Morris, Robin thought, as she headed toward the Tube, didn’t actually like women. He desired them, but that, of course, was an entirely different matter: Robin, who was forever marked by the ineradicable memory of the man in the gorilla mask, knew better than most that desire and liking were different, and sometimes mutually exclusive, things. Morris gave himself away constantly, not only in the way he spoke to Robin, but in his desire to call Mrs. Smith “Rich Bitch,” his attribution of venal or provocative motives to every woman under surveillance, in the barely disguised disgust with which he noted that Mucky Ricci was now forced to live in a houseful of females. Christ, I hope I never end up like that.

Robin walked another few steps, and suddenly stopped dead, earning herself a curious glance from a passing traffic warden. She’d had an idea, triggered by what Morris had just said to her: or rather, the idea had slammed its way into the forefront of her mind and she knew that it had been there in her subconscious all along, waiting for her to admit it.

Moving aside so as not to get in the way of passers-by, Robin pulled out her phone and checked the list of paraphilias she’d last consulted when looking up sleeping princess syndrome.

Autonepiophilia.

“Oh God,” Robin muttered. “That’s it. That’s got to be it.”

Robin called Strike, but his number went to voicemail; he was doubtless already on the Tube, heading for the Stafford. After a moment or two’s thought, she called Barclay.

“Hiya,” said the Scot.

“Are you still outside Elinor Dean’s?”

“Yeah.”

“Is there anyone in there with her?”

“No.”

“Sam, I think I know what she’s doing for those men.”

“Whut?”

Robin told him. The only answer was a long silence. Finally, Barclay said,

“You’re aff yer heid, Robin.”

“Maybe,” said Robin, “but the only way to know for sure is to knock on her door and ask if she’ll do it for you. Say you were recommended to her by SB.”

“Will I fuck,” said Barclay. “Does Strike know ye’re asking me tae do this?”

“Sam, we’ve got a week left before the client pulls the plug. The worst that can happen is that she denies it. We’re not going to have many more chances.”

She heard Barclay exhale, hard.

“All right, but it’s on ye if ye’re wrong.”

Robin hurried onwards toward the Tube station, second-guessing herself as she went. Would Strike think she was wrong to tell Barclay to go in, on her hunch? But they had a week left before the client withdrew funding: what was there, now, to lose?

It was Saturday evening, and Robin arrived on the crowded Tube platform to find she’d just missed a train. By the time she exited at Green Park station, she’d lost the chance of arriving at the American Bar early, which she’d hoped to do, so that she and Strike could have a few words together before Oakden arrived. Worse still, when she hurried down St. James’s Street, she saw, with a sense of déjà vu, a large crowd blocking the bottom of the road, being marshaled by police. As Robin slowed down, wondering whether she’d be able to get through the dense mass of people to the Stafford, a couple of sprinting paparazzi overtook her, in pursuit of a series of black Mercedeses. As Robin watched them pressing their lenses against windows, she became aware that the crowd in the distance was chanting “Jonn-ny! Jonn-ny!” Through the windows of one of the cars heading toward the event, Robin glimpsed a woman in a Marie Antoinette wig. Only when she was nearly knocked sideways by a sprinting pair of autograph hunters, both of them holding Deadbeats posters, did Robin realize with a thrill of shock that Strike’s father was the Jonny whose name was being chanted.

“Shit,” she said aloud, wheeling around and hurrying back up the road, pulling out her mobile as she went. She knew there was another entrance to the Stafford via Green Park. Not only was she going to be late, but a horrible suspicion had just hit her. Why had Oakden been so determined to meet on this specific evening? And why had it had to be this bar, so close to what she was afraid was an event involving Strike’s father? Did Strike know, had he realized, what was happening close by?

She called him, but he didn’t pick up. Still walking, she typed out a text:

Cormoran I don’t know whether you know this, but Jonny Rokeby’s having an event around the corner. I think it’s possible Oakden’s trying to set you up.

Breaking into a jog, because she was already five minutes late, she knew she’d just told Strike, for the very first time, that she knew who his father was.

On her arrival in Green Park, she saw from a distance a policeman at the rear entrance, who, with one of the hotel’s bowler-hatted attendants, was politely but firmly turning away two men with long-lensed cameras.

“Not this way, sorry,” said the policeman. “Only for tonight. If it’s the hotel you want, you’ll have to go round the front.”

“What’s going on?” demanded a suited man hand in hand with a beautiful Asian woman in a cheongsam. “We’ve got a dinner booking! Why can’t we go through?”

“Very sorry, sir, but there’s an event on at Spencer House,” explained the doorman, “and police want us to stop people using this as a short cut.”

The two men with cameras swore and turned away, jogging back the way Robin had come. She lowered her head as they passed her, glad that she was still wearing her unneeded glasses, because her picture had appeared in the press during a court case a couple of years back. Maybe she was being paranoid, but Robin was worried the pressmen had been trying to use the Stafford not as a short cut to Rokeby and his guests, but as a means of getting to his estranged son.

Now that the photographers had gone, the bowler-hatted attendant permitted the woman in the cheongsam and her companion to enter, and after giving Robin a shrewd up-and-down glance, evidently decided she wasn’t a photographer and allowed her to proceed through the gate into a courtyard, where well-dressed drinkers were smoking beneath exterior heaters. After checking her mobile and seeing that Strike hadn’t answered her text, she hurried up the steps into the American Bar.

It was a comfortable, elegant space of dark wood and leather, with pennants and baseball caps from many American states and universities hanging from the ceiling. Robin immediately spotted Strike standing in a suit at the bar, his surly expression lit by the rows of illuminated bottles on the wall.

“Cormoran, I just—”

“If you’re about to tell me my father’s just round the corner,” said Strike tersely, “I know. This arsehole doesn’t realize I’m wise to his attempted set-up, yet.”

Robin glanced into the far corner. Carl Oakden was sitting there, legs spread wide, an arm along the back of the leather bench. He was wearing a suit, but no tie, and his attitude was clearly meant to suggest a man at ease in these cosmopolitan surroundings. With his slightly too-close-together eyes and his narrow forehead, he still resembled the boy who’d smashed Roy’s mother’s crystal bowl all those years ago.

“Go and talk to him. He wants some food, I’m getting menus,” muttered Strike. “We’d just got started on Steve Douthwaite. Apparently, Dorothy always thought the bloke was suspicious.”