Was it possible that Margot’s tight-jeaned, hairy-chested artist had turned, over the space of four decades, into classic car collector Leo Satchwell, a rotund man with a goatee who wore tinted glasses? Unlikely, Robin decided, after wasting ten minutes on Leo: judging by the photographs on his Facebook page, in which he stood alongside other enthusiasts, he was barely five feet tall. There was a Brian Satchwell in Newport, but he had a lazy eye and was five years too young, and a Colin Satchwell in Eastbourne who ran an antiques business. She was still trying to find an image of Colin when she heard the front door open. A few minutes later, Max walked into the kitchen, with a bag of shopping in his hand.

“How’s the casserole doing?” he asked.

“Great,” said Robin, who hadn’t checked it.

“Get out of the way, Wolfgang, unless you want to be burned,” said Max, as he opened the oven door. To Robin’s relief, the casserole appeared to be doing well, and Max shut the door again.

Robin closed her laptop. A feeling that it was rude to sit typing while someone else was cooking in her vicinity persisted from the days when she’d lived with a husband who’d always resented her bringing work home.

“Max, I’m really sorry about this, but my brother’s bringing another friend with him tonight.”

“That’s fine,” said Max, unpacking his shopping.

“And they might be arriving early. They aren’t expecting to eat with us—”

“They’re welcome. This casserole serves eight. I was going to freeze the rest, but we can eat the lot tonight, I don’t mind.”

“That’s really nice of you,” said Robin, “but I know you want to talk to Cormoran alone, so I could take them—”

“No, the more the merrier,” said Max, who seemed mildly cheerful at the prospect of company. “I told you, I’ve decided to give up the recluse life.”

“Oh,” said Robin. “OK, then.”

She had some misgivings about what she feared might be quite an ill-assorted group, but telling herself her tiredness was making her pessimistic, she retired to her bedroom, where she spent the rest of the afternoon trying to find a photograph of Colin Satchwell. Finally, at six o’clock, after a great deal of cross-referencing, she located a picture on the website of a local church, where he appeared to be an alderman. Portly, with a low hairline, he in no way resembled the artist she sought.

Aware that she really ought to change and go upstairs to help Max, she was on the point of closing her laptop when a new email arrived. The subject line was one word: “Creed,” and with a spurt of nervous excitement, Robin opened it.

Hi Robin,

Quick update: I’ve passed the Creed request to the two people I mentioned. My Ministry of Justice contact was a bit more hopeful than I thought he’d be. This is confidential, but another family’s been lobbying for Creed to be interviewed again. Their daughter was never found, but they’ve always believed a pendant in Creed’s house belonged to her. My contact thinks something might be achievable if the Bamborough family joined forces with the Tuckers. I don’t know whether Cormoran would be allowed to conduct the interview, though. That decision would be taken by the Broadmoor authorities, the Ministry of Justice and the Home Office and my MoJ contact thinks it more likely to be police. I’ll let you know what’s going on as soon as I hear anything else.

Best, Izzy

Robin read this email through and allowed herself a flicker of optimism, though she didn’t intend to tell Strike what she was up to just yet. With luck, they’d be allowed to talk to the police interviewer before he or she went into Broadmoor. She typed an email of thanks, then began to get ready for dinner.

Her slightly improved mood survived looking in the mirror and seeing how tired she looked, with gray shadows under her slightly bloodshot eyes, and hair that definitely needed washing. Making do with dry shampoo, Robin tied back her hair, changed into clean jeans and her favorite top, applied undereye concealer and was on the point of leaving her room when her mobile rang.

Afraid that it would be Strike canceling, she was positively relieved to see Ilsa’s name.

“Hi, Ilsa!”

“Hi, Robin. Are you with Corm?”

“No,” said Robin. Instead of leaving her bedroom, she sat back down on the bed. “Are you OK?”

Ilsa sounded odd: weak and numb.

“D’you know where Corm is?”

“No, but he should be here in ten minutes. D’you want me to give him a message?”

“No. I—d’you know whether he’s been with Nick today?”

“No,” said Robin, now worried. “What’s going on, Ilsa? You sound terrible.”

Then she remembered that it was Valentine’s Day and registered the fact that Ilsa didn’t know where her husband was. Something more than worry overtook Robin: it was fear. Nick and Ilsa were the happiest couple she knew. The five weeks she’d lived with them after leaving Matthew had restored some of Robin’s battered faith in marriage. They couldn’t split up: not Nick and Ilsa.

“It’s nothing,” said Ilsa.

“Tell me,” Robin insisted. “What—?”

Wrenching sobs issued through the phone.

“Ilsa, what’s happened?”

“I… I miscarried.”

“Oh God,” gasped Robin. “Oh no. Ilsa, I’m so sorry.”

She knew that Nick and Ilsa had been trying for some years to have a child. Nick never talked about it and Ilsa, only rarely. Robin had had no idea she was pregnant. She suddenly remembered Ilsa not drinking, on the night of her birthday.

“It happened—in the—in the supermarket.”

“Oh no,” whispered Robin. “Oh God.”

“I started bleeding… at court… we’re in the middle of a… mas­sive case… couldn’t leave…” said Ilsa. “And then… and then… heading home…”

She became incoherent. Tears started in Robin’s eyes as she sat with the phone clamped to her ear.

“… knew… something bad… so I got out of the cab… and I went… into the supermarket… and I was in… the loo… and I felt… felt… and then… a little… blob… a tiny bod—bod—body…”

Robin put her face in her hands.

“And… I didn’t know… what to do… but… there was a woman… in the loo with… and she… it had happened… to her… so kind…”

She dissolved again into incoherence. Snorts, gulps and hiccups filled Robin’s ear before words became intelligible again.

“And Nick said… it was my fault. Said… all my fault… working… too hard… I didn’t take… enough care… didn’t put… the baby first.”

“He didn’t,” said Robin. She liked Nick. She couldn’t believe he’d have said such a thing to his wife.

“He did, he said I should’ve… come home… that I… put w—work… before the b—baby—”

“Ilsa, listen to me,” said Robin. “If you got pregnant once, you can get pregnant again.”