“Bad first,” said Strike.

The sea was still turbulent, spray exploding into the air above the wall of the dock. Turning right, he headed into the town.

“The Ministry of Justice isn’t going to let you interview Creed. The letter arrived this morning.”

“Ah,” said Strike. The teeming rain ripped through the bluish haze of his cigarette smoke, destroying it. “Well, can’t say I’m surprised. What’s it say?”

“I’ve left it back at the office,” said Robin, “but the gist is that his psychiatrists agree non-cooperation isn’t going to change at this stage.”

“Right,” said Strike. “Well, it was always a long shot.”

But Robin could hear his disappointment, and empathized. They were five months into the case, they had no new leads worth the name, and now that the possibility of interviewing Creed had vanished, she somehow felt that she and Strike were pointlessly searching rockpools, while yards away the great white slid away, untouchable, into dark water.

“And I went back to Amanda White, who’s now Amanda Laws, who thought she saw Margot at the printers’ window. She wanted money to talk, remember? I offered her expenses if she wants to come to the office—she’s in London, it wouldn’t be much—and she’s thinking it over.”

“Big of her,” grunted Strike. “What’s the good news?” he asked.

“Anna’s persuaded her stepmother to speak to us. Cynthia.”

“Really?”

“Yes, but alone. Roy still doesn’t know anything about us,” said Robin. “Cynthia’s meeting us behind his back.”

“Well, Cynthia’s something,” said Strike. “A lot, actually,” he added, after a moment’s reflection.

His feet were taking him automatically toward the pub, his wet trouser leg chilly on his remaining ankle.

“Where are we going to meet her?”

“It can’t be at their house, because Roy doesn’t know. She’s suggesting Hampton Court, because she works part time as a guide there.”

“A guide, eh? Reminds me: any news of Postcard?”

“Barclay’s at the gallery today,” said Robin. “He’s going to try and get pictures of her.”

“And what’re Morris and Hutchins up to?” Strike asked, now walking carefully up the wide, slippery steps that led to the pub.

“Morris is on Two-Times’ girl, who hasn’t put a foot wrong—Two-Times really is out of luck this time—and Hutchins is on Twinkletoes. Speaking of which, you’re scheduled to submit a final report on Twinkletoes next Friday. I’ll see the client for you, shall I?”

“That’d be great, thanks,” said Strike, stepping inside the Victory with a sense of relief. The rain dripped off him as he removed his coat. “I’m not sure when I’m going to be able to get back. You probably saw, the trains have been suspended.”

“Don’t worry about the agency. We’ve got everything covered. Anyway, I haven’t finished giving you the Bamborough—oh, hang on,” said Robin.

“D’you need to go?”

“No, it’s fine,” said Robin.

She’d just seen Elinor Dean’s front door open. The plump blonde emerged wearing a hooded coat which, conveniently, circumscribed her field of vision. Robin slid out of the Land Rover, closed the door and set off in pursuit, still speaking on her mobile.

“Our blonde friend’s on the move,” she said quietly.

“Did you just say you’ve got more good news on Bamborough?” asked Strike.

He’d reached the bar, and by simply pointing, was able to secure himself a pint, which he paid for, then carried to the corner table at which he’d sat with Polworth in the summer.

“I have,” said Robin, turning the corner at the end of the road, the oblivious blonde walking ahead of her. “Wish I could say I’d found Douthwaite or Satchwell, but the last person to see Margot alive is something, right?”

“You’ve found Gloria Conti?” said Strike sharply.

“Don’t get too excited,” said Robin, still trudging along in the rain. Elinor seemed to be heading for the shops. Robin could see a Tesco in the distance. “I haven’t managed to speak to her yet, but I’m almost sure it’s her. I found the family in the 1961 census: mother, father, one older son and a daughter, Gloria, middle name Mary. By the looks of things, Gloria’s now in France, Nîmes, to be precise, and married to a Frenchman. She’s dropped the ‘Gloria,’ and she’s now going by Mary Jaubert. She’s got a Facebook page, but it’s private. I found her through a genealogical website. One of her English cousins is trying to put together a family tree. Right date of birth and everything.”

“Bloody good work,” said Strike. “You know, I’m not sure she isn’t even more interesting than Satchwell or Douthwaite. Last to see Margot alive. Close to her. The only living person to have seen Theo, as well.”

Strike’s enthusiasm did much to allay Robin’s suspicion that he’d added himself to her action points because he thought she wasn’t up to the job.

“I’ve tried to ‘friend’ her on Facebook,” Robin continued, “but had no response yet. If she doesn’t answer, I know the company her husband works for, and I thought I might email him to get a message to her. I thought it was more tactful to try the private route first, though.”

“I agree,” said Strike. He took a sip of Doom Bar. It was immensely consoling to be in the warm, dry pub, and to be talking to Robin.

“And there’s one more thing,” said Robin. “I think I might have found out which van was seen speeding away from Clerkenwell Green the evening Margot disappeared.”

“What? How?” said Strike, stunned.

“It occurred to me over Christmas that what people thought might’ve been a flower painted on the side could have been a sun,” she said. “You know. The planet.”

“It’s technically a st—”

“Sod off, I know it’s a star.”

The hooded blonde, as Robin had suspected, was heading into Tesco. Robin followed, enjoying the warm blast of heat as she entered the shop, though the floor underfoot was slippery and dirty.

“There was a wholefoods shop in Clerkenwell in 1974 whose logo was a sun. I found an ad for it in the British Library newspaper archive, I checked with Companies House and I’ve managed to talk to the director, who’s still alive. I know I couldn’t talk to him if he weren’t,” she added, forestalling any more pedantry.

“Bloody hell, Robin,” said Strike, as the rain battered the window behind him. Good news and Doom Bar were certainly helping his mood. “This is excellent work.”

“Thank you,” said Robin. “And get this: he sacked the bloke he had making deliveries, he thinks in mid-1975, because the guy got done for speeding while driving the van. He remembered his name—Dave Underwood—but I haven’t had time to—”

Elinor turned abruptly, midway up the aisle of tinned foods, and walked back toward her. Robin pretended to be absorbed in choos­ing a packet of rice. Letting her quarry pass, she finished her sentence.