This prediction was followed by a description of the soul-searching and doubts that had preceded Lorelei’s decision to send the email, rather than simply tell Strike that their no-strings arrangement was at an end. She concluded that she thought it fairest to him to explain in writing why she, and by implication every other woman in the world, would find him unacceptable unless he changed his behavior. She asked him to read and think about what she had said “understanding that this doesn’t come from a place of anger, but of sadness,” and requested a further meeting so that they could “decide whether you want this relationship enough to try a different way.”

After reaching the bottom of the email, Strike remained where he was, staring at the screen, not because he was contemplating a response, but because he was gathering himself for the physical pain he was anticipating upon standing up. At last he pushed himself up into a vertical position, flinching as he lowered his weight onto the prosthesis, then closed down his computer and locked up the office.

Why can’t we can’t end it by phone? he thought, heaving himself up the stairs by using the handrail. It’s obvious it’s fucking dead, isn’t it? Why do we have to have a post-mortem?

Back in the flat, he lit another cigarette, dropped down onto a kitchen chair and called Robin, who answered almost immediately.

“Hi,” she said quietly. “Just a moment.”

He heard a door close, footsteps, and another door closing.

“Did you get my email? Just sent you a couple of pictures.”

“No,” said Robin, keeping her voice low. “Pictures of what?”

“I think I’ve found Mallik living in Battersea. Pudgy bloke with a monobrow.”

“That’s not him. He’s tall and thin with glasses.”

“So I’ve just wasted an hour,” said Strike, frustrated. “Didn’t he ever let slip where he was living? What he liked to do at the weekends? National Insurance number?”

“No,” said Robin, “we barely spoke. I’ve already told you this.”

“How’s the disguise coming along?”

Robin had already told Strike by text that she had an interview on Thursday with the “mad Wiccan” who ran the jewelry shop in Camden.

“Not bad,” said Robin. “I’ve been experimenting with—”

There was a muffled shout in the background.

“Sorry, I’m going to have to go,” Robin said hastily.

“Everything OK?”

“It’s fine, speak tomorrow.”

She hung up. Strike remained with the mobile at his ear. He deduced that he had called during a difficult moment for Robin, possibly even a row, and lowered the mobile with faint disappointment at not having had a longer chat. For a moment or two, he contemplated the mobile in his hand. Lorelei would be expecting him to call as soon as he had read her email. Deciding that he could credibly claim not to have seen it yet, Strike put down his phone and reached instead for the TV remote control.

46

… I should have handled the affair more judiciously.

Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm

Four days later, at lunchtime, Strike was to be found leaning up against a counter in a tiny takeaway pizza restaurant, which was most conveniently situated for watching a house directly across the street. One of a pair of brown brick semi-detached houses, the name “Ivy Cottages” was engraved in stone over the twin doors, which seemed to Strike more fitting for humbler dwellings than these houses, which had graceful arched windows and corniced keystones.

Chewing on a slice of pizza, Strike felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He checked to see who was calling before answering, because he had already had one fraught conversation with Lorelei today. Seeing that it was Robin, he answered.

“I’m in,” said Robin. She sounded excited. “Just had my interview. The owner’s dreadful, I’m not surprised nobody wants to work for her. It’s a zero-hours contract. Basically, she wants a couple of people to fill in whenever she fancies not working.”

“Flick still there?”

“Yes, she was manning the counter while I was talking to the shop owner. The woman wants to give me a trial tomorrow.”

“You weren’t followed?”

“No, I think that journalist has given up. He wasn’t here yesterday either. Mind you, he probably wouldn’t have recognized me even if he’d seen me. You should see my hair.”

“Why, what have you done with it?”

“Chalk.”

“What?”

“Hair chalk,” said Robin. “Temporary color. It’s black and blue. And I’m wearing a lot of eye makeup and some temporary tattoos.”

“Send us a selfie, I could do with some light relief.”

“Make your own. What’s going on your end?”

“Bugger all. Mallik came out of Della’s house with her this morning—”

“God, are they living together?”

“No idea. They went out somewhere in a taxi with the guide dog. They came back an hour ago and I’m waiting to see what happens next. One interesting thing, though: I’ve seen Mallik before. Recognized him the moment I saw him this morning.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he was at Jimmy’s CORE meeting. The one I went to, to try and find Billy.”

“How weird… D’you think he was acting as a go-between for Geraint?”

“Maybe,” said Strike, “but I can’t see why the phone wouldn’t have done if they wanted to keep in touch. You know, there’s something funny about Mallik generally.”

“He’s all right,” said Robin quickly. “He didn’t like me, but that was because he was suspicious. That just means he’s sharper than most of the rest of them.”

“You don’t fancy him as a killer?”

“Is this because of what Kinvara said?”

“‘My husband provoked somebody, somebody I warned him he shouldn’t upset,’” Strike quoted.

“And why should anyone be particularly worried about upsetting Aamir? Because he’s brown? I felt sorry for him, actually, having to work with—”

“Hang on,” said Strike, letting his last piece of pizza fall back onto the plate.

The front door of Della’s house had opened again.

“We’re off,” said Strike, as Mallik came out of the house alone, closed the door behind him, walked briskly down the garden path, and set off down the road. Strike headed out of the pizzeria in pursuit.

“Got a spring in his step now. He looks happy to be away from her…”

“How’s your leg?”

“It’s been worse. Hang on, he’s turning left… Robin, I’m going to go, need to speed up a bit.”

“Good luck.”

“Cheers.”

Strike crossed Southwark Park Road as quickly as his leg permitted, then turned into Alma Grove, a long residential street with plane trees planted at regular intervals, and Victorian terraced houses on both sides. To Strike’s surprise, Mallik stopped at a house on the right, with a turquoise door, and let himself inside. The distance between his place of residence and that of the Winns’ was five minutes’ walk at most.