There was a Travelodge in High Holborn. That would have to do. She felt slightly calmer for knowing where she was going to spend the night. Careful not to make eye contact with any of the men at the bar, she went up to get a second glass of wine. Perhaps she ought to call her mother, she thought suddenly, but the prospect made her feel tearful all over again. She could not face Linda’s love and disappointment, not yet.

A large figure in a beanie hat entered the pub, but Robin was keeping her attention determinedly on her change and her wine, giving none of the hopeful men lurking at the bar the slightest reason to suppose that she wanted any of them to join her.

The second glass of wine made her feel much more relaxed. She remembered how Strike had got so drunk here, in this very pub, that he could barely walk. That had been the only night that he had ever shared personal information. Maybe that was the real reason she had been drawn here, she thought, raising her eyes to the colorful glass cupola overhead. This was the bar where you went to drink when you found out that the person you loved was unfaithful.

“You alone?” said a man’s voice.

“Waiting for someone,” she said.

He was slightly blurred when she looked up at him, a wiry blond man with bleached blue eyes, and she could tell that he did not believe her.

“Can I wait with you?”

“No, you fucking can’t,” said another, familiar voice.

Strike had arrived, massive, scowling, glaring at the stranger, who retreated with ill grace to a couple of friends at the bar.

“What are you doing here?” asked Robin, surprised to find that her tongue felt numb and thick after two glasses of wine.

“Looking for you,” said Strike.

“How did you know I was—?”

“I’m a detective. How many of those have you had?” he asked, looking down at her wineglass.

“Only one,” she lied, so he went to the bar for another, and a pint of Doom Bar for himself. As he ordered, a large man in a beanie hat ducked out of the door, but Strike was more interested in keeping an eye on the blond man who was still staring over at Robin and only seemed to give up on her once Strike reappeared, glowering, with two drinks and sat down opposite her.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t give me that. You look like bloody death.”

“Well,” said Robin, taking a large slurp of wine, “consider my morale boosted.”

Strike gave a short laugh.

“Why have you got a holdall with you?” When she did not answer, he said, “Where’s your engagement ring?”

She opened her mouth to answer but a treacherous desire to cry rose to drown the words. After a short inner struggle and another gulp of wine she said:

“I’m not engaged anymore.”

“Why not?”

“This is rich, coming from you.”