“Congratulations,” he said, keeping his eyes on her face.

“I’m huge because it’s twins.”

She did not, as he had seen other pregnant women do, touch her belly as she talked about the babies, but looked down as though slightly surprised to see her changed shape. She had never wanted children when they had been together. It was one of the things they had had in common. The baby that she had claimed was his had been an unwelcome surprise to both of them.

In Strike’s imagination, Jago Ross’s progeny were curled under the black dress like a pair of white whelps, not entirely human, emissaries of their father, who resembled a dissolute arctic fox. He was glad they were there, if such a joyless emotion could be called gladness. All impediments, all deterrents, were welcome, because it now became apparent to him that the gravitational pull Charlotte had so long exerted over him, even after hundreds of fights and scenes and a thousand lies, was not yet spent. As ever, he had the sense that behind the green-and-gold-flecked eyes, she knew exactly what he was thinking.

“They aren’t due for ages. I had a scan, it’s a boy and a girl. Jago’s pleased about the boy. Are you here with anyone?”

“No.”

As he said it, he caught a flash of green over Charlotte’s shoulder. Robin, who was now talking brightly to the mousy woman in purple brocade who had finally escaped Geraint.

“Pretty,” said Charlotte, who had looked to see what had caught his attention. She had always had a preternatural ability to detect the slightest flicker of interest towards other women. “No, wait,” she said slowly, “isn’t that the girl who works with you? She was in all the papers—what’s her name, Rob—?”

“No,” said Strike, “that’s not her.”

He wasn’t remotely surprised that Charlotte knew Robin’s name, or that she had recognized her, even with the hazel contact lenses. He had known Charlotte would keep tabs on him.

“You’ve always liked girls with that coloring, haven’t you?” said Charlotte with a kind of synthetic gaiety. “That little American you started dating after you pretended we’d broken up in Germany had the same kind of—”

There was a kind of hushed scream in their vicinity.

“Ohmigod, Charlie!”

Izzy Chiswell was bearing down upon them, beaming, her pink face clashing with her orange dress. She was, Strike suspected, not on her first glass of wine.

“Hello, Izz,” said Charlotte, forcing a smile. Strike could almost feel the effort it cost her to tug herself free of that tangle of ancient grudges and wounds in which their relationship had gradually strangled to death.

Again, he prepared to walk away, but the crowd parted and Prince Harry was suddenly revealed in all his hyper-real familiarity, some ten feet away from where Strike and the two women stood, so that moving away from the area would be done under the scrutiny of half the room. Trapped, Strike startled a passing waiter by reaching out a long arm and snatching another glass of wine from his tray. For a few seconds, both Charlotte and Izzy watched the prince. Then, when it became apparent that he was not about to approach them any time soon, they turned back to each other.

“Showing already!” Izzy said, admiring Charlotte’s belly. “Have you had a scan? D’you know what it is?”

“Twins,” said Charlotte, without enthusiasm. She indicated Strike, “You remember—?”

“Corm, yah, of course, we brought him here!” said Izzy, beaming and clearly unconscious of any indiscretion.

Charlotte turned from her old schoolfriend to her ex, and Strike could feel her sniffing the air for the reason that Strike and Izzy would have traveled together. She shifted very slightly, apparently allowing Izzy into the conversation, but boxing Strike in so that he couldn’t walk away without asking one of them to get out of his way. “Oh, wait, of course. You investigated Freddie’s death in action, didn’t you?” she said. “I remember you telling me about it. Poor Freddie.”

Izzy acknowledged this tribute to her brother with a slight tip of her glass, then peeked back over her shoulder at Prince Harry.

“He gets sexier every passing day, doesn’t he?” she whispered.

“Ginger pubes, though, darling,” said Charlotte, deadpan.

Against his will, Strike grinned. Izzy snorted with laughter.

“Speaking of which,” said Charlotte (she never acknowledged that she had been funny), “isn’t that Kinvara Hanratty over there?”

“My ghastly stepmother? Yes,” said Izzy. “D’you know her?”

“My sister sold her a horse.”

During the sixteen years of Strike’s on-off relationship with Charlotte, he had been privy to countless conversations like this. People of Charlotte’s class all seemed to know each other. Even if they had never met, they knew siblings or cousins or friends or classmates, or else their parents knew somebody else’s parents: all were connected, forming a kind of web that constituted a hostile habitat for outsiders. Rarely did these web-dwellers leave to seek companionship or love among the rest of society. Charlotte had been unique in her circle in choosing somebody as unclassifiable as Strike, whose invisible appeal and low status had, he knew, been subjects of perennial, horrified debate among most of her friends and family.

“Well, I hope it wasn’t a horse Amelia liked,” Izzy said, “because Kinvara will ruin it. Awful hands and a horrible seat, but she thinks she’s Charlotte Dujardin. D’you ride, Cormoran?” Izzy asked.

“No,” said Strike.

“He doesn’t trust horses,” said Charlotte, smiling at him.

But he did not respond. He had no desire to touch upon old jokes or shared memories.

“Kinvara’s livid, look at her,” said Izzy, with some satisfaction. “Papa’s just dropped a heavy hint he’s going to try and talk my brother Raff into taking over from me, which is fabulous, and what I hoped would happen. Papa used to let Kinvara boss him around about Raff, but he’s putting his foot down these days.”

“I think I’ve met Raphael,” said Charlotte. “Wasn’t he working at Henry Drummond’s art gallery a couple of months ago?”

Strike checked at his watch and then back around the room. The prince was moving away from their part of the room and Robin was nowhere to be seen. With any luck, she had followed the trustee who had dirt on Winn into the bathroom and was eliciting confidences over the sink.

“Oh Lord,” said Izzy. “Look out. Geraint Bloody—hello, Geraint!”

Geraint’s object, it soon became clear, was Charlotte.

“Hello, hello,” he said, peering at her through heavily smudged glasses, his lipless smile a leer. “You’ve just been pointed out to me by your niece. What an extraordinary young woman she is, quite extraordinary. Our charity’s involved in supporting the equestrian team. Geraint Winn,” he said, holding out a hand, “The Level Playing Field.”

“Oh,” said Charlotte. “Hello.”

Strike had watched her repel lecherous men for years. Having acknowledged his presence, she stared coldly at Geraint, as though quite puzzled to know why he was still in her vicinity.

Strike’s mobile vibrated in his pocket. Reaching for it, he saw an unknown number. This was his excuse to leave.