He put the receiver down on Strike’s thanks, and the detective returned to his can of Tennent’s and his contemplation of modern daywear, as envisaged by Guy Somé, in particular a hooded zip-up jacket with a stylised GS in gold on the upper left-hand side. The logo was much in evidence on all the ready-to-wear clothing in the menswear section of the designer’s website. Strike was not entirely clear on the definition of ‘ready-to-wear’; it seemed a statement of the obvious, though whatever else the phrase might connote, it meant ‘cheaper’. The second section of the site, named simply ‘Guy Somé’, contained clothing that routinely ran into thousands of pounds. Despite Robin’s best endeavours, the designer of these maroon suits, these narrow knitted ties, these minidresses embroidered with mirror fragments, these leather fedoras, was continuing to turn a corporate deaf ear to all requests for an interview concerning the death of his favourite model.

4

You think i wont fucking hurt you but your wrong you cunt I am comming for you I fucking trusted you and you did this to me. I am going to pull your fucking dick off and stuff it down yor throat They will find you chocking on your own dick When ive finish with you your own mother wont no you i am going to fucking kill you Strike you peice of shit

‘It’s a nice day out there.’

‘Will you please read this? Please?’

It was Monday morning, and Strike had just returned from a smoke in the sunny street and a chat with the girl from the record shop opposite. Robin’s hair was loose again; she obviously had no more interviews today. This deduction, and the effects of sunlight after rain, combined to lift Strike’s spirits. Robin, however, looked strained, standing behind her desk and holding out a pink piece of paper embellished with the usual kittens.

‘Still at it, is he?’

Strike took the letter and read it through, grinning.

‘I don’t understand why you aren’t going to the police,’ said Robin. ‘The things he’s saying he wants to do to you…’

‘Just file it,’ said Strike dismissively, tossing the letter down and rifling through the rest of the paltry pile of mail.

‘Yes, well, that’s not all,’ said Robin, clearly annoyed by his attitude. ‘Temporary Solutions have just called.’

‘Yeah? What did they want?’

‘They asked for me,’ said Robin. ‘They obviously suspect I’m still here.’

‘And what did you say?’

‘I pretended to be somebody else.’

‘Quick thinking. Who?’

‘I said my name was Annabel.’

‘When asked to come up with a fake name on the spot, people usually choose one beginning with “A”, did you know that?’

‘But what if they send somebody to check?’

‘Well?’

‘It’s you they’ll try and get money from, not me! They’ll try and make you pay a recruitment fee!’