‘No, of course not,’ said Strike. ‘The papers haven’t got it yet, but the police found Rochelle’s mobile phone in his mother’s safe. He didn’t dare get rid of it. He’d reset the code of the safe so that no one could get in but him: 030483. Easter Sunday, nineteen eighty-three: the day he killed my mate Charlie.’

It was Robin’s last day. Strike had invited her to come with him to meet Jonah Agyeman, whom she had done so much to find, but she had refused. Strike had the feeling that she was deliberately withdrawing from the case, from the work, from him. He had an appointment at the Amputee Centre at Queen Mary’s Hospital that afternoon; she would be gone by the time he returned from Roehampton. Matthew was taking her to Yorkshire for the weekend.

As Strike limped back to the office through the continuing chaos of the building work, he wondered whether he would ever see his temporary secretary again after today, and doubted it. Not so very long ago, the impermanence of their arrangement had been the only thing that reconciled him to her presence, but now he knew that he would miss her. She had come with him in the taxi to the hospital, and wrapped her trench coat around his bleeding arm.

The explosion of publicity around Bristow’s arrest had done Strike’s business no harm at all. He might even genuinely need a secretary before long; and indeed, as he made his way painfully up the stairs to his office, he heard Robin’s voice on the telephone.

‘… an appointment for Tuesday, I’m afraid, because Mr Strike’s busy all day Monday… Yes… absolutely… I’ll put you down for eleven o’clock, then. Yes. Thank you. Goodbye.’

She swung around on her swivel chair as Strike entered.

‘What was Jonah like?’ she demanded.

‘Nice guy,’ said Strike, lowering himself into the collapsed sofa. ‘Situation’s doing his head in. But the alternative was Bristow winding up with ten mill, so he’ll have to cope.’

‘Three prospective clients phoned while you were out,’ she said, ‘but I’m a bit worried about that last one. He could be another journalist. He was much more interested in discussing you than his own problem.’

There had been quite a few such calls. The press had seized with glee upon a story that had angles aplenty, and everything they loved best. Strike himself had featured heavily in the coverage. The photograph they had used most, and he was glad of it, was ten years old and had been taken while he was still a Red Cap; but they had also dug out the picture of the rock star, his wife and the supergroupie.