“Carry on,” said Robin.

Strike rolled up his trouser leg and proceeded to remove the prosthesis. Ever since he had been forced to take two weeks off wearing it, the skin at the end of his stump had shown a tendency to object to renewed friction. Retrieving E45 cream from his holdall, he applied it liberally to the reddened skin.

“Should’ve done this earlier,” he said apologetically.

Deducing from the presence of Strike’s holdall that he had come from Lorelei’s, Robin found herself wondering whether he had been too pleasurably occupied to worry about his leg. She and Matthew had not had sex since their anniversary weekend.

“I’ll leave it off for a bit,” said Strike, heaving both prosthesis and holdall into the back of the Land Rover, which he now saw was empty but for a tartan flask and two plastic cups. This was a disappointment. There had always been a carrier bag full of food on the previous occasions they had ventured out of London by car.

“No biscuits?”

“I thought you were trying to lose weight?”

“Nothing eaten on a car journey counts, any competent dietician will tell you that.”

Robin grinned.

“‘Calories Are Bollocks: the Cormoran Strike Diet.’”

“‘Hunger Strike: Car Journeys I Have Starved On.’”

“Well, you should’ve had breakfast,” said Robin, and to her own annoyance, she wondered for the second time whether he had been otherwise engaged.

“I did have breakfast. Now I want a biscuit.”

“We can stop somewhere if you’re hungry,” said Robin. “We should have plenty of time.”

As Robin accelerated smoothly to overtake a couple of dawdling cars, Strike was aware of an ease and restfulness that could not be entirely ascribed to the relief of removing his prosthesis, nor even of having escaped Lorelei’s flat, with its kitschy décor and its heartsore occupant. The very fact that he had removed his leg while Robin drove, and was not sitting with all muscles clenched, was highly unusual. Not only had he had to work hard to overcome anxiety at being driven by other people in the aftermath of the explosion that had blown off his leg, he had a secret but deep-rooted aversion to women drivers, a prejudice he ascribed largely to early, nerve-wracking experiences with all his female relatives. Yet it was not merely a prosaic appreciation of her competence that had caused that sudden lifting of the heart when he had seen her driving towards him this morning. Now, watching the road, he experienced a spasm of memory, sharp with both pleasure and pain; his nostrils seemed to be full again with the smell of white roses, as he held her on the stairs at her wedding and he felt her mouth beneath his in the hot fug of a hospital car park.

“Could you pass me my sunglasses?” asked Robin. “In my bag there.”

He handed them over.

“Want a tea?”

“I’ll wait,” said Robin, “you carry on.”

He reached into the back for the thermos and poured himself a plastic cup full. The tea was exactly as he liked it.

“I asked Izzy about Chiswell’s will last night,” Strike told Robin.

“Did he leave a lot?” asked Robin, remembering the shabby interior of the house in Ebury Street.

“Much less than you might’ve thought,” said Strike, taking out the notebook in which he had jotted everything Izzy had told him. “Oliver was right. The Chiswells are on their uppers—in a relative sense, obviously,” he added.

“Apparently Chiswell’s father spent most of the capital on women and horses. Chiswell had a very messy divorce from Lady Patricia. Her family was wealthy and could afford better lawyers. Izzy and her sister are all right for cash through their mother’s family. There’s a trust fund, which explains Izzy’s smart flat in Chelsea.

“Raphael’s mother walked away with hefty child support, which seems to have nearly cleaned Chiswell out. After that, he plunged the little he had left into some risky equities advised by his stockbroker son-in-law. ‘Torks’ feels pretty bad about that, apparently. Izzy would rather we didn’t mention it today. The 2008 crash virtually wiped Chiswell out.

“He tried to do some planning against death duties. Shortly after he lost most of his cash, some valuable family heirlooms and Chiswell House itself were made over to the eldest grandson—”

“Pringle,” said Robin.

“What?”

“Pringle. That’s what they call the eldest grandson. Fizzy’s got three children,” Robin explained, “Izzy was always banging on about them: Pringle, Flopsy and Pong.”

“Jesus Christ,” muttered Strike. “It’s like interviewing the Teletubbies.”

Robin laughed.

“—and otherwise, Chiswell seems to have been hoping he could put himself right by selling off land around Chiswell House and objects of less sentimental value. The house in Ebury Street’s been remortgaged.”

“So Kinvara and all her horses are living in her step-grandson’s house?” said Robin, changing up a gear to overtake a lorry.

“Yeah, Chiswell left a letter of wishes with his will, asking that Kinvara has the right to remain in the house lifelong, or until she remarries. How old’s this Pringle?”

“About ten, I think.”

“Well, it’ll be interesting to see whether the family honor Chiswell’s request given that one of them thinks Kinvara killed him. Mind you, it’s a moot point whether she’ll have enough money to keep the place running, from what Izzy told me last night. Izzy and her sister were each left fifty grand, and the grandchildren get ten grand apiece, and there’s hardly enough cash to honor those bequests. That leaves Kinvara with what’s left from the house in Ebury Street once it’s sold off and all other personal effects, minus the valuable stuff that was already put into the grandson’s name. Basically, he’s leaving her with the junk that wasn’t worth selling and any personal gifts he gave her during the marriage.”

“And Raphael gets nothing?”

“I wouldn’t feel too sorry for him. According to Izzy, his glamorous mother’s made a career out of asset-stripping wealthy men. He’s in line to inherit a flat in Chelsea from her.

“So all in all, it’s hard to make a case for Chiswell being killed for his money,” said Strike. “What is the other sister’s bloody name? I’m not calling her Fizzy.”

“Sophia,” said Robin, amused.

“Right, well, we can rule her out. I’ve checked, she was taking a Riding for the Disabled lesson in Northumberland on the morning he died. Raphael had nothing to gain from his father’s death, and Izzy thinks he knew it, although we’ll need to check that. Izzy herself got what she called ‘a bit squiffy’ at Lancaster House and felt a bit fragile the following day. Her neighbor can vouch for the fact that she was having tea in the shared courtyard behind their flats at the time of death. She told me that quite naturally last night.”

“Which leaves Kinvara,” said Robin.

“Right. Now, if Chiswell didn’t trust her with the information that he’d called in a private detective, he might not have been honest about the state of the family finances, either. It’s possible she thought she was going to get a lot more than she has, but—”