“Hi,” said Robin, and at the sound of her voice Strike felt, as he had known he would, a slight easing of the knot of tension in his stomach. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing,” he said, slightly surprised, before he recollected that it was half past five in the morning. “Oh—yeah, sorry, this isn’t an emergency call, I’ve just got off the sleeper. Wondered whether you fancied getting breakfast before you head home to bed.”

“Oh, that’d be wonderful,” said Robin, with such genuine pleasure that Strike felt a little less tired, “because I’ve got Bamborough news.”

“Great,” said Strike, “so’ve I. Be good to have a catch-up.”

“How’s Joan?”

“Not great. They let her go home yesterday. They’ve assigned her a Macmillan nurse. Ted’s really low. Lucy’s still down there.”

“You could’ve stayed,” said Robin. “We can cope.”

“It’s fine,” he said, screwing his eyes up against his own smoke. A shaft of wintry sunlight burst through a break in the clouds and illuminated the fag butts on the tiled floor. “I’ve told them I’ll go back for Christmas. Where d’you want to meet?”

“Well, I was planning to go to the National Portrait Gallery before I went home, so—”

“You were what?” said Strike.

“Planning to go to the National Portrait Gallery. I’ll explain when I see you. Would you mind if we meet somewhere near there?”

“I can get anywhere,” said Strike, “I’m right by the Tube. I’ll head that way and whoever finds a café first can text the other.”

Forty-five minutes later, Robin entered Notes café, which lay on St. Martin’s Lane and was already crowded, though it was so early in the morning. Wooden tables, some of them as large as the one in her parents’ kitchen in Yorkshire, were crammed with young people with laptops and businessmen grabbing breakfast before work. As she queued at the long counter, she tried to ignore the various pastries and cakes spread out beneath it: she’d taken sandwiches with her to her overnight surveillance of the weatherman’s house, and those, she told herself sternly, ought to suffice.

Having ordered a cappuccino, she headed for the back of the café, where Strike sat reading The Times beneath an iron chandelier that resembled a large spider. She seemed to have forgotten over the previous six days how large he was. Hunched over the newspaper, he reminded her of a black bear, stubble thick on his face, tucking into a bacon and egg ciabatta roll, and Robin felt a wave of liking simply for the way he looked. Or perhaps, she thought, she was merely reacting against clean-jawed, slim and conventionally handsome men who, like tuberose perfumes, seemed attractive until prolonged exposure made you crave escape.

“Hi,” she said, sliding into the seat opposite him.

Strike looked up, and in that moment, her long shining hair and her aura of good health acted upon him like an antidote to the fug of clinical decay in which he had spent the past five days.

“You don’t look knackered enough to have been up all night.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment and not as an accusation,” said Robin, eyebrows raised. “I was up all night and Postcard still hasn’t shown herself—or himself—but another card came yesterday, addressed to the television studio. It said Postcard loved the way he smiled at the end of Tuesday’s weather report.”

Strike grunted.

Robin said, “D’you want to go first on Bamborough, or shall I?”

“You first,” said Strike, still chewing, “I’m starving.”

“OK,” said Robin. “Well, I’ve got good news and bad. The bad news is nearly everyone I’ve been trying to trace is dead, and the rest might as well be.”

She filled Strike in on the deceased status of Willy Lomax, Albert Shimmings, Wilma Bayliss and Dorothy Oakden, and on the steps she’d taken, so far, to contact their relatives.

“Nobody’s got back in touch except one of Shimmings’ sons, who seems worried that we’re journalists trying to pin Margot’s disappearance on his father. I’ve written a reassuring email back. Hope it works.”

Strike, who had paused in his steady demolition of the roll to drink half a mug of tea, said,

“I’ve been having similar problems. That ‘two women struggling by the phone boxes’ sighting is going to be nigh on impossible to check. Ruby Elliot, who saw them, and the Fleury mother and daughter, who almost certainly were them, are all dead as well. But they’ve both got living descendants, so I’ve fired off a few messages. Only one response so far, from a Fleury grandson who doesn’t know what the hell I’m talking about. And Dr. Brenner doesn’t seem to have a single living relative that I can see. Never married, no kids, and a dead sister who didn’t marry, either.”

“D’you know how many women there are out there called Amanda White?” sighed Robin.

“I can imagine,” said Strike, taking another large bite of roll. “That’s why I gave her to you.”

“You—?”

“I’m kidding,” he said, smirking at her expression. “What about Paul Satchwell and Gloria Conti?”

“Well, if they’re dead, they didn’t die in the UK. But here’s something really weird: I can’t find a single mention of either of them after ’75.”

“Coincidence,” said Strike, raising his eyebrows. “Douthwaite, he of the stress headaches and the dead mistress, has disappeared as well. He’s either abroad, or he’s changed his identity. Can’t find any address for him after ’76, and no death certificate, either. Mind you, if I were in his shoes, I might’ve changed my name, as well. His press reviews weren’t good, were they? Crap at his job, sleeping with a colleague’s wife, sending flowers to a woman who then disappears—”

“We don’t know it was flowers,” said Robin, into her coffee cup.

Other kinds of presents are available, Strike.

“Chocolates, then. Same applies. Harder to see why Satchwell and Conti took themselves off the radar, though,” said Strike, running his hand over his unshaven chin. “The press interest in them died away fairly fast. And you’d have found Conti online if it was a simple case of a married name. There can’t be as many ‘Gloria Contis’ as there are Amanda Whites.”

“I’ve been wondering whether she went to live in Italy,” said Robin. “Her dad’s first name was Ricardo. She could’ve had relatives there. I’ve sent off a few Facebook inquiries to some Contis, but the only people who’ve responded so far don’t know a Gloria. I’m pretending I’m doing genealogical research, because I’m worried she might not respond if I mention Margot straight off.”

“Think you’re probably right,” said Strike, adding more sugar to his tea. “Yeah, Italy’s a good idea. She was young, might’ve fancied a change of scene. Satchwell disappearing’s odd, though. That photo didn’t suggest a shy man. You’d think he’d have popped up somewhere by now, advertising his paintings.”

“I’ve checked art exhibitions, auctions, galleries. It really is as though he dematerialized.”