The rain in Cornwall had a different quality, when it came: Strike remembered how it had lashed like whips against the panes of Aunt Joan and Uncle Ted’s spare room, during those months in the neat little house that smelled of flowers and baking, while he had attended the village school in St Mawes. Such memories swam to the forefront of his mind whenever he was about to see Lucy.

Raindrops were still dancing exuberantly on the windowsills on Friday afternoon, while at opposite ends of her desk, Robin wrapped Jack’s new paratrooper doll, and Strike wrote her a cheque to the amount of a week’s work, minus the commission of Temporary Solutions. Robin was about to attend the third of that week’s ‘proper’ interviews, and was looking neat and groomed in her black suit, with her bright gold hair pinned back in a chignon.

‘There you are,’ they both said simultaneously, as Robin pushed across the desk a perfect parcel patterned with small spaceships, and Strike held out the cheque.

‘Cheers,’ said Strike, taking the present. ‘I can’t wrap.’

‘I hope he likes it,’ she replied, tucking the cheque away in her black handbag.

‘Yeah. And good luck with the interview. D’you want the job?’

‘Well, it’s quite a good one. Human resources in a media consultancy in the West End,’ she said, sounding unenthusiastic. ‘Enjoy the party. I’ll see you Monday.’

The self-imposed penance of walking down into Denmark Street to smoke became even more irksome in the ceaseless rain. Strike stood, minimally shielded beneath the overhang of his office entrance, and asked himself when he was going to kick the habit and set to work to restore the fitness that had slipped away along with his solvency and his domestic comfort. His mobile rang while he stood there.

‘Thought you might like to know your tip-off’s paid dividends,’ said Eric Wardle, who sounded triumphant. Strike could hear engine noise and the sound of men talking in the background.

‘Quick work,’ commented Strike.

‘Yeah, well, we don’t hang around.’

‘Does this mean I’m going to get what I was after?’

‘That’s what I’m calling about. It’s a bit late today, but I’ll bike it over Monday.’

‘Sooner rather than later suits me. I can hang on here at the office.’

Wardle laughed a little offensively.

‘You get paid by the hour, don’t you? I’d’ve thought it suited you to string it out a bit.’

‘Tonight would be better. If you can get it here this evening, I’ll make sure you’re the first to know if my old mate drops any more tip-offs.’

In the slight pause that followed, Strike heard one of the men in the car with Wardle say:

‘… Fearney’s fucking face…⁠’

‘Yeah, all right,’ said Wardle. ‘I’ll get it over later. Might not be till seven. Will you still be there?’