But he had a job, he kept reminding himself; a paid job. Arsenal beat Spurs, and Strike was cheered; he turned off the television and, defying the spectre, moved straight to his desk and resumed work.

At liberty, now, to collect and collate evidence in whatever way he chose, Strike continued to conform to the protocols of the Criminal Procedure and Investigation Act. The fact that he believed himself to be hunting a figment of John Bristow’s disturbed imagination made no difference to the thoroughness and accuracy with which he now wrote up the notes he had made during his interviews with Bristow, Wilson and Kolovas-Jones.

Lucy telephoned him at six in the evening, while he was hard at work. Though his sister was younger than Strike by two years, she seemed to feel herself older. Weighed down, young, by a mortgage, a stolid husband, three children and an onerous job, Lucy seemed to crave responsibility, as though she could never have enough anchors. Strike had always suspected that she wanted to prove to herself and the world that she was nothing like their fly-by-night mother, who had dragged the two of them all over the country, from school to school, house to squat to camp, in pursuit of the next enthusiasm or man. Lucy was the only one of his eight half-siblings with whom Strike had shared a childhood; he was fonder of her than of almost anyone else in his life, and yet their interactions were often unsatisfactory, laden with familiar anxieties and arguments. Lucy could not disguise the fact that her brother worried and disappointed her. In consequence, Strike was less inclined to be honest with her about his present situation than he would have been with many a friend.

‘Yeah, it’s going great,’ he told her, smoking at the open window, watching people drift in and out of the shops below. ‘Business has doubled lately.’

‘Where are you? I can hear traffic.’

‘At the office. I’ve got paperwork to do.’

‘On Saturday? How does Charlotte feel about that?’

‘She’s away; she’s gone to visit her mother.’

‘How are things going between you?’

‘Great,’ he said.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah, I’m sure. How’s Greg?’

She gave him a brief precis of her husband’s workload, then returned to the attack.

‘Is Gillespie still on your back for repayment?’

‘No.’

‘Because you know what, Stick’ – the childhood nickname boded ill: she was trying to soften him up – ‘I’ve been looking into this, and you could apply to the British Legion for—’

‘Fucking hell, Lucy,’ he said, before he could stop himself.

‘What?’

The hurt and indignation in her voice were only too familiar: he closed his eyes.

‘I don’t need help from the British Legion, Luce, all right?’

‘There’s no need to be so proud…⁠’

‘How are the boys?’

‘They’re fine. Look, Stick, I just think it’s outrageous that Rokeby’s getting his lawyer to hassle you, when he’s never given you a penny in his life. He ought to have made it a gift, seeing what you’ve been through and how much he’s—’