Theo had once stood almost exactly where Robin now was, watching the traffic roll up and down Clerkenwell Road, dark-haired Theo of the Kuchi earrings and the painful abdomen, waiting for the silver van that would take her away. Why Theo had never come forward afterward, why she’d never felt enough gratitude to the woman who’d seen her at short notice, at least to rule herself out of suspicion and stop Talbot haring after a delusion, remained a minor mystery. But of course, that assumed that Theo felt grateful. Nobody ever really knew what happened between a doctor and patient: it was the secular equivalent of the confession box. Robin’s thoughts had moved to Douthwaite when, at last, she spotted Barclay, who was approaching, carrying a holdall. When he got close enough, Robin heard the tools inside it clinking.

“Havin’ a wee bit o’ déjà vu, here,” he said, coming to halt beside her. “Didn’t we once go diggin’ fer a body before?”

“I don’t think this qualifies as digging,” said Robin.

“What’s the latest?”

“He’s gone out,” said Robin. “Strike says we’ve got to wait until he comes back.”

“What’s in there?” asked Barclay, nodding at the carrier bag in Robin’s hand.

“Chocolate biscuits,” said Robin.

“Bribe?”

“Basically.”

“And has Strike—?”

“Not yet. He’s in position. He wants us to…”

Robin waited for a group of what looked like students to walk out of earshot.

“… do our bit, first. Were you pleased,” Robin continued, still trying not to think about what they were about to do until it was absolutely necessary, “about the referendum result?”

“Aye, but don’t kid yerself oan’, said Barclay darkly, “this isn’t finished. That stupid fucker Cameron’s playing right into the nats’ hands. ‘English votes for English laws,’ the day after Scotland decides to stay? You don’t fight fuckin’ nationalism with more fuckin’ nationalism. He wants tae get his head out of Farage’s arse—is this oor wee fella now?”

Robin looked around. Silhouetted against the end of Albemarle Way was a man walking along with a strange, rolling gait, who was carrying two full carrier bags. He stopped at a door, set down his shopping, put his key in the lock, picked up his shopping bags, stepped over the threshold and vanished from sight.

“That’s him,” said Robin, as her insides seemed to wobble. “Let’s go.”

They walked side by side down the street to the dark blue front door.

“He’s left the key in the lock,” said Barclay, pointing.

Robin was about to the ring the bell when the door opened, and Samhain Athorn reappeared. Pale, big-eared and mousy-haired, he gaped slightly. He was wearing a Batman sweatshirt. Disconcerted to find two people on his doorstep, he blinked, then addressed Robin’s left shoulder.

“I left the key.”

He reached around to pull it out of the lock. As he made to close the door, Barclay dextrously inserted a foot.

“You’re Samhain, aren’t you?” said Robin, smiling at him, while Samhain gaped. “We’re friends of Cormoran Strike’s. You were very helpful to him, a few months ago.”

“I need to put the shopping away,” said Samhain. He tried to close the front door, but Barclay’s foot was in the way.

“Could we come in?” asked Robin. “Just for a little while? We’d like to talk to you and your mum. You were so helpful, before, telling Cormoran about your Uncle Tudor—”

“My Uncle Tudor’s dead,” said Samhain.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“He died in the hospital,” said Samhain.

“Really?” said Robin.

“My-Dad-Gwilherm died under the bridge,” said Samhain.

“That’s so sad,” said Robin. “Could we come in, please, just for a moment? Cormoran wanted me to bring you these,” she added, pulling the tin of chocolate biscuits out of her bag. “As a thank you.”

“What’s them?” asked Samhain, looking at the tin out of the corner of his eye.

“Chocolate biscuits.”

He took the tin out of her hand.

“Yeah. You can come in,” he said, and turning his back, he marched up the dark interior stairs.

With a glance at Barclay, Robin led the way inside. She heard her companion close the door behind her, and the clinking of the tools in his holdall. The staircase was steep, narrow and dark after daylight, the lightbulb overhead dead. When Robin reached the landing she saw, through the open door, a white-haired woman with big ears like Samhain’s, wiping the surfaces of a brown-tiled kitchen while Samhain, who had his back to her, eagerly peeled the plastic wrapper off the tin of chocolate biscuits.

Deborah turned, her neat white plait sliding over her shoulder, to fix her dark eyes on the two strangers.

“Hello, Mrs. Athorn,” said Robin, coming to a halt in the hall.

“Are you from the social work department?” asked Deborah slowly. “I phoned Clare…”

“We can help wi’ anythin’ Clare can,” said Barclay, before Robin could answer. “What’s the problem?”

“Him downstairs is a bastard,” said Samhain, who was now digging busily in the tin of chocolate biscuits, and selecting the one wrapped in gold foil. “These are the best ones, in the shiny paper, that’s how you know.”

“Is the man downstairs complaining again?” asked Robin, with a sudden upswell of excitement that bordered on panic.

“Can we have a look at whut the problem is?” asked Barclay. “Where’s he think his ceilin’s crackin’?”

Deborah pointed toward the sitting room.

“I’ll have a wee look,” said Barclay confidently, and he set off toward the sitting room.

“Don’t eat all of them, Sammy,” said Deborah, who’d returned to the methodical wiping of the kitchen sides.

“They gave them to me, you silly woman,” said Samhain, his mouth full of chocolate.

Robin followed, fighting a sense of utter unreality. Could what Strike suspected really be true?

Two budgerigars were twittering in a cage in the corner of the small sitting room, which, like the hall, was carpeted in swirls of brown and orange. A crocheted blanket had been spread over the back of the sofa. Barclay was looking down at the almost completed jigsaw of unicorns leaping over a rainbow. Robin glanced around. The place was sparsely furnished. Apart from the sofa and the budgies’ cage, there was only a small armchair, a television set on top of which stood an urn, and a small shelving unit on which sat a few old paperbacks and some cheap ornaments. Her eyes lingered on the Egyptian symbol of eternal life painted on a patch of dirty green wall.

She lies in a holy place.

“Floorboards?” she murmured to Barclay.

He shook his head, looked meaningfully down at the jigsaw of the unicorns, then pointed with his foot at the overlarge ottoman on which it lay.

“Oh God, no,” whispered Robin, before she could stop herself. “You think?”

“Otherwise the carpet would’ve had tae come up,” murmured Barclay. “Move furniture, take up floorboards… and would it make the ceilin’ crack, down below? An’ what aboot the smell?”