‘That’s fine, Robin, yeah,’ he said.

‘Nice to meet you, Lucy,’ Robin said, and with a wave she disappeared, closing the glass door behind her.

‘I really like her,’ said Lucy enthusiastically, as Robin’s footsteps clanged away. ‘She’s great. You should try and get her to stay on permanently.’

‘Yeah, she’s good,’ said Strike. ‘What were you two having such a laugh about?’

‘Oh, her fiancé – he sounds a bit like Greg. Robin says you’ve got an important case on. It’s all right. She was very discreet. She says it’s a suspicious suicide. That can’t be very nice.’

She gave him a meaningful look he chose not to understand.

‘It’s not the first time. I had a couple of those in the army, too.’

But he doubted that Lucy was listening. She had taken a deep breath. He knew what was coming.

‘Stick, have you and Charlotte split up?’

Better get it over with.

‘Yeah, we have.’

‘Stick!’

‘It’s fine, Luce. I’m fine.’

But her good humour had been obliterated in a great gush of fury and disappointment. Strike waited patiently, exhausted and sore, while she raged: she had known all along, known that Charlotte would do it all over again; she had lured him away from Tracey, and from his fantastic army career, rendered him as insecure as possible, persuaded him to move in, only to dump him—

‘I ended it, Luce,’ he said, ‘and Tracey and I were over before…’ but he might as well have commanded lava to flow backwards: why hadn’t he realised that Charlotte would never change, that she had only returned to him for the drama of the situation, attracted by his injury and his medal? The bitch had played the ministering angel and then got bored; she was dangerous and wicked; measuring her own worth in the havoc she caused, glorying in the pain she inflicted…

‘I left her, it was my choice…’

‘Where have you been living? When did this happen? That absolute bloody bitch – no, I’m sorry, Stick, I’m not going to pretend any more – all the years and years of shit she’s put you through – oh God, Stick, why didn’t you marry Tracey?’

‘Luce, let’s not do this, please.’

He moved aside some of her John Lewis bags, full, he saw, of small pants and socks for her sons, and sat down heavily on the sofa. He knew he looked grubby and scruffy. Lucy seemed on the verge of tears; her day out in town was ruined.

‘I suppose you haven’t told me because you knew I’d do this?’ she said at last, gulping.

‘It might’ve been a consideration.’

‘All right, I’m sorry,’ she said furiously, her eyes shining with tears. ‘But that bitch, Stick. Oh God, tell me you’re never going to go back to her. Please just tell me that.’