“Where’s your mamma gone?”

“You’re still working on Bamborough, aren’t you?” Robin asked.

“Just going back over a few things,” Strike admitted.

“And?”

“And nothing. It’s like a maze. Moment I start thinking I’m getting somewhere, I turn a corner and come up against a dead end. Or find myself back where I started. Why are you looking so pleased?”

“I’m just glad you haven’t given up,” said Robin.

“You won’t say that when they cart me off to the same asylum as Bill Talbot. If I never see another fucking star sign, it’ll be too soon… Where the hell is Douthwaite? What happened to him?”

“You think—?”

“I think he’s bloody fishy, I always did. His alibi amounts to fuck all. Then he changes his name. Then, as you found out, another young woman dies in his vicinity—that drowned Redcoat. Then he vanishes again.

“If I could just speak to Douthwaite,” said Strike, drumming his fingers on the desk, “I’d give it up.”

“Really?” said Robin.

He glanced at her, then, frowning, looked away. She was looking particularly sexy in that blue dress, which he’d never seen before.

“Yeah, if I could speak to Douthwaite, that’d do me.”

“Last night I heard my mamma singing a song…”

“And maybe Gloria Conti,” said Strike.

“Woke up this morning, and my mamma was gone…”

“And Creed,” said Strike. “I’d like to talk to Dennis Creed.”

Robin felt a little skip of excitement. She’d received an email earlier, telling her to expect a decision by the end of the day on whether or not Creed could be re-interviewed.

“I’d better get going,” she said. “Gemma’s supposed to be there at six. It was nice of you,” she added, as she reached for the door handle, “to let Pat keep the radio on.”

“Yeah, well,” said Strike, with a shrug. “Trying to be friendly.”

As Robin was putting on her coat in the outer office, Pat said,

“That’s a very good color on you.”

“Thanks. It’s quite old. Miracle it still fits, all the chocolate I’ve been eating lately.”

“Would he like a cuppa, d’you think?”

“I’m sure he would,” said Robin, surprised. Apparently Strike wasn’t the only one who was trying to be friendly.

“Oooh, I used to love this,” said Pat, as the opening bars of “Play That Funky Music” filled the office, and as Robin walked down the stairs, she heard Pat singing along, in her raspy baritone:

Once I was a funky singer,

Playin’ in a rock and roll band…

The Vintry, which Robin reached twenty minutes later, lay near Cannon Street Tube station in the heart of the financial district, and was precisely the kind of place her ex-husband had most enjoyed. Undemandingly modern in a conventional, high-spec manner, with its sleek mixture of steel beams, large windows and wooden floors, it had a hint of open-plan office about it, in spite of the long bar with padded stools. There was the odd quirky touch, such as the two stuffed rabbits on a windowsill, which carried model guns and wore shooting caps, but in the main the clientele, which consisted overwhelmingly of men in suits, were cocooned in an atmosphere of tasteful beige blandness. They stood in cliques, fresh from the day’s work, drinking, laughing together, reading newspapers or their phones, or eyeing up the few female customers—to Robin they seemed to exude not just confidence, but self-satisfaction. She received a number of appreciative looks as she sidled between stockbrokers, bankers and traders on her way to the bar.

Looking carefully around the large open-plan area, Robin gathered that Gemma hadn’t yet arrived, so she took a free bar stool, ordered a tonic water and pretended to be reading the day’s news off her phone, purely to avoid the open staring of the two young men to her right, one of whom seemed determined to make Robin look up, if only to ascertain where the annoying, braying laugh was coming from. To her left, a pair of older men were discussing the imminent Scottish independence referendum.

“Polls are looking shaky,” said the first man. “Hope Cameron knows what he’s doing.”

“They’d be bloody mad to do it. Mad.”

“There’s opportunity in madness—for a few, anyway,” said the first man. “I remember, when I was in Hong Kong—oh, I think that’s our table free…”

The two speakers departed for their dinner. Robin glanced around again, carefully avoiding meeting the eyes of the young man with the braying laugh, and a patch of scarlet at the far end of the bar caught her eye. Gemma had arrived, and was standing alone, trying to catch the barman’s eye. Robin slid off her bar stool, and carried her drink over to Gemma, whose long dark hair fell in gypsyish curls to the middle of her back.

“Hi—Linda?”

“What?” said Gemma, startled. “No, sorry.”

“Oh,” said Robin, looking crestfallen. “Maybe I’ve got the wrong bar. Has this place got other branches?”

“I’ve no idea, sorry,” said Gemma, still with her hand raised, trying to attract the barman’s attention.

“She said she’d be wearing red,” said Robin, looking around at the sea of suits.

Gemma glanced at Robin, mildly interested.

“Blind date?”

“I wish,” said Robin, rolling her eyes. “No, it’s a friend of a friend who thinks there might be an opening at Winfrey and Hughes. The woman said she’d meet me for a quick drink.”

“Winfrey and Hughes? That’s where I work.”

“You’re kidding!” said Robin, with a laugh. “Hey—you’re not really Linda, are you? And pretending to be someone different, because you don’t like the look of me or something?”

“No,” said the other woman, smiling. “I’m Gemma.”

“Oh. Are you meeting someone, or—?”

“S’posed to be,” said Gemma, “yeah.”

“D’you mind me sitting here with you? Just till they arrive? I was getting some properly lechy looks over there.”

“Tell me about it,” said Gemma, as Robin climbed up onto the barstool beside her. The barman now approached a pinstriped, gray-haired man who’d just arrived.

“Oi,” Robin called, and half a dozen businessmen’s heads turned, as well as the barman’s. “She was here first,” said Robin, pointing sideways at Gemma, who laughed again.

“Wow. You don’t mess around, do you?”

“No point, is there?” said Robin, taking a sip of her water. She’d subtly broadened her Yorkshire accent, as she often did when pretending to be a bolder, brasher character than she really felt herself to be. “Gotta take charge, or they’ll walk all bloody over you.”

“You’re not wrong there,” sighed Gemma.

“Winfrey and Hughes isn’t like that, is it?” said Robin. “Full of tossers?”

“Well…”

The barman arrived at that moment to take Gemma’s order. Once the PA had her large glass of red wine, she took a swig and said,