“Risky, following him,” commented Robin. “He knows what you look like.”

“All three of us could’ve been behind him and he wouldn’t have noticed. He’s lost about a stone since I last saw him.”

“What did he do?”

“Went to eat in a place right by the Commons, called the Cellarium. No windows, like a crypt.”

“Sounds cheerful,” said Barclay, settling down on the fake leather sofa and starting on his sweet and sour pork balls.

“He’s like a sad homing pigeon,” said Strike, tipping the whole tub of Singapore noodles onto his own plate, “returning to the place of his former glories with the tourists. Then we went to King’s Cross.”

Robin paused in the act of helping herself to beansprouts.

“Blow job in a dark stairwell,” said Strike matter-of-factly.

“Eurgh,” muttered Robin, continuing to help herself to food.

“Did ye see it, aye?” asked Barclay with interest.

“Back view. Elbowed my way through the front door, then backed out with apologies. He was in no state to recognize me. After that, he bought himself some new socks from Asda and went back to his B&B.”

“There are worse days out,” said Barclay, who had already eaten half the food on his plate. Catching Robin’s eye, he said through a mouthful, “Wife wants me home by half eight.”

“All right, Robin,” said Strike, lowering himself gingerly onto his own desk chair, which he had brought through to the outer office, “let’s hear what Jimmy and Flick had to say to each other when they thought no one was listening.”

He opened a notebook and took a pen from the pot on her desk, leaving his left hand free to fork Singapore noodles into his mouth. Still chewing vigorously, Barclay leaned forwards on the sofa, interested. Robin placed her mobile face up on the desk and pressed “play.”

For a moment there was no sound except faint footsteps, which were Robin’s, leaving the Wiccan’s shop earlier in search of lunch.

“I thought you were here on your own?” said Jimmy’s voice, faint but clear.

“She’s having a day’s trial,” said Flick. “Where’s Sam?”

“I told him I’ll meet him at yours later. Right, where’s your bag?”

“Jimmy, I haven’t—”

“Maybe you picked it up by mistake.”

More footsteps, a scraping of wood and leather, clattering, thunks and furtive rustlings.

“This is a fucking tip.”

“I haven’t got it, how many more times? And you’ve got no right to search that without my—”

“This is serious. I had it in my wallet. Where’s it gone?”

“You’ve dropped it somewhere, haven’t you?”

“Or someone’s taken it.”

“Why would I take it?”

“Insurance policy.”

“That’s a hell of an—”

“But if that’s what you’re thinking, you wanna remember, you fucking nicked it, so it incriminates you as much as me. More.”

“I was only there in the first place because of you, Jimmy!”

“Oh, that’s going to be the story, is it? Nobody bloody made you. You’re the one who started all this, remember.”

“Yeah and I wish I hadn’t, now!”

“Too late for that. I want that paper back and so should you. It proves we had access to his place.”

“You mean it proves a connection between him and Bill—ouch!”

“Oh, fuck off, that didn’t hurt! You demean women who really are knocked around, playing the victim. I’m not kidding, now. If you’ve taken it—”

“Don’t threaten me—”

“What’re you going to do, run off to Mummy and Daddy? How’re they going to feel when they find out what their little girl’s been up to?”

Flick’s rapid breathing now became sobs.

“You nicked money from him, and all,” said Jimmy.

“You thought it was a laugh at the time, you said he deserved it—”

“Try that defense in court, see how far it gets you. If you try and save yourself by throwing me under the bus, I won’t have any fucking problem telling the pigs you were in this thing all the way. So if that bit of paper turns up somewhere I don’t want it to go—”

“I haven’t got it, I don’t know where it is!”

“—you’ve been fucking warned. Give me your front door key.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I’m going over to that shithole you call a flat right now and I’m searching it with Sam.”

“You’re not going over there without me—”

“Why not? Got another Indian waiter sleeping off his hangover there, have you?”

“I never—”

“I don’t give a shit,” said Jimmy. “Screw whoever you like. Give me your key. Give it me.”

More footsteps; a tinkling of keys. The sound of Jimmy walking away and then a cascade of sobs that continued until Robin pressed pause.

“She cried until the shop owner came back,” said Robin, “which was just before I did, and she hardly spoke this afternoon. I tried to walk back to the Tube with her, but she shook me off. Hopefully she’ll be in a more talkative mood tomorrow.”

“So, did you and Jimmy search her flat?” Strike asked Barclay.

“Aye. Books, drawers, under her mattress. Nothing.”

“What exactly did he say you were looking for?”

“‘Bit o’ paper wi’ handwriting an’ Billy’s name on,’ he says. ‘I had it in me wallet and it’s gone.’ Claims it’s somethin’ tae do with a drugs deal. He thinks I’m some ned who’ll believe anythin’.”

Strike put down his pen, swallowed a large mouthful of noodles and said:

“Well, I don’t know about you two, but what jumps out at me is ‘it proves we had access.’”

“I think I might know a bit more about that,” said Robin, who had so far successfully concealed her excitement about what she was about to reveal. “I found out today that Flick can speak a bit of Polish, and we know she stole cash from her previous place of work. What if—?”

“‘I do that cleaning,’” said Strike, suddenly. “That’s what she said to Jimmy, on the march, when I was following them! ‘I do that cleaning, and it’s disgusting’… Bloody hell—you think she was—?”

“Chiswell’s Polish cleaner,” said Robin, determined not to be robbed of her moment of triumph. “Yes. I do.”

Barclay was continuing to shovel pork balls into his mouth, though his eyes were suitably surprised.

“If that’s true, it changes bloody everything,” said Strike. “She’d have had access, been able to snoop around, take stuff into the house—”

“How’d she find out he wanted a cleaner?” asked Barclay.

“Must’ve seen the card he put in a newsagent’s window.”

“They live miles apart. She’s in Hackney.”