“Shame he’s banned, or he could’ve sued her,” said Strike, ripping out the check.

“—and Laura ran off intae the night, bawlin’. She’s left the flat.”

“Got a surname for her?”

“I’ll try and find out.”

“What’s Flick’s background, Barclay?” asked Strike as Barclay put his check into his wallet.

“Well, she told me she dropped out o’ uni,” said Barclay. “Failed her first-year exams and gave up.”

“Some of the best people drop out,” said Robin, carrying two mugs of tea over. She and Strike had both left their degree courses without a qualification.

“Cheers,” said Barclay, accepting a mug from Robin. “Her parents are divorced,” he went on, “and she’s no speaking tae either of them. They don’t like Jimmy. Cannae blame them. If my daughter ever hooks up wi’ a bawbag like Knight, I’ll know what tae do about it. When she’s not around, he tells the lads what he gets up to wi’ young girls. They all think they’re shaggin’ a great revolutionary, doin’ it for the cause. Flick doesnae know the half o’ what he’s up tae.”

“Any of them underage? His wife suggested he’s got form there. That’d be a bargaining chip.”

“All over sixteen so far’s I know.”

“Pity,” said Strike. He caught Robin’s eye, as she returned to them holding her own tea. “You know what I mean.” He turned to Barclay again. “From what I heard on that march, she’s not so monogamous herself.”

“Aye, one o’ her pals made a gag about an Indian waiter.”

“A waiter? I heard a student.”

“No reason it couldn’ta been both,” said Barclay. “I’d say she’s a—”

But catching Robin’s eye, Barclay decided against saying the word, and instead drank his tea.

“Anything new your end?” Strike asked Robin.

“Yes. I got the second listening device back.”

“You’re kidding,” said Strike, sitting up straighter.

“I’ve only just finished transcribing it all, there was hours of stuff on there. Most of it’s useless, but…”

She set down her tea, unzipped the holdall and took out the recording device.

“… there’s one strange bit. Listen to this.”

Barclay sat down on the arm of the sofa. Robin straightened up in her desk chair and flicked the switch on the device.

Geraint’s lilting accent filled the office.

“… keep them sweet, make sure I introduce Elspeth to Prince Harry,” said Geraint. “Right, that’s me off, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“G’night,” said Aamir.

Robin shook her head at Strike and Barclay and mouthed, “Wait.”

They heard the door close. After the usual thirty-second silence, there was a click, where the tape had stopped then restarted. A deep, Welsh female voice spoke.

“Are you there, sweetheart?”

Strike raised his eyebrows. Barclay stopped chewing.

“Yes,” said Aamir, in his flat London accent.

“Come and give me a kiss,” said Della.

Barclay made a small choking noise into his tea. The sound of lips smacking emanated from the bug. Feet shuffled. A chair was moved. There was a faint, rhythmic thudding.

“What’s that?” muttered Strike.

“The guide dog’s tail wagging,” said Robin.

“Let me hold your hand,” said Della. “Geraint won’t be back, don’t worry, I’ve sent him out to Chiswick. There. Thank you. Now, I needed a little private word with you. The thing is, darling, your neighbors have complained. They say they’ve been hearing funny noises through the walls.”

“Like what?” He sounded apprehensive.

“Well, they thought they might be animal,” said Della. “A dog whining or whimpering. You haven’t—?”

“Of course I haven’t,” said Aamir. “It must’ve been the telly. Why would I get a dog? I’m at work all day.”

“I thought it would be like you to bring home some poor little stray,” she said. “Your soft heart…”

“Well, I haven’t,” said Aamir. He sounded tense. “You don’t have to take my word for it. You can go and check if you want, you’ve got a key.”

“Darling, don’t be like that,” said Della. “I wouldn’t dream of letting myself in without your permission. I don’t snoop.”

“You’re within your rights,” he said, and Strike thought he sounded bitter. “It’s your house.”

“You’re upset. I knew you would be. I had to mention it, because if Geraint picks up the phone to them next time—it was the purest good luck the neighbor caught me—”

“I’ll make sure and keep the volume down from now on,” said Aamir. “OK? I’ll be careful.”

“You understand, my love, that as far as I’m concerned, you’re free to do whatever—”

“Look, I’ve been thinking,” Aamir interrupted. “I really think I should be paying you some rent. What if—”

“We’ve been over this. Don’t be silly, I don’t want your money.”

“But—”

“Apart from everything else,” she said, “you couldn’t afford it. A three-bedroomed house, on your own?”

“But—”

“We’ve been through this. You seemed happy when you first moved in… I thought you liked it—”

“Obviously, I like it. It was very generous of you,” he said stiffly.

“Generous… it’s not a question of generosity, for heaven’s sake… Now, listen: how would you like to come and have a curry? I’ve got a late vote and I was going to nip over to the Kennington Tandoori. My treat.”

“Sorry, I can’t,” said Aamir. He sounded stressed. “I’ve got to get home.”

“Oh,” said Della, with a great deal less warmth. “Oh… that’s disappointing. What a pity.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I said I’d meet a friend. University friend.”

“Ah. I see. Well, next time, I’ll make sure to call ahead. Find a slot in your diary.”

“Della, I—”

“Don’t be silly, I’m only teasing. You can walk out with me, at least?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

There was more scuffling, then the sound of the door opening. Robin turned off the tape.

“They’re shaggin’?” said Barclay loudly.

“Not necessarily,” said Robin. “The kiss might’ve been on the cheek.”

“‘Let me hold your hand’?” repeated Barclay. “Since when’s that normal office procedure?”

“How old’s this Aamir bloke?” asked Strike.

“I’d guess mid-twenties,” said Robin.

“And she’s, what…?”

“Mid-sixties,” said Robin.

“And she’s provided him with a house. He’s not related to her, is he?”