Strike had put in many more hours on the case than his colleagues felt was merited, but finally, with Strike’s additional investigations into the matter to add weight, the dossier on his superiors’ activities that Barclay had compiled led to their conviction. The SIB took credit for it, of course, but Strike had made sure that accusations against Barclay were quietly laid to rest.

“When ye say ‘work,’” Barclay wondered aloud now, as the pub hummed and tinkled around them, “ye mean detective stuff?”

Strike could see that the idea appealed.

“Yeah,” said Strike. “What have you been doing since I last saw you?”

The answer was depressing, though not unexpected. Barclay had found it hard to get or keep a regular job in the first couple of years out of the army and had been doing a bit of painting and decorating for his brother-in-law’s company.

“The wife’s bringin’ in most o’ the money,” he said. “She’s got a good job.”

“OK,” said Strike, “I reckon I can give you a couple of days a week for starters. You’ll bill me as a freelancer. If it doesn’t work out, either of us can walk away at any time. Sound fair?”

“Aye,” said Barclay, “aye, fair enough. What are you paying, like?”

They discussed money for five minutes. Strike explained how his other employees set themselves up as private contractors and how receipts and other professional expenses should be brought into the office for reimbursement. Finally he opened the file and slid it around to show Barclay the contents.

“I need this guy followed,” he said, pointing out a photograph of a chubby youth with thick curly hair. “Pictures of whoever he’s with and what he’s up to.”

“Aye, all right,” said Barclay, getting out his mobile and taking pictures of the target’s photograph and address.

“He’s being watched today by my other guy,” said Strike, “but I need you outside his flat from six o’clock tomorrow morning.”

He was pleased to note that Barclay did not query the early start.

“Whut happened to that lassie, though?” Barclay inquired as he put his phone back into his pocket. “The one who was in the papers with ye?”

“Robin?” said Strike. “She’s on holiday. Back next week.”

They parted with a handshake, Strike enjoying a moment’s fleeting optimism before remembering that he would now have to return to the office, which meant proximity to Denise, with her parrot-like chatter, her habit of talking with her mouth full and her inability to remember that he detested pale, milky tea.

He had to pick his way through the ever-present roadworks at the top of Tottenham Court Road to get back to his office. Waiting until he was past the noisiest stretch, he called Robin to tell her that he had hired Barclay, but his call went straight to voicemail. Remembering that she was supposed to be at the mysterious clinic right now, he cut the call without leaving a message.

Walking on, a sudden thought occurred to him. He had assumed that the clinic related to Robin’s mental health, but what if—?

The phone in his hand rang: the office number.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Strike?” said Denise’s terrified squawk in his ear. “Mr. Strike, could you come back quickly, please? Please—there’s a gentleman—he wants to see you very urgently—”

Behind her, Strike heard a loud bang and a man shouting.

“Please come back as soon as you can!” screamed Denise.

“On my way!” Strike shouted and he broke into an ungainly run.

2

… he doesn’t look the sort of man one ought to allow in here.

Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm

Panting, his right knee aching, Strike used the handrail to pull himself up the last few steps of the metal staircase leading to his office. Two raised voices were reverberating through the glass door, one male, the other shrill, frightened and female. When Strike burst into the room, Denise, who was backed against the wall, gasped, “Oh, thank God!”

Strike judged the man in the middle of the room to be in his mid-twenties. Dark hair fell in straggly wisps around a thin and dirty face that was dominated by burning, sunken eyes. His T-shirt, jeans and hoodie were all torn and filthy, the sole of one of his trainers peeling away from the leather. An unwashed animal stench hit the detective’s nostrils.

That the stranger was mentally ill could be in no doubt. Every ten seconds or so, in what seemed to be an uncontrollable tic, he touched first the end of his nose, which had grown red with repeated tapping, then, with a faint hollow thud, the middle of his thin sternum, then let his hand drop to his side. Almost immediately, his hand would fly to the tip of his nose again. It was as though he had forgotten how to cross himself, or had simplified the action for speed’s sake. Nose, chest, hand at his side; nose, chest, hand at his side; the mechanical movement was distressing to watch, and the more so as he seemed barely conscious that he was doing it. He was one of those ill and desperate people you saw in the capital who were always somebody else’s problem, like the traveler on the Tube everybody tried to avoid making eye contact with and the ranting woman on the street corner whom people crossed the street to avoid, fragments of shattered humanity who were too common to trouble the imagination for long.

“You him?” said the burning-eyed man, as his hand touched nose and chest again. “You Strike? You the detective?”

With the hand that was not constantly flying from nose to chest, he suddenly tugged at his flies. Denise whimpered, as if scared he might suddenly expose himself, and, indeed, it seemed entirely possible.

“I’m Strike, yeah,” said the detective, moving around to place himself between the stranger and the temp. “You OK, Denise?”

“Yes,” she whispered, still backed against the wall.

“I seen a kid killed,” said the stranger. “Strangled.”

“OK,” said Strike, matter-of-factly. “Why don’t we go in here?”

He gestured to him that he should proceed into the inner office.

“I need a piss!” said the man, tugging at his zip.

“This way, then.”

Strike showed him the door to the toilet just outside the office. When the door had banged shut behind him, Strike returned quietly to Denise.

“What happened?”

“He wanted to see you, I said you weren’t here and he got angry and started punching things!”

“Call the police,” said Strike quietly. “Tell them we’ve got a very ill man here. Possibly psychotic. Wait until I’ve got him into my office, though.”

The bathroom door banged open. The stranger’s flies were gaping. He did not seem to be wearing underpants. Denise whimpered again as he frantically touched nose and chest, nose and chest, unaware of the large patch of dark pubic hair he was exposing.

“This way,” said Strike pleasantly. The man shuffled through the inner door, the stench of him doubly potent after a brief respite.

On being invited to sit down, the stranger perched himself on the edge of the client’s chair.

“What’s your name?” Strike asked, sitting down on the other side of the desk.