‘I borrowed them all from Mr Crowdy. I told him we’d return them by lunchtime.’

‘Mr who?’

‘Mr Crowdy, the man downstairs. The graphic designer.’

‘And he just let you have them?’

‘Yes,’ she said, a little defensively. ‘I thought, having offered the client coffee, we ought to provide it.’

Her use of the plural pronoun was like a gentle pat to his morale.

‘Well, that was efficiency way beyond anything Temporary Solutions has sent here before, take it from me. Sorry I kept calling you Sandra; she was the last girl. What’s your real name?’

‘Robin.’

‘Robin,’ he repeated. ‘That’ll be easy to remember.’

He had some notion of making a jocular allusion to Batman and his dependable sidekick, but the feeble jest died on his lips as her face turned brilliantly pink. Too late, he realised that the most unfortunate construction could be put on his innocent words. Robin swung the swivel chair back towards the computer monitor, so that all Strike could see was an edge of a flaming cheek. In one frozen moment of mutual mortification, the room seemed to have shrunk to the size of a telephone kiosk.

‘I’m going to nip out for a bit,’ said Strike, putting down his virtually untouched coffee and moving crabwise towards the door, taking down the overcoat hanging beside it. ‘If anyone calls…’

‘Mr Strike – before you go, I think you ought to see this.’

Still flushed, Robin took, from on top of the pile of opened letters beside her computer, a sheet of bright pink writing paper and a matching envelope, both of which she had put into a clear plastic pocket. Strike noticed her engagement ring as she held the things up.

‘It’s a death threat,’ she said.

‘Oh yeah,’ said Strike. ‘Nothing to worry about. They come in about once a week.’

‘But—⁠’

‘It’s a disgruntled ex-client. Bit unhinged. He thinks he’s throwing me off the scent by using that paper.’

‘Surely, though – shouldn’t the police see it?’

‘Give them a laugh, you mean?’

‘It isn’t funny, it’s a death threat!’ she said, and Strike realised why she had placed it, with its envelope, in the plastic pocket. He was mildly touched.

‘Just file it with the others,’ he said, pointing towards the filing cabinets in the corner. ‘If he was going to kill me he’d have made his move before now. You’ll find six months’ worth of letters in there somewhere. Will you be all right to hold the fort for a bit while I’m out?’

‘I’ll cope,’ she said, and he was amused by the sour note in her voice, and her obvious disappointment that nobody was going to fingerprint the be-kittened death threat.

‘If you need me, my mobile number’s on the cards in the top drawer.’

‘Fine,’ she said, looking at neither the drawer nor him.

‘If you want to go out for lunch, feel free. There’s a spare key in the desk somewhere.’

‘OK.’

‘See you later, then.’