It was not true: the desire had long predated the rape. At the age of eight she had informed her brothers that she was going to catch robbers and had been roundly mocked, for no better reason than that she ought to be laughed at, given that she was a girl and their sister. Though Robin hoped that their response was not a true reflection of their estimate of her abilities, but based on a kind of collegiate male reflex, it had left her diffident about expressing her interest in detective work to three loud, opinionated brothers. She had never told anyone that she had chosen to study psychology with a secret eye towards investigative profiling.

Her pursuit of that goal had been utterly thwarted by the rapist. That was another thing he had taken from her. Asserting her ambition while recuperating from a state of intense fragility, at a time when everyone around her appeared to be waiting for her to fall apart again, had proved too difficult. Out of exhaustion and a feeling of obligation to the family that had been so protective and loving in her time of greatest need she had let a lifelong ambition fall by the wayside, and everyone else had been satisfied to see it go.

Then a temping agency had sent her by mistake to a private detective. She should have been there a week, but she had never left. It had felt like a miracle. Somehow, by luck, then through talent and tenacity, she had made herself valuable to the struggling Strike and ended up almost exactly where she had fantasized being before a total stranger had used her for his perverse enjoyment like a disposable, inanimate object, then beaten and throttled her.

Why, why, had she told Strike what had happened to her? He had been worried about her before she revealed her history: now what? He would decide she was too fragile to work, Robin was sure of it, and from there it would be a swift, short step to the sidelines, because she was unable to take on all the responsibilities he needed a workmate to shoulder.

The calm Georgian room’s silence and solidity was oppressive.

Robin struggled out from under the heavy covers and crossed the sloping wooden floorboards to a bathroom with a claw-footed bath and no shower. Fifteen minutes later, as she was dressing, her mobile, which she had mercifully remembered to charge the previous night, rang on the dressing table.

“Hi,” said Strike. “How are you?”

“Fine,” she said, her voice brittle.

He had called to tell her not to come in, she knew it.

“Wardle’s just phoned. They’ve found the rest of the body.”

Robin sat down hard on the needlepoint stool, both hands clutching the mobile to her ear.

“What? Where? Who is she?”

“Tell you when I pick you up. They want to talk to us. I’ll be outside at nine. Make sure you eat something,” he added.

“Cormoran!” she said, to stop him hanging up.