‘I know I’m early,’ said Mrs Hook, for the third time, taking ineffectual little sips of boiling tea. ‘I haven’t seen you before, are you new?’

‘I’m temporary,’ said Robin.

‘As I expect you’ve guessed, it’s my husband,’ said Mrs Hook, not listening. ‘I suppose you see women like me all the time, don’t you? Wanting to know the worst. I dithered for ages and ages. But it’s best to know, isn’t it? Best to know. I thought Cormoran would be here. Is he out on another case?’

‘That’s right,’ said Robin, who suspected that Strike was actually doing something related to his mysterious personal life; there had been a caginess about him as he had told her he would be late.

‘Do you know who his father is?’ asked Mrs Hook.

‘No, I don’t,’ said Robin, thinking that they were talking about the poor woman’s husband.

‘Jonny Rokeby,’ said Mrs Hook, with a kind of dramatic relish.

‘Jonny Roke—’

Robin caught her breath, realising simultaneously that Mrs Hook meant Strike, and that Strike’s massive frame was looming up outside the glass door. She could see that he was carrying something very large.

‘Just one moment, Mrs Hook,’ she said.

‘What?’ asked Strike, peering around the edge of the cardboard box, as Robin darted out of the glass door and closed it behind her.

‘Mrs Hook’s here,’ she whispered.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. She’s an hour early.’

‘I know. I thought you might want to, um, organise your office a bit before you take her in there.’

Strike eased the cardboard box on to the metal floor.

‘I’ve got to bring these in off the street,’ he said.

‘I’ll help,’ offered Robin.

‘No, you go and make polite conversation. She’s taking a pottery class and she thinks her husband’s sleeping with his accountant.’

Strike limped off down the stairs, leaving the box beside the glass door.

Jonny Rokeby; could it be true?

‘He’s on his way, just coming,’ Robin told Mrs Hook brightly, resettling herself at her desk. ‘Mr Strike told me you do pottery. I’ve always wanted to try…’

For five minutes, Robin barely listened to the exploits of the pottery class, and the sweetly understanding young man who taught them. Then the glass door opened and Strike entered, unencumbered by boxes and smiling politely at Mrs Hook, who jumped up to greet him.

‘Oh, Cormoran, your eye!’ she said. ‘Has somebody punched you?’

‘No,’ said Strike. ‘If you’ll give me a moment, Mrs Hook, I’ll get out your file.’

‘I know I’m early, Cormoran, and I’m awfully sorry… I couldn’t sleep at all last night…’

‘Let me take your cup, Mrs Hook,’ said Robin, and she successfully distracted the client from glimpsing, in the seconds it took Strike to slip through the inner door, the camp bed, the sleeping bag and the kettle.

A few minutes later, Strike re-emerged on a waft of artificial limes, and Mrs Hook vanished, with a terrified look at Robin, into his office. The door closed behind them.