“Who was that man?” asked Robin sleepily, after they had walked a hundred yards in silence.

“Which man?”

“That man this morning… I thought he might be the leg man… he scared the hell out of me.”

“Ah… that’s Shanker. He’s an old friend.”

“He’s terrifying.”

“Shanker wouldn’t hurt you,” Strike assured her. Then, as an afterthought: “But don’t ever leave him alone in the office.”

“Why not?”

“He’ll nick anything that’s not nailed down. He does nothing for nothing.”

“Where did you meet him?”

The story of Shanker and Leda took them all the way to Frith Street, where quiet town houses looked down upon them, exuding dignity and order.

“Here?” said Robin, gazing open-mouthed up at Hazlitt’s Hotel. “I can’t stay here—this’ll be expensive!”

“I’m paying,” said Strike. “Think of it as this year’s bonus. No arguments,” he added, as the door opened and a smiling young man stood back to let them in. “It’s my fault you need somewhere safe.”

The wood-paneled hall was cozy, with the feeling of a private house. There was only one way in and nobody could open the front door from outside.

When he had given the young man his credit card Strike saw the unsteady Robin to the foot of the stairs.

“You can take tomorrow morning off if you—”

“I’ll be there at nine,” she said. “Cormoran, thanks for—for—”

“Not a problem. Sleep well.”

Frith Street was quiet as he closed the Hazlitt’s door behind him. Strike set off, his hands deep in his pockets, lost in thought.

She had been raped and left for dead. Holy shit.

Eight days previously some bastard had handed her a woman’s severed leg and she had not breathed a word of her past, not asked for special dispensation to take time off, nor deviated in any respect from the total professionalism she brought to work every morning. It was he, without even knowing her history, who had insisted on the best rape alarm, on nothing after dark, on checking in with her regularly through the working day…

At the precise moment Strike became aware that he was walking away from Denmark Street rather than towards it, he spotted a man in a beanie hat twenty yards away, skulking on the corner of Soho Square. The amber tip of the cigarette swiftly vanished as the man turned and began to walk hurriedly away.

“’Scuse me, mate!”

Strike’s voice echoed through the quiet square as he sped up. The man in the hat did not look back, but broke into a run.

“Oi! Mate!”

Strike, too, began to run, his knee protesting with every jolting step. His quarry looked back once then took a sharp left, Strike moving as fast as he could in pursuit. Entering Carlisle Street, Strike squinted ahead at the crowd clustered around the entrance of the Toucan, wondering whether his man had joined it. Panting, he ran on past the pub drinkers, drawing up at the junction with Dean Street and revolving on the spot, looking for his quarry. He had a choice of taking a left, a right or continuing along Carlisle Street, and each offered a multitude of doorways and basement spaces in which the man in the beanie hat could have hidden, assuming he had not hailed a passing cab.