I’m drunk, she thought, as though watching herself from outside her own body. Look at me. I’m drunk on two and a half glasses of wine, no food and no sleep.

“What’s rich?” asked Strike, confused.

“We don’t talk about personal… you don’t talk about personal stuff.”

“I seem to remember spilling my guts all over you in this very pub.”

“Once,” said Robin.

Strike deduced from her pink cheeks and her thickened speech that she was not on her second glass of wine. Both amused and concerned, he said:

“I think you need something to eat.”

“That’s ’zacktly what I said to you,” Robin replied, “that night when you were… and we ended up having a kebab—and I do not,” she said with dignity, “want a kebab.”

“Well,” said Strike, “y’know, it’s London. We can probably find you something that isn’t a kebab.”

“I like crisps,” said Robin, so he bought her some.

“What’s going on?” he repeated on his return. After a few seconds of watching her attempting to open the crisps he took them from her to do it himself.

“Nothing. I’m going to sleep in a Travelodge tonight, that’s all.”

“A Travelodge.”

“Yeah. There’s one in… there’s one…”

She looked down at her dead mobile and realized that she had forgotten to charge it the previous night.

“I can’t remember where it is,” she said. “Just leave me, I’m fine,” she added, groping in her holdall for something to blow her nose on.

“Yeah,” he said heavily, “I’m totally reassured now I’ve seen you.”

“I am fine,” she said fiercely. “I’ll be at work as usual tomorrow, you wait and see.”

“You think I came to find you because I’m worried about work?”

“Don’t be nice!” she groaned, burying her face in her tissues. “I can’t take it! Be normal!”

“What’s normal?” he asked, confused.

“G-grumpy and uncommunic—uncommunica—”

“What do you want to communicate about?”

“Nothing in particular,” she lied. “I just thought… keep things profess’nal.”

“What’s happened between you and Matthew?”

“What’s happening b’tween you and Elin?” she countered.

“How’s that important?” he asked, nonplussed.

“Same thing,” she said vaguely, draining her third glass. “I’d like ’nother—”

“You’re having a soft drink this time.”

She examined the ceiling while waiting for him. There were theatrical scenes painted up there: Bottom cavorted with Titania amid a group of fairies.

“Things are going OK with Elin,” he told her when he sat back down, having decided that an exchange of information was the easiest way to make her talk about her own problems. “It suits me, keeping it low key. She’s got a daughter she doesn’t want me getting too close to. Messy divorce.”

“Oh,” said Robin, blinking at him over her glass of Coke. “How did you meet her?”

“Through Nick and Ilsa.”

“How do they know her?”

“They don’t. They had a party and she came along with her brother. He’s a doctor, works with Nick. They hadn’t ever met her before.”

“Oh,” said Robin again.