“You do it, then,” snarled the ironmonger. “You pay a bleeding fortune to keep the rats down. My ceiling’s sagging under the weight of their filth—”

“I’ve just been upstairs and it’s perfectly—”

“Because they mucked it out last month, when I said I was going to bloody court!” snarled the ironmonger. “Cousins come down from Leeds when I threaten legal action—nobody give a shit until then—and I come back Monday morning and they’ve cleaned it all up. Sneaky bastards!”

“Didn’t you want the flat cleaned?”

“I want compensation for the money I’ve had to spend! Structural damage, bills to Rentokil—that pair shouldn’t be living together without supervision, they’re not fit, they should be in a home! If I have to take it to court, I will!”

“Bit of friendly advice,” said Strike, smiling. “If you behave in any way that could be considered threatening toward the Athorns, their friends will make sure it’s you who ends up in court. Have a nice day,” he added, heading for the door.

The fact that the Athorns’ flat had recently been mucked out by helpful relatives tended to suggest that Margot Bamborough’s remains weren’t hidden on the premises. On the other hand, Strike had gained a bloodstain and a rumor, which was considerably more than he’d had an hour ago. While still disinclined to credit supernatural intervention, he had to admit that deciding to eat breakfast on St. John Street that morning had been, at the very least, a most fortuitous choice.

39

… they thus beguile the way,

Vntill the blustring storme is ouerblowne…

They cannot finde that path, which first was showne,

But wander too and fro in waies vnknowne…

Edmund Spenser

The Faerie Queene

Robin’s alarm went off at half past six on Friday morning, in the middle of a dream about Matthew: he’d come to her in the Earl’s Court flat, and begged her to return to him, saying that he’d been a fool, promising he’d never again complain about her job, imploring her to admit that she missed what they’d once had. He’d asked her whether she honestly liked living in a rented flat, without the security and companionship of marriage, and in the dream Robin felt a pull back toward her old relationship, before it had become complicated by her job with Strike. He was a younger Matthew in the dream, a far kinder Matthew, and Sarah Shadlock was dismissed as a mistake, a blip, a meaningless error. In the background hovered Robin’s flatmate, no longer the disengaged and courteous Max, but a pale, simpering girl who echoed Matthew’s persuasions, who giggled when he looked at her and urged Robin to give him what he wanted. Only when she’d managed to silence her alarm, and dispel the fog of sleep, did Robin, who was lying face down on her pillow, realize how closely the dream-flatmate had resembled Cynthia Phipps.

Struggling to understand why she’d set her alarm so early, she sat up in bed, the cream walls of her bedroom a blueish mauve in the dawn light, then remembered that Strike had planned a full team meeting, the first in two months, and that he’d asked her to come in an hour earlier than the others again, so that they could discuss the Bamborough case before everyone else got there.

Extremely tired, as she always seemed to be these days, Robin showered and dressed, fumbling over buttons, forgetting where she’d put her phone, realizing there was a stain on her sweater only when halfway upstairs to the kitchen and generally feeling disgruntled at life and early starts. When she reached the upper floor, she found Max sitting at the dining table in his dressing gown, poring over a cookbook. The TV was on: the breakfast television presenter was asking whether Valentine’s Day was an exercise in commercial cynicism or an opportunity to inject some much-needed romance into a couple’s life.

“Has Cormoran got any special dietary requirements?” Max asked her, and when Robin looked blank, he said, “For tonight. Dinner.”

“Oh,” said Robin, “no. He’ll eat anything.”

She checked her emails on her phone as she drank a mug of black coffee. With a small stab of dread, she saw one from her lawyer titled “Mediation.” Opening it, she saw that an actual date was being proposed: Wednesday, March the nineteenth, over a month away. She pictured Matthew talking to his own lawyer, consulting his diary, asserting his power, as ever. I’m tied up for the whole of next month. Then she imagined facing him across a boardroom table, their lawyers beside them, and felt panic mixed with rage.

“You should eat breakfast,” said Max, still reading cookbooks.

“I’ll get something later,” said Robin, closing her email.

She picked up the coat she’d left draped over the arm of the sofa and said,

“Max, you haven’t forgotten my brother and his friend are spending the weekend, have you? I doubt they’ll be around much. It’s just a base.”

“No, no, all good,” said Max vaguely, lost in recipes.

Robin headed out into the cool, damp early morning, getting all the way to the Tube before she realized that she didn’t have her purse on her.

“Shit!”

Robin was usually tidy, efficient and organized; she rarely made this kind of mistake. Hair flying, she ran back to the flat, asking herself what the hell she could have done with it, and wondering, now panicking, whether she’d dropped it in the street or had it stolen out of her bag.

Meanwhile, in Denmark Street, the groggy Strike was hopping on his one foot out of the shower, eyes puffy, and similarly exhausted. The after-effects of a week spent covering Barclay’s and Hutchins’s shifts were now catching up with him, and he slightly regretted having asked Robin to come into work so early.

However, just after pulling on his trousers, his mobile rang and with a stab of fear, he saw Ted and Joan’s number.

“Ted?”

“Hi, Corm. There’s no need to panic, now,” said Ted. “I just wanted to give you an update.”

“Go on,” said Strike, standing bare-chested and frozen in the cold gray light filtered by the too-thin curtains of his attic flat.

“She’s not looking too clever. Kerenza was talking about trying to get her to hospital, but Joanie doesn’t want to go. She’s still in bed, she—didn’t get up, yesterday,” said Ted, his voice cracking. “Couldn’t manage it.”

“Shit,” muttered Strike, sinking down onto his bed. “Right, Ted, I’m coming.”

“You can’t,” said his uncle. “We’re surrounded by flood water. It’s dangerous. Police are telling everyone to stay put, not to travel. Kerenza can… she says she can manage her pain at home. She’s got drugs they can inject… because she’s not eating a lot now. Kerenza doesn’t think it’s… you know… she thinks it’ll be…”

He began to cry in earnest.

“… not immediate, but… she says… not long.”

“I’m coming,” said Strike firmly. “Does Lucy know how bad Joan is?”

“I called you first,” said Ted.

“I’ll tell her, don’t worry about that. I’ll ring you when we’ve put a plan together, all right?”