Wanting to look professional and confident, she dressed in black trousers and jacket, even though Matthew knew perfectly well that she spent most of her investigative life in jeans. Casting one last look in her mirror before leaving her room, she thought she looked washed-out. Trying not to think about all those pictures of Charlotte Ross, who rarely dressed in anything but black, but whose porcelain beauty merely shone brighter in contrast, Robin grabbed her handbag and left her room.

While waiting for the Tube, Robin tried to distract herself from the squirming feeling of nerves in her stomach by checking her emails.

Dear Miss Ellacott,

As previously stated I’m not prepared to talk to anyone except Mr. Strike. This is not intended as any slight on you but I would feel more comfortable speaking man to man. Unfortunately, I will be unavailable from the end of next week due to work commitments which will be taking me out of the country. However I can make space on the evening of the 24th. If this is agreeable to Mr. Strike, I suggest the American Bar in the Stafford hotel as a discreet meeting place. Kindly let me know if this is acceptable.

Sincerely,

CB Oakden

Twenty minutes later, when she’d emerged from Holborn Tube station and had reception again, Robin forwarded this message to Strike. She had a comfortable quarter of an hour to spare before her appointment and there were plenty of places to grab a coffee in her vicinity, but before she could do so, her mobile rang: it was Pat, at the office.

“Robin?” said the familiar croaking voice. “D’you know where Cormoran is? I’ve tried his phone but he’s not picking up. I’ve got his brother Al here in the office, wanting to see him.”

“Really?” said Robin, startled. She’d met Al a couple of years previously, but knew that he and Strike weren’t close. “No, I don’t know where he is, Pat. Have you left a message? He’s probably somewhere he can’t pick up.”

“Yeah, I’ve left a voicemail,” said Pat. “All right, I’ll keep trying him. Bye.”

Robin walked on, her desire for a coffee forgotten in her curiosity about Al turning up at the office. She’d quite liked Al when she’d met him; he seemed in slight awe of his older half-brother, which Robin had found endearing. Al didn’t look much like Strike, being shorter, with straight hair, a narrow jaw and the slight divergent squint he’d inherited from their famous father.

Thinking about Strike’s family, she turned the corner and saw, with a thrill of dread that brought her to a halt, Matthew climbing out of a taxi, wearing an unfamiliar dark overcoat over his suit. His head turned, and for a moment they were looking at each other, fifty yards apart like gunslingers ready to fire. Then Robin’s mobile rang; she reached for it automatically, and when she’d put it to her ear and looked up, Matthew had disappeared into the building.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” said Strike, “just got the email from Oakden. ‘Out of the country,’ my arse.”

Robin glanced at her watch. She still had five minutes, and her lawyer, Judith, was nowhere in sight. She drew back against the cold stone wall and said,

“Yeah, I thought that, too. Have you rung Pat back?”

“No, why?”

“Al’s at the office.”

“Al who?”

“Your brother, Al,” said Robin.

There was a brief pause.

“Fuck’s sake,” said Strike under his breath.

“Where are you?” asked Robin.

“At a B&Q in Chingford. Our blonde friend in Stoke Newington’s shopping.”

“What for?”

“Rubber foam and MDF, for starters,” said Strike. “That bloke from Shifty’s gym’s helping her. Where are you?”

“Waiting outside Matthew’s lawyers. It’s mediation morning,” said Robin.

“Shit,” said Strike, “I forgot. Best of luck. Listen—take the rest of the day off, if you’d—”

“I don’t want time off,” said Robin. She’d just spotted Judith in the distance, walking briskly toward her in a red coat. “I’m planning to go and see Betty Fuller afterward. I’d better go, Cormoran. Speak later.”

She hung up and walked forwards to meet Judith, who smiled broadly.

“All right?” she asked, patting Robin on the arm with the hand not holding her briefcase. “Should be fine. You let me do the talking.”

“Right,” said Robin, smiling back with as much warmth as she could muster.

They walked up the steps together into a small lobby area, where a stocky, suited man with a haircut like Caesar’s came forward with a perfunctory smile, his hand outstretched to Judith.

“Ms. Cobbs? Andrew Shenstone. Ms. Ellacott? How d’you do?”

His handshake left Robin’s hand throbbing. He and Judith walked ahead of Robin through double doors, chatting about London traffic, and Robin followed, dry-mouthed and feeling like a child trailing its parents. After a short walk up a dark corridor, they turned left into a small meeting room with an oval table and a shabby blue carpet. Matthew was sitting there alone, still wearing his overcoat. He readjusted himself in his chair when they entered. Robin looked directly into his face as she sat down, diagonally opposite him. To her surprise, Matthew looked instantly away. She’d imagined him glaring across the table, with that strange muzzle-like whitening around his mouth he’d worn during arguments toward the end of their marriage.

“Right then,” said Andrew Shenstone, with another smile, as Judith Cobbs opened the file she’d brought with her. He had a leather document holder sitting, closed, in front of him. “Your client’s position remains as stated in your letter of the fourteenth, Judith, is that correct?”

“That’s right,” said Judith, her thick black glasses perched on the end of her nose as she scanned a copy of said letter. “Ms. Ellacott’s perfectly happy to forgo any claim on your client, except in respect of the proceeds from the sale of the flat in—um—”

Hastings Road, thought Robin. She remembered moving into the cramped conversion with Matthew, excitedly carrying boxes of pot plants and books up the short path, Matthew plugging in the coffee machine that had been one of their first joint purchases, the fluffy elephant he’d given her so long ago, sitting on the bed.

“—Hastings Road, yes,” said Judith, scanning her letter, “from which she’d like the ten thousand pounds her parents contributed to the deposit, upon purchase.”

“Ten thousand,” repeated Andrew Shenstone. He and Matthew looked at each other. “In that case, we’re agreeable.”

“You’re… agreeable?” said Judith Cobbs, as surprised as Robin herself.

“My client’s circumstances have changed,” said Shenstone. “His priority now is securing the divorce as speedily as possible, which I think your client has indicated is also preferable to her, except­ing the ten thousand pounds? Of course,” added Shenstone, “we’re almost at the requisite two years, so…”

Judith looked at Robin, who nodded, her mouth still dry.

“Then I think we can conclude things today. Very good indeed,” said Andrew Shenstone complacently, and it was impossible to escape the suspicion that he was addressing himself. “I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up…”