Drawing out his phone, Strike Googled “Winn marriage.” The news stories popped up immediately: Minister for Sport Splits from Husband: Separation “Amicable.” Della Winn Calls Time on Marriage. Blind Paralympics Minister to Divorce.

The stories from major newspapers were all factual and on the short side, a few padded out with details of Della’s impressive career within politics and outside. The press’s lawyers would, of course, be particularly careful around the Winns just now, with their super-injunction still in place. Strike finished his McMuffin in two bites, jammed an unlit cigarette in his mouth and limped out of the restaurant. Out on the pavement he lit up, then brought up the website of a well-known and scurrilous political blogger on his phone.

The brief paragraph had been written only a few hours previously.

Which creepy Westminster couple known to share a predilection for youthful employees are rumored to be splitting at last? He is about to lose access to the nubile political wannabes on whom he has preyed so long, but she has already found a handsome young “helper” to ease the pain of separation.

Less than forty minutes later, Strike emerged from Barons Court Tube station to lean up against the pillar-box in front of the entrance. Cutting a solitary figure beneath the Art Nouveau lettering and open segmented pediment of the grand station behind him, he took out his phone again and continued to read about the Winns’ separation. They had been married over thirty years. The only couple he knew who had been together that long were the aunt and uncle back in Cornwall, who had served as surrogate parents to Strike and his sister during those regular intervals when his mother had been unwilling or unable to care for them.

A familiar roar and rattle made Strike look up. The ancient Land Rover that Robin had taken off her parents’ hands was trundling towards him. The sight of Robin’s bright gold head behind the wheel caught the tired and faintly depressed Strike off-guard. He experienced a wave of unexpected happiness.

“Morning,” said Robin, thinking that Strike looked terrible as he opened the door and shoved in a holdall. “Oh, sod off,” she added, as a driver behind her slammed on his horn, aggravated by the time Strike was taking to get inside.

“Sorry… leg’s giving me trouble. Dressed in a hurry.”

“No problem—and you!” Robin shouted at the driver now overtaking them, who was gesticulating and mouthing obscenities at her.

Finally dropping down into the passenger seat, Strike slammed the door and Robin pulled away from the curb.

“Any trouble getting away?” he asked.

“What d’you—?”

“The journalist.”

“Oh,” she said. “No—he’s gone. Given up.”

Strike wondered just how difficult Matthew had been about Robin giving up a Saturday for work.

“Heard about the Winns?” he asked her.

“No, what’s happened?”

“They’ve split up.”

“No!”

“Yep. In all the papers. Listen to this…”

He read aloud the blind item on the political website.

“God,” said Robin quietly.

“I had a couple of interesting calls last night,” Strike said, as they sped towards the M4.

“Who from?”

“One from Izzy, the other from Barclay. Izzy got a letter from Geraint yesterday,” said Strike.

“Really?” said Robin.

“Yeah. It was sent to Chiswell House a few days back, not her London flat, so she only opened it when she went back to Woolstone. I got her to scan and email it to me. Want to hear?”

“Go on,” said Robin.

“‘My very dear Isabella—’”

“Ugh,” said Robin, with a small shudder.

“‘As I hope you will understand,’” read Strike, “‘Della and I did not feel it appropriate to contact you in the immediate, shocking aftermath of your father’s death. We do so now in a spirit of friendliness and compassion.’”

“If you need to point that out…”

“‘Della and I may have had political and personal differences with Jasper, but I hope we never forgot that he was a family man, and we are aware that your personal loss will be severe. You ran his office with courtesy and efficiency and our little corridor will be the poorer for your absence.’”

“He always cut Izzy dead!” said Robin.

“Exactly what Izzy said on the phone last night,” replied Strike. “Stand by, you’re about to get a mention.

“‘I cannot believe that you had anything to do with the almost certainly illegal activities of the young woman calling herself “Venetia.” We feel it only fair to inform you that we are currently investigating the possibility that she may have accessed confidential data on the multiple occasions she entered this office without consent.’”

“I never looked at anything except the plug socket,” said Robin, “and I didn’t access the office on ‘multiple occasions.’ Three. That’s ‘a few,’ at most.”

“‘As you know, the tragedy of suicide has touched our own family. We know that this will be an extremely difficult and painful time for you. Our families certainly seem fated to bump into each other in their darkest hours.

“‘Sending our very best wishes, our thoughts are with all of you, etc, etc.’”

Strike closed the letter on his phone.

“That’s not a letter of condolence,” said Robin.

“Nope, it’s a threat. If the Chiswells blab about anything you found out about Geraint or the charity, he’ll go after them, hard, using you.”

She turned onto the motorway.

“When did you say that letter was sent?”

“Five, six days ago,” said Strike, checking.

“It doesn’t sound as though he knew his marriage was over then, does it? All that ‘our corridor will be poorer for your absence’ guff. He’s lost his job if he’s split with Della, surely?”

“You’d think so,” agreed Strike. “How handsome would you say Aamir Mallik is?”

“What?” said Robin, startled. “Oh… the ‘young helper’? Well, he’s OK looking, but not model material.”

“It must be him. How many other young men’s hands is she holding and calling darling?”

“I can’t imagine him as her lover,” said Robin.

“‘A man of your habits,’” quoted Strike. “Pity you can’t remember what number that poem was.”

“Is there one about sleeping with an older woman?”

“The best-known ones are on that very subject,” said Strike. “Catullus was in love with an older woman.”

“Aamir isn’t in love,” said Robin. “You heard the tape.”

“He didn’t sound smitten, I grant you. I wouldn’t mind knowing what causes the animal noises he makes at night, though. The ones the neighbors complain about.”

His leg was throbbing. Reaching down to feel the join between prosthesis and stump, he knew that part of the problem was having put on the former hurriedly, in the dark.

“D’you mind if I readjust—?”