“She used to be a Liberal Democrat councilor from Northumberland,” said Robin, who had just read this on the Level Playing Field’s website.

“Child abuse,” said Chiswell suddenly. “That’s how I know her. Child abuse. She was on some committee. She’s a bloody crank about it, sees it everywhere. Course, it’s full of cranks, the Lib Dems. It’s where they congregate. Stuffed to the gunnels with oddballs.”

He stood up, leaving a smattering of dandruff behind him on the black leather, and paced up and down, frowning.

“All this charity stuff’s bound to come out sooner or later,” he said, echoing Sir Kevin’s wife. “But, my Christ, they wouldn’t want it to break right now, not with Della up to her neck in the Paralympics. Winn’s going to panic when he finds out I know. Yerse. I think this might well neutralize him… in the short term, anyway. If he’s been fiddling with children, though—”

“There’s no proof of that,” said Robin.

“—that would stymie him for good,” said Chiswell, pacing again. “Well, well, well. This explains why Winn wanted to bring his trustees to our Paralympian reception next Thursday, doesn’t it? He’s clearly trying to keep them sweet, stop anyone else deserting the sinking ship. Prince Harry’s going to be there. These charity people love a royal. Only reason half of them are in it.”

He scratched his thick mop of gray hair, revealing large patches of underarm sweat.

“Here’s what we’ll do,” he said. “We’ll add his trustees to the guest list and you can come too. Then you can corner this Curtis-Lacey, find out what she’s got. All right? Night of the twelfth?”

“Yes,” said Robin, making a note, “Fine.”

“In the meantime, I’ll let Winn know I know he’s had his fingers in the till.”

Robin was almost at the door when Chiswell said abruptly:

“You don’t want a PA’s job, I suppose?”

“Sorry?”

“Take over from Izzy? What does that detective pay you? I could probably match it. I need somebody with brains and a bit of backbone.”

“I’m… happy where I am,” said Robin.

Chiswell grunted.

“Hmm. Well, perhaps it’s better this way. I might well have a bit more work for you, once we’ve got rid of Winn and Knight. Off you go, then.”

He turned his back to her, his hand already on the phone.

Out in the sunshine, Robin took out her mobile again. Strike still hadn’t called, but Matthew had texted the name of a pub in Mayfair, conveniently close to Sarah’s work. Nevertheless, Robin was now able to contemplate the evening with slightly more cheerfulness than she had felt prior to her meeting with Chiswell. She even started humming Bob Marley as she walked back towards the Houses of Parliament.

He told me you were his best. Yerse. Said so.

26

I am not so entirely alone, even now. There are two of us to bear the solitude together here.

Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm

It was four in the morning, the hopeless hour when shivering insomniacs inhabit a world of hollow shadow, and existence seems frail and strange. Strike, who had fallen into a doze, woke abruptly in the hospital chair. For a second, all he felt was his aching body and the hunger that tore at his stomach. Then he saw his nine-year-old nephew, Jack, who lay motionless in the bed beside him, jelly pads over his eyes, a tube running down his throat, lines coming out of neck and wrist. A bag of urine hung from the side of the bed, while three separate drips fed their contents into a body that appeared tiny and vulnerable amid the softly humming machines, in the hushed, cavernous space of the intensive care ward.

He could hear the padding of a nurse’s soft shoes somewhere beyond the curtain surrounding Jack’s bed. They hadn’t wanted Strike to spend the night in the chair, but he had dug in and his celebrity, minor though it was, combined with his disability, had worked in his favor. His crutches stood propped against the bedside cabinet. The ward was overwarm, as hospitals always were. Strike had spent many weeks in a series of iron beds after his leg had been blown off. The smell transported him back to a time of pain and brutal readjustment, when he had been forced to recalibrate his life against a backdrop of endless obstacles, indignities and privations.

The curtain rustled and a nurse entered the cubicle, stolid and practical in her overalls. Seeing that he was awake, she gave Strike a brief, professional smile, then took the clipboard off the end of Jack’s bed and went to take readings from the screens monitoring his blood pressure and oxygen levels. When she had finished, she whispered, “Fancy a cup of tea?”

“Is he doing all right?” Strike asked, not bothering to disguise the plea in his voice. “How’s everything looking?”

“He’s stable. No need to worry. This is what we expect at this stage. Tea?”

“Yeah, that’d be great. Thanks very much.”

He realized that his bladder was full once the curtain had closed behind the nurse. Wishing he’d thought to ask her to pass his crutches, Strike hoisted himself up, holding the arm of the chair to steady himself, hopped to the wall and grabbed them, then swung out from behind the curtain and off towards the brightly lit rectangle at the far end of the dark ward.

Having relieved himself at a urinal beneath a blue light that was supposed to thwart junkies’ ability to locate veins, he headed into the waiting room close to the ward where, late yesterday afternoon, he had sat waiting for Jack to come out of emergency surgery. The father of one of Jack’s school friends, with whom Jack was meant to be staying the night when his appendix burst, had kept him company. The man had been determined not to leave Strike alone until they had “seen the little chap out of the woods,” and had talked nervously all the time Jack had been in surgery, saying things like “they bounce at that age,” “he’s a tough little bugger,” “lucky we only live five minutes from school” and, over and over again, “Greg and Lucy’ll be going frantic.” Strike had said nothing, barely listening, holding himself ready for the worst news, texting Lucy every thirty minutes with an update.

Not yet out of surgery.

No news yet.

At last the surgeon had come to tell them that Jack, who had had to be resuscitated on arrival at hospital, had made it through surgery, that he had had “a nasty case of sepsis” and that he would shortly be arriving in intensive care.

“I’ll bring his mates in to see him,” said Lucy and Greg’s pal excitedly. “Cheer him up—Pokémon cards—”

“He won’t be ready for that,” said the surgeon repressively. “He’ll be under heavy sedation and on a ventilator for at least the next twenty-four hours. Are you the next of kin?”

“No, that’s me,” croaked Strike, speaking at last, his mouth dry. “I’m his uncle. His parents are in Rome for their wedding anniversary. They’re trying to get a flight back right now.”

“Ah, I see. Well, he’s not quite out of the woods yet, but the surgery was successful. We’ve cleaned out his abdomen and put a drain in. They’ll be bringing him down shortly.”