“I thought London was the heart of all evil?”

“Not my choice. It’s Roz’s birthday. She wants to see the fucking Lion King and Trafalgar Square and shit.”

“If you’re looking for somewhere to stay, I’ve only got one bedroom.”

“We’re booked into an Airbnb. Weekend after next. Just wondered if you were up for a pint. Could bring your Robin along, so Penny’s got someone to talk to. Unless, I dunno, the fucking Queen’s got a job for you.”

“Well, she has, but I told her the waiting list’s full. That’d be great,” said Strike. “What else is new?”

“Nothing,” said Polworth. “You saw the Scots bottled it?”

The old Land Rover had appeared in a line of traffic. Having no desire to get onto the subject of Celtic nationalism, Strike said,

“If ‘bottling’ ’s what you want to call it, yeah. Listen, I’m gonna have to go, mate, Robin’s about to pick me up in the car. I’ll ring you later.”

Chucking his cigarette end down a nearby storm drain, he was ready to climb into the Land Rover as soon as Robin pulled up.

“Morning,” she said, as Strike hoisted himself into the passenger seat. “Am I late?”

“No, I was early.”

“Nice beard,” said Robin, as she pulled away from the curb in the rain. “You look like a guerrilla leader who’s just pulled off a successful coup.”

“Feel like one,” said Strike, and in fact, right now, reunited with Robin, he felt the straightforward sense of triumph that had eluded him for days.

“Was that Pat you were just talking to?” asked Robin. “On the phone?”

“No, Polworth. He’s coming up to London weekend after next.”

“I thought he hated London?”

“He does. One of his kids wants to visit. He wants to meet you, but I wouldn’t advise it.”

“Why not?” asked Robin, who was mildly flattered.

“Women don’t usually like Polworth.”

“I thought he was married?”

“He is. His wife doesn’t like him.”

Robin laughed.

“Why did you think Pat would be calling me?” asked Strike.

“I’ve just had her on the phone. Miss Jones is upset at not getting updates from you personally.”

“I’ll FaceTime her later,” said Strike, as they drove across the common, windscreen wipers working. “Hopefully the beard’ll put her off.”

“Some women like them,” said Robin, and Strike couldn’t help wondering whether Robin was one of them.

“Sounds like Hutchins and Barclay are closing in on Dopey’s partner,” he said.

“Yes,” said Robin. “Barclay’s offering to go out to Majorca and have a look around.”

“I’ll bet he is. Are you still on for interviewing the new subcontractor together, Monday?”

“Michelle? Yes, definitely,” said Robin

“Hopefully we’ll be back in the office by then.”

Robin turned into Kyrle Road. There was no sign of press, so she parked outside a Victorian terraced house divided into two flats.

When Strike rang the bell labeled “Phipps/Sullivan,” they heard footsteps on stairs through the door, which opened to reveal Anna Phipps, who was wearing the same baggy blue cotton jumpsuit and white canvas shoes as the first time they’d met her, in Falmouth.

“Come in,” she said, smiling as she retreated so that they could enter a small square of space at the bottom of the staircase. The walls were painted white: a series of abstract, monochrome prints covered the walls, and the fanned window over the door cast pools of light onto the uncarpeted stairs, reminding Robin of the St. Peter’s nursing home, and the life-size Jesus watching over the entrance.

“I’m going to try not to cry,” said Anna quietly, as though scared of being overheard, but in spite of her resolution, her eyes were already full of tears. “I’m sorry, but I—I’d really like to hug you,” she said, and she promptly did so, embracing first Robin, then Strike. Stepping back, she shook her head, half-laughing, and wiped her eyes.

“I can’t ever express to you how grateful… how grateful I am. What you’ve given me…” She made an ineffable gesture and shook her head. “It’s just so… so strange. I’m incredibly happy and relieved, but at the same time, I’m grieving… Does that make sense?”

“Totally,” said Robin. Strike grunted.

“Everyone’s here,” said Anna, gesturing upstairs. “Kim, Dad, Cyn, and Oonagh, too. I invited her down for a few days. We’re planning the funeral, you see—Dad and Cyn are really leaving it up to me—anyway… come up, everyone wants to thank you…”

As they followed Anna up the steep stairs, Strike using the banister to heave himself along, he remembered the tangle of emotions that had hit him when he’d received the phone call telling him of his own mother’s death. Amid the engulfing wave of grief had been a slight pinprick of relief, which had shocked and shamed him, and which had taken a long time to process. Over time, he’d come to understand that in some dark corner of his mind, he’d been ­dreading and half-expecting the news. The ax had fallen at last, suspense was forever over: Leda’s appalling taste in men had culminated in a sordid death on a dirty mattress, and while he’d missed her ever since, he’d be a liar if he claimed to miss the toxic mixture of anxiety, guilt and dread he’d endured over her last couple of years of life.

He could only imagine the mixture of emotions currently possessing Margot’s husband, or the nanny who’d taken Margot’s place in the family. As he reached the upper landing, he glimpsed Roy Phipps sitting in an armchair in the sitting room. Their eyes met briefly, before Kim came out of the room, blocking Strike’s view of the hematologist. The blonde psychologist was smiling broadly: she, at least, seemed to feel unalloyed pleasure.

“Well,” she said, shaking first Strike’s hand, then Robin’s, “what can we say, really? Come through…”

Strike and Robin followed Anna and Kim into the sitting room, which was as large and airy as their Falmouth holiday home, with long gauze curtains at the windows, stripped floorboards, a large white rug and pale gray walls. The books had been arranged by color. Everything was simple and well designed; very different from the house in which Anna had grown up, with its ugly Victorian bronzes and chintz-covered chairs. The only art on the walls was over the fireplace: a black and white photograph of sea and sky.

Rain was beating on the large bay window behind Roy, who was already on his feet. He wiped his hand nervously on his trousers before holding it out to Strike.

“How are you?” he asked jerkily.

“Very well, thanks,” said Strike.

“Miss Ellacott,” said Roy, holding out his hand to Robin in turn. “I understand you actually…?”

The unspoken words found her seemed to ring around the room.

“Yes,” said Robin, and Roy nodded and pursed his lips, his large eyes leaving her to focus on one of the ragdoll cats, which had just prowled into the room, its aquamarine eyes shrewd.