Robin had caved in to the combined insistence of Nick, Ilsa and Strike himself that going to live in a box room in a house full of strangers was undesirable in the immediate aftermath of being taken hostage at gunpoint. In three days’ time, she would be moving into a room in a flat in Earl’s Court, which she would share with a gay actor friend of Ilsa’s whose previous partner had moved out. Her new flatmate’s stated requirements were cleanliness, sanity and tolerance of irregular hours.

“Yeah, great,” said Strike. “I’ll have to head back to the office first. Barclay reckons he’s got Dodgy bang to rights this time. Another teenager, going in and out of a hotel together.”

“Great,” said Robin. “No, I don’t mean great, I mean—”

“It is great,” said Strike firmly, as the rain splashed over and around them. “Another satisfied client. The bank balance is looking uncharacteristically healthy. Might be able to hike your salary up a bit. Anyway, I’m going up here. See you at Nick and Ilsa’s later, then.”

They parted with a wave, concealing from each other the slight smile that each wore once safely walking away, pleased to know that they would meet again in a few short hours, over curry and beer at Nick and Ilsa’s. But soon Robin had given over her thoughts to the questions needing answers from a man in Finsbury Park.

Head bowed against the rain, she had no attention left to spare for the magnificent mansion past which she was walking, its rain-specked windows facing the great river, its front doors engraved with twin swans.