“The cleaner’s kids? Why not?”

“Wilma wasn’t a cleaner by the time she died,” Robin reminded him. “She was a social worker.”

Even as she said it, Robin wondered why she felt the need to correct him. Perhaps it was simply that if Wilma Bayliss was to be forever referred to as a cleaner, she, Robin, might as well be forever called “the temp.”

“All right, why don’t the social worker’s kids want to talk to us?” asked Strike.

“The one who called me—Eden, she’s the eldest—said they didn’t want to drag up what had been a difficult time for the family. She said it had nothing to do with Margot—but then she contradicted herself, because when I said we only wanted to talk about Margot—I can’t remember her exact words, but the sense was that talking about Margot’s disappearance would involve them talking about the family’s personal stuff.”

“Well, their father was in jail in the early seventies and Margot was urging Wilma to leave him,” said Strike. “It’s probably that. Think it’s worth calling her back? Trying a bit more persuasion?”

“I don’t think she’s going to change her mind.”

“And she said she was speaking for her brothers and sisters, as well?”

“Yes. One of them’s having chemotherapy. She warned me specif­ically away from her.”

“OK, avoid her, but one of the others might be worth a shot.”

“That’ll annoy Eden.”

“Probably, but we’ve got nothing to lose now, have we?”

“S’pose not,” said Robin. “So what’s your news?”

“The practice nurse and the receptionist, the one who isn’t Gloria Conti—”

“Irene Bull,” said Robin.

“Irene Bull, now Hickson, exactly—they’re both happy to talk to us. Turns out they’ve been friends since the St. John’s practice days. Irene will be delighted to host Janice and us at her house on Saturday afternoon. I think we should both go.”

Robin turned her mobile to speakerphone so that she could check the rota she kept on her phone. The entry for Saturday read: Strike’s birthday/TT girlfriend.

“I’m supposed to be following Two-Times’ girlfriend,” said Robin, switching back from speakerphone.

“Sod that, Morris can do it,” said Strike. “You can drive us—if you don’t mind,” he added, and Robin smiled.

“No, I don’t mind,” she said.

“Well, great,” said Strike. “Enjoy the rest of your day off.”

He rang off. Robin picked up the rest of the brownie and finished it slowly, savoring every bite. In spite of the prospect of mediation with Matthew, and doubtless because of a much-needed infusion of chocolate, she felt a good deal happier than she had ten minutes previously.

19

There did I finde mine onely faithfull frend

In heauy plight and sad perplexitie;

Whereof I sorie, yet my selfe did bend,

Him to recomfort with my companie.

Edmund Spenser

The Faerie Queene

Strike never told anyone that his birthday was imminent and avoided announcing it on the day itself. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate people remembering: indeed, he tended to be far more touched when they did than he ever let show, but he had an innate dislike of scheduled celebration and forced jollity, and of all inane practices, having “Happy Birthday” sung to him was one of his least favorites.

As far back as he could remember, the day of his birth had brought up unhappy memories on which he chose, usually successfully, not to dwell. His mother had sometimes forgotten to buy him anything when he was a child. His biological father had never acknowledged the date. Birthdays were inextricably linked with the knowledge, which had long since become part of him, that his existence was accidental, that his genetic inheritance had been contested in court, and that the birth itself had been “fucking hideous, darling, if men had to do it the human race would be extinct in a year.”

To his sister, Lucy, it would have been almost cruel to let a loved one’s birthday pass without a card, a gift, a phone call or, if she could manage it, a party or at the very least a meal. This was why he usually lied to Lucy, pretending to have plans so as to avoid having to go all the way out to her house in Bromley and participate in a family dinner that she’d enjoy far more than he would. Not long ago, he’d happily have celebrated with a takeaway at his friends Nick and Ilsa’s, but Ilsa had suggested Robin accompany Strike, and as Strike had decided many weeks ago that Ilsa’s increasingly open attempts at matchmaking could only be successfully countered by a blanket refusal to cooperate, he’d pretended that he was going to Lucy’s instead. The one joyless hope Strike had for his thirty-ninth birthday was that Robin would have forgotten it, because, if she did, his own omission would be canceled out: they’d be quits.

He descended the metal stairs to the office on Friday morning and saw, to his surprise, two packages and four envelopes sitting beside the usual pile of mail on Pat’s desk. The envelopes were all of different colors. Apparently, friends and family had decided to make sure birthday greetings reached him in time for the weekend.

“Is it your birthday?” Pat asked in her deep, gravelly voice, still staring at her monitor and typing, electronic cigarette jammed between her teeth as usual.

“Tomorrow,” said Strike, picking up the cards. He recognized the handwriting on three of them, but not the fourth.

“Many happy returns,” grunted Pat, over the clacking of her keyboard. “You should’ve said.”

Some spirit of mischief prompted Strike to ask,

“Why? Would you’ve baked me a cake?”

“No,” said Pat indifferently. “Might’ve got you a card, though.”

“Lucky I didn’t say, then. One fewer tree’s died.”

“It wouldn’t have been a big card,” said Pat, unsmiling, her fingers still flying over the keyboard.

Grinning slightly, Strike removed himself, his cards and packages into the inner office, and later that evening took them upstairs with him, still unopened.

He woke on the twenty-third with his mind full of his trip to Greenwich with Robin later, and only remembered the significance of the day when he saw the presents and cards on the table. The packages contained a sweater from Ted and Joan, and a sweatshirt from Lucy. Ilsa, Dave Polworth and his half-brother Al had all sent joke cards which, while not actually making him laugh, were vaguely cheering.

He slipped the fourth card out of its envelope. It had a photograph of a bloodhound on the front, and Strike considered this for a second or two, wondering why it had been chosen. He’d never owned a dog, and while he had a mild preference for dogs over cats, having worked alongside a few in the military, he wouldn’t have said dog-loving was one of his salient characteristics. Flicking the card open, he saw the words:

Happy birthday Cormoran,

Best,

Jonny (Dad)

For a few moments, Strike merely looked at the words, his mind as blank as the rest of the card. The last time he’d seen his father’s writing, he’d been full of morphine after his leg had been blown off. As a child, he’d occasionally caught a glimpse of his father’s signature on legal documents sent to his mother. Then, he’d stared awestruck at the name, as though he were glimpsing an actual part of his father, as though the ink were blood, and solid proof that his father was a real human being, not a myth.