Not that he was currently moving a great deal. Indeed, for much of the past half an hour he had been almost motionless, as he pored over the photographs that Robin had taken in Ebury Street, which he had printed out in Nick’s study for convenience. Finally, causing Ricky to jump up in a flurry of upended fur, Strike isolated nine of the photographs and put the rest in a pile. While Strike scrutinized his selected images, Ricky settled back down, the tip of a black tail swaying as he awaited the detective’s next move.

The first photograph that Strike had selected showed a close-up of the small, semi-circular puncture mark on Chiswell’s left hand.

The second and third pictures showed different angles of the glass that had sat on the coffee table in front of Chiswell. A powdery residue was visible on the sides, above an inch of orange juice.

The fourth, fifth and sixth photographs Strike laid together side by side. Each showed a slightly different angle of the body, with slices of the surrounding room caught within its frame. Once again, Strike studied the ghostly outline of the buckled sword in the corner, the dark patch over the mantelpiece where a picture had previously hung and, beneath this, barely noticeable against the dark wallpaper, a pair of brass hooks spaced nearly a yard apart.

The seventh and eighth photographs, when placed side by side, showed the entirety of the coffee table. Kinvara’s farewell letter sat on top of a number of papers and books, of which only a sliver of one letter was visible, signed by “Brenda Bailey.” Of the books, Strike could see nothing but a partial title on an old cloth edition—“CATUL”—and the lower part of a Penguin paperback. Also in shot was the upturned corner of the threadbare rug beneath the table.

The ninth and final picture, which Strike had enlarged from yet another shot of the body, showed Chiswell’s gaping trouser pocket, in which something shiny and golden had been caught in the flash of Robin’s camera. While he was still contemplating this gleaming object, Strike’s mobile rang. It was his hostess, Ilsa.

“Hi,” he said, standing up and grabbing the packet of Benson & Hedges and lighter that lay on the side behind him. With an eruption of claws on wood, Ossie and Ricky streaked along the top of the kitchen cabinets, in case Strike was about to start throwing things at them. Checking to see that they were too far away to make a break for the garden, Strike let himself outside and swiftly closed the back door. “Any news?”

“Yes. Looks like you were right.”

Strike sat down on a wrought iron garden chair and lit up.

“Go on.”

“I’ve just had coffee with my contact. He can’t speak freely, given the nature of what we’re talking about, but I put your theory to him and he said ‘That sounds very plausible.’ Then I said, ‘Fellow politician?’ and he said that sounded very likely, too, and I said I supposed that in that situation, the press would appeal, and he said, yes, he thought so, too.”

Strike exhaled.

“I owe you, Ilsa, thanks. The good news is, I’ll be able to get out of your hair.”

“Corm, we don’t mind you staying, you know that.”

“The cats don’t like me.”

“Nick says they can tell you’re a Gooner.”

“The comedy circuit lost a shining light when your husband decided on medicine. Dinner’s on me tonight and I’ll clear out afterwards.”

Strike then rang Robin. She picked up on the second ring.

“Everything OK?”

“I’ve found out why the press aren’t all over us. Della’s taken out a super-injunction. The papers aren’t allowed to report that Chiswell hired us, in case it breaks the blackmail story. Ilsa’s just met her High Court contact and he confirmed it.”

There was a pause, while Robin digested this information.

“So Della convinced a judge that Chiswell made up the blackmail?”

“Exactly, that he was using us to dig dirt on enemies. I’m not surprised the judge swallowed it. The whole world thinks Della’s whiter than white.”

“But Izzy knew why I was there,” protested Robin. “The family will have confirmed that he was being blackmailed.”

Strike tapped ash absentmindedly into Ilsa’s pot of rosemary.

“Will they? Or will they want it all hushed up, now he’s dead?”

He took her silence as reluctant agreement.

“The press will appeal the injunction, won’t they?”

“They’re already trying, according to Ilsa. If I were a tabloid editor, I’d be having us watched, so I think we’d better be careful. I’m going back to the office tonight, but I think you should stay home.”

“For how long?” said Robin.

He heard the strain in her voice and wondered whether it was entirely due to the stress of the case.

“We’ll play it by ear. Robin, they know you were the one inside the Houses of Parliament. You became the story while he was alive and you’re sure as hell the story now they know who you really are, and he’s dead.”

She said nothing.

“How’re you getting on with the accounts?” he asked.

She had insisted on being given this job, little though either of them enjoyed it.

“They’d look a lot healthier if Chiswell had paid his bill.”

“I’ll try and tap the family,” said Strike, rubbing his eyes, “but it feels tasteless asking for money before the funeral.”

“I’ve been looking through the photos again,” said Robin. In daily contact since finding the body, every one of their conversations wound its way back to the pictures of Chiswell’s corpse and the room in which they had found him.

“Me too. Notice anything new?”

“Yes, two little brass hooks on the wall. I think the sword was usually—”

“—displayed beneath the missing painting?”

“Exactly. D’you think it was Chiswell’s, from the army?”

“Very possibly. Or some ancestor’s.”

“I wonder why it was taken down? And how it got bent?”

“You think Chiswell grabbed it off the wall to try and defend himself against his murderer?”

“That’s the first time,” said Robin quietly, “you’ve said it. ‘Murderer.’”

A wasp swooped low over Strike but, repelled by his cigarette smoke, buzzed away again.

“I was joking.”

“Were you?”

Strike stretched out his legs in front of him, contemplating his feet. Stuck in the house, which was warm, he had not bothered with shoes and socks. His bare foot, which rarely saw sunlight, was pale and hairy. The prosthetic foot, a single piece of carbon fiber with no individual toes, had a dull gleam in the sunshine.

“There are odd features,” Strike said, as he waggled his remaining toes, “but it’s been a week and no arrest. The police will have noticed everything we did.”

“Hasn’t Wardle heard anything? Vanessa’s dad’s ill. She’s on compassionate leave, or I’d’ve asked her.”

“Wardle’s deep in anti-terrorist stuff for the Olympics. Considerately spared the time to call my voicemail and piss himself laughing at my client dying on me, though.”

“Cormoran, did you notice the name on those homeopathic pills I trod on?”