“He throttled him,” said Billy, with a panicked expression. “It was real, he killed—”

“No, no, he didn’t!” said Izzy, distressed. “Billy, you know he didn’t—you must remember Raff, he came to us every summer, he’s alive!”

“Freddie put his hands round Raphael’s neck,” said Strike, “and squeezed until he was unconscious. Raphael urinated. He collapsed. But he didn’t die.”

Billy’s left hand was still gripping his right tightly.

“I did see it.”

“Yeah, you did,” said Strike, “and, all things considered, you were a bloody good witness.”

The waitress returned with their meals. Once everyone was served, Strike with his rib-eye steak and chips, the two women with their quinoa salads and Billy with the soup, which was all he seemed to have felt confident ordering, Izzy continued her story.

“Raff told me what had happened when I got back from the holidays. He was so little, so upset, I tried to bring it up with Papa, but he wouldn’t listen. He just sort of brushed me off. Said Raphael was whiny and always… always complaining…

“And I look back,” she said to Strike and Robin, her eyes filling with tears again, “and I think about it all… how much hate Raff must’ve felt, after things like that…”

“Yeah, Raphael’s defense team will probably try and use that kind of thing,” said Strike briskly, as he attacked his steak, “but the fact remains, Izzy, that he didn’t act on his desire to see your father dead until he found out there was a Stubbs hanging upstairs.”

“A disputed Stubbs,” Izzy corrected Strike, pulling a handkerchief out of her cuff and blowing her nose. “Henry Drummond thinks it’s a copy. The man from Christie’s is hopeful, but there’s a Stubbs aficionado in the States who’s flying over to examine it, and he says it doesn’t match the notes Stubbs made of the lost painting… but honestly,” she shook her head, “I don’t give a damn. What that thing’s led to, what it’s done to our family… it can go in a skip for all I care. There are more important things,” said Izzy croakily, “than money.”

Strike had an excuse for making no reply, his mouth being full of steak, but he wondered whether it had occurred to Izzy that the fragile man beside her was living in a tiny two-roomed flat in East Ham with his brother, and that Billy was, properly speaking, owed money from the sale of the last set of gallows. Perhaps, once the Stubbs was sold, the Chiswell family might consider fulfilling that obligation.

Billy was eating his soup in an almost trancelike state, his eyes unfocused. Robin thought his deeply contemplative state seemed peaceful, even happy.

“So, I must’ve got confused, mustn’t I?” Billy asked at last. He spoke now with the confidence of a man who feels firm footing in reality. “I saw the horse being buried and thought it was the kid. I got mixed up, that’s all.”

“Well,” said Strike, “I think there might be a bit more to it than that. You knew that the man who’d throttled the child was the same one burying the horse in the dell with your father. I suppose Freddie wasn’t around much, being so much older than you, so you weren’t completely clear who he was… but I think you’ve blocked out a lot about the horse and how it died. You conflated two acts of cruelty, perpetrated by the same person.”

“What happened,” asked Billy, now slightly apprehensive, “to the horse?”

“Don’t you remember Spotty?” asked Izzy.

Amazed, Billy set down his soup spoon and held his hand horizontally perhaps three feet off the ground.

“That little—yeah… didn’t it graze the croquet lawn?”

“She was an ancient, miniature spotted horse,” Izzy explained to Strike and Robin. “She was the last of Tinky’s lot. Tinky had awful, kitschy taste, even in horses…”

(… nobody noticed, and you know why? Because they’re such fucking arrogant snobs… )

“… but Spotty was awfully sweet,” Izzy admitted. “She’d follow you around like a dog if you were in the garden…

“I don’t think Freddie meant to do it… but,” she said hopelessly, “oh, I don’t know anymore. I don’t know what he was thinking… he always had a terrible temper. Something had annoyed him. Papa was out, he took Papa’s rifle out of the gun cabinet, went up on the roof and started shooting at birds and then… well, he told me afterwards he hadn’t meant to hit Spotty, but he must have been aiming near her, mustn’t he, to kill her?”

He was aiming at her, thought Strike. You don’t put two bullets in an animal’s head from that distance without meaning to.

“Then he panicked,” said Izzy. “He got Jack o’—I mean, your father,” she told Billy, “to help him bury the body. When Papa came home Freddie pretended Spotty had collapsed, that he’d called the vet who’d taken her away, but of course, that story didn’t stand up for two minutes. Papa was furious when he found out the truth. He couldn’t abide cruelty to animals.

“I was heartbroken when I heard,” said Izzy sadly. “I loved Spotty.”

“You didn’t by any chance put a cross in the ground where she’d been buried, did you, Izzy?” asked Robin, her fork suspended in mid-air.

“How on earth did you know that?” asked Izzy, astonished, as tears trickled out of her eyes again, and she reached again for her handkerchief.

The downpour continued as Strike and Robin walked away from the brasserie together, along Chelsea Embankment towards Albert Bridge. The slate-gray Thames rolled eternally onwards, its surface barely troubled by the thickening rain that threatened to extinguish Strike’s cigarette, and soaked the few tendrils of hair that had escaped the hood of Robin’s raincoat.

“Well, that’s the upper classes for you,” said Strike. “By all means throttle their kids, but don’t touch their horses.”

“Not entirely fair,” Robin reproved him. “Izzy thinks Raphael was treated appallingly.”

“Nothing to what he’s got coming to him in Dartmoor,” said Strike indifferently. “My pity’s limited.”

“Yes,” said Robin, “you made that abundantly clear.”

Their shoes smacked wetly on the shining pavement.

“CBT still going all right?” Strike asked, who was limiting the question to once weekly. “Keeping up your exercises?”

“Diligently,” said Robin.

“Don’t be flippant, I’m serious—”

“So am I,” said Robin, without heat. “I’m doing what I’ve got to do. I haven’t had a single panic attack for weeks. How’s your leg?”

“Getting better. Doing my stretches. Watching my diet.”

“You just ate half a potato field and most of a cow.”

“That was the last meal I can charge to the Chiswells,” said Strike. “Wanted to make the most of it. What are your plans this afternoon?”

“I need to get that file from Andy, then I’ll ring the guy in Finsbury Park and see whether he’ll talk to us. Oh, and Nick and Ilsa said to ask if you want to come for a takeaway curry tonight.”