The following morning, a carefully worded official statement about Jasper Chiswell appeared in all the papers. Along with the rest of the British public, Strike learned over his breakfast that the authorities had concluded that no foreign power or terrorist organization had been involved in the untimely death of the Minister for Culture, but that no other conclusion had yet been reached.

The news that there was no news had been greeted online with barely a ripple of interest. The local postboxes of Olympic winners were still being painted gold, and the public was basking in the satisfied afterglow arising from a triumphant games, its unspent enthusiasm for all things athletic now concentrated on the imminent prospect of the Paralympics. Chiswell’s death had been filed away in the popular mind as the vaguely inexplicable suicide of a wealthy Tory.

Keen to know whether this official statement indicated that the Met investigation was close to concluding, Strike called Wardle to find out what he knew.

Unfortunately, the policeman was no wiser than Strike himself. Wardle added, not without a certain irritability, that he had not had a single day off in three weeks, that the policing of the capital while the city heaved under the weight of millions of extra visitors was complex and onerous past Strike’s probable understanding, and that he didn’t have time to go ferreting for information on unrelated matters on Strike’s behalf.

“Fair enough,” said Strike, unfazed. “Only asking. Say hello to April for me.”

“Oh yeah,” said Wardle, before Strike could hang up. “She wanted me to ask you what you’re playing at with Lorelei.”

“Better let you go, Wardle, the country needs you,” said Strike, and he hung up on the policeman’s grudging laugh.

In the absence of information from his police contacts, and with no official standing to secure him the interviews he desired, Strike was temporarily stymied at a crucial point in the case, a frustration no more pleasant for being familiar.

A few phone calls after breakfast informed him that Francesca Pulham, Raphael’s sometime colleague and lover from Drummond’s gallery, was still studying in Florence, where she had been sent to remove her from his pernicious influence. Francesca’s parents were currently on holiday in Sri Lanka. The Pulhams’ housekeeper, who was the only person connected with the family that Strike was able to reach, refused point blank to give him telephone numbers for any of them. From her reaction, he guessed the Pulhams might be the kind of people who’d run for lawyers at the very idea of a private detective calling their house.

Having exhausted all possible avenues to the holidaying Pulhams, Strike left a polite request for an interview on Geraint Winn’s voicemail, the fourth he had made that week, but the day wore on and Winn didn’t call back. Strike couldn’t blame him. He doubted that he would have chosen to be helpful, had he been in Winn’s shoes.

Strike had not yet told Robin that he had a new theory about the case. She was busy in Harley Street, watching Dodgy Doc, but on Wednesday she called the office with the welcome news that she had arranged an interview with Tegan Butcher on Saturday at Newbury Racecourse.

“Excellent!” said Strike, cheered by the prospect of action, and striding through to the outer office to bring up Google Maps on Robin’s computer. “OK, I think we’re going to be looking at an overnighter. Interview Tegan, then head over to Steda Cottage once it gets dark.”

“Cormoran, are you serious about this?” said Robin. “You genuinely want to go digging in the dell?”

“That sounds like a nursery rhyme,” said Strike vaguely, examining B roads on the monitor. “Look, I don’t think there’s anything there. In fact, as of yesterday, I’m sure of it.”

“What happened yesterday?”

“I had an idea. I’ll tell you when I see you. Look, I promised Billy I’d find out the truth about his strangled child. There’s no other way to be totally sure, is there, other than digging? But if you’re feeling squeamish, you can stay in the car.”

“And what about Kinvara? We’ll be on her property.”

“We’ll hardly be digging up anything important. That whole area’s waste ground. I’m going to get Barclay to meet us there, after dark. I’m not much good for digging. Will Matthew be OK if you’re away overnight Saturday?”

“Fine,” said Robin, with an odd inflection that made Strike suspect that he wouldn’t be fine about it at all.

“And you’re OK to drive the Land Rover?”

“Er—is there any chance we could take your BMW instead?”

“I’d rather not take the BMW up that overgrown track. Is there something wrong with the—?”

“No,” said Robin, cutting across him. “That’s fine, OK, we’ll take the Land Rover.”

“Great. How’s Dodgy?”

“In his consulting rooms. Any news on Aamir?”

“I’ve got Andy trying to find the sister he’s still on good terms with.”

“And what are you up to?”

“I’ve just been reading the Real Socialist Party website.”

“Why?”

“Jimmy gives quite a lot away in his blog posts. Places he’s been and things he’s seen. You OK to stay on Dodgy until Friday?”

“Actually,” said Robin, “I was going to ask whether I could take a couple of days off to deal with some personal business.”

“Oh,” said Strike, brought up short.

“I’ve got a couple of appointments I need—I’d rather not miss,” said Robin.

It wasn’t convenient to Strike to have to cover Dodgy Doc himself, partly because of the continuing pain in his leg, but mainly because he was eager to continue chasing down confirmation of his theory on the Chiswell case. This was also very short notice to ask for two days’ leave. On the other hand, Robin had just indicated a willingness to sacrifice her weekend to a probable wildgoose chase into the dell.

“Yeah, OK. Everything all right?”

“Fine, thanks. I’ll let you know if anything interesting happens with Dodgy. Otherwise, we should probably leave London at elevenish on Saturday.”

“Barons Court again?”

“Would it be all right if you meet me at Wembley Stadium station? It would just be easier, because of where I’m going to be on Friday night.”

This, too, was inconvenient: a journey for Strike of twice the length and involving a change of Tube.

“Yeah, OK,” he said again.

After Robin had hung up, he remained in her chair for a while, pondering their conversation.

She had been noticeably tight-lipped about the nature of the appointments that were so important that she didn’t want to miss them. He remembered how particularly angry Matthew had sounded in the background of his calls to Robin, to discuss their pressured, unstable and occasionally dangerous job. She had twice sounded distinctly underwhelmed about the prospect of digging in the hard ground at the bottom of the dell, and now asked to drive the BMW rather than the tank-like Land Rover.

He had almost forgotten his suspicion of a couple of months ago, that Robin might be trying to get pregnant. Into his mind swam the vision of Charlotte’s swollen belly at the dinner table. Robin wasn’t the kind of woman who’d be able to walk away from her child as soon as it left the womb. If Robin was pregnant…

Logical and methodical as he usually was, and aware in one part of himself that he was theorizing on scant data, Strike’s imagination nevertheless showed him Matthew, the father-to-be, listening in on Robin’s tense request for time off for scans and medical checks, gesticulating angrily at her that the time had come to stop, to go easy on herself, to take better care.

Strike turned back to Jimmy Knight’s blog, but it took him a little longer than usual to discipline his troubled mind back into obedience.