

“No,” she said, her mouth completely dry. She wanted to grab the letter-opener before he came any closer. Click, click, click. “My boss is just—”

“Shanker!” said Strike’s voice from the doorway.

The stranger turned.

“Bunsen,” he said and stopped clicking his fingers, held out a hand and gave Strike a dap greeting. “’Ow you doin’, bruv?”

Dear God, thought Robin, limp with relief. Why hadn’t Strike told her that the man was coming? She turned away, busying herself with email so that Strike would not see her face. As Strike led Shanker into the inner office and closed the door behind them, she caught the word “Whittaker.”

Ordinarily she would have wished that she could be in there, listening. She finished her email and supposed that she ought to offer them coffee. First she went to splash more cold water on her face in the tiny bathroom on the landing, which retained a strong smell of drains no matter how many air-fresheners she bought out of petty cash.

Strike, meanwhile, had seen just enough of Robin to be shocked by her appearance. He had never seen her face so pale, nor her eyes so puffy and bloodshot. Even as he sat down at his desk, eager to hear what information on Whittaker Shanker had brought to his office, the thought crossed his mind: What’s the bastard done to her? And for a fraction of a second, before fixing all his attention on Shanker, Strike imagined punching Matthew and enjoying it.

“Why you lookin’ so ugly, Bunsen?” asked Shanker, stretching himself out in the chair opposite and clicking his fingers enthusiastically. He had had the tic since his teens and Strike pitied the person who would try to make him stop.

“Knackered,” said Strike. “Got back from Scotland a couple of hours ago.”

“Never been to Scotland,” said Shanker.

Strike was not aware that Shanker had ever been out of London in his life.

“So what’ve you got for me?”

“’E’s still around,” said Shanker, ceasing his finger-clicking to pull a pack of Mayfairs out of his pocket. He lit one with a cheap lighter without asking whether Strike minded. With a mental shrug, Strike took out his own Benson & Hedges and borrowed the lighter. “Seen ’is dealer. Geezer says ’e’s in Catford.”

“He’s left Hackney?”

“Unless ’e’s left a clone of ’imself behind ’e musta done, Bunsen. I didn’t check for clones. Gimme another ton an’ I’ll go see.”

Strike gave a short snort of amusement. People underestimated Shanker at their peril. Given that he looked as though he had done every kind of illegal substance in his time, his restlessness often misled acquaintances into assuming he was on something. In fact, he was sharper and soberer than many a businessman at the end of their working day, if incurably criminal.