“I’m afraid,” said Strike, “I can’t take the job on those terms, Izzy.”

“Why not?”

“The client doesn’t get to tell me what I can and can’t investigate. Unless you want the whole truth, I’m not your man.”

“You are, I know you’re the best, that’s why Papa hired you, and that’s why I want you.”

“Then you’ll need to answer questions when I ask them, instead of telling me what does and doesn’t matter.”

She glared at him over the rim of her teacup, then, to his surprise, gave a brittle laugh.

“I don’t know why I’m surprised. I knew you were like this. Remember when you argued with Jamie Maugham in Nam Long Le Shaker? Oh, you must remember. You wouldn’t back down—the whole table was at you at one point—what was the argument about, d’you—?”

“The death penalty,” said Strike, caught off guard. “Yeah. I remember.”

For the space of a blink, he seemed to see, not Izzy’s clean, bright sitting room, with its relics of a wealthy English past, but the louche, dimly lit interior of a Vietnamese restaurant in Chelsea where, twelve years previously, he and one of Charlotte’s friends had got into an argument over dinner. Jamie Maugham’s face was smoothly porcine in his memory. He had wanted to show up the oik whom Charlotte had insisted on bringing to dinner instead of Jamie’s old friend, Jago Ross.

“… and Jamie got rilly, rilly angry with you,” Izzy said. “He’s quite a successful QC now, you know.”

“Must’ve learned to keep his temper in an argument, then,” said Strike, and Izzy gave another little giggle. “Izzy,” he said, returning to the main issue, “if you mean what you say—”

“—I do—”

“—then you’ll answer my questions,” said Strike, drawing a notebook out of his pocket.

Irresolute, she watched him take out a pen.

“I’m discreet,” said Strike. “In the past couple of years, I’ve been told the secrets of a hundred families and not shared one of them. Nothing irrelevant to your father’s death will ever be mentioned again outside my agency. But if you don’t trust me—”

“I do,” said Izzy desperately, and to his slight surprise, she leaned forward and touched him on the knee. “I do, Cormoran, honestly, but it’s… it’s hard… talking about Papa…”

“I understand that,” he said, readying his pen. “So let’s start with why the police questioned Raphael so much more than the rest of you.”

He could tell that she didn’t want to answer, but after a moment’s hesitation she said:

“Well, I think it was partly because Papa phoned Raff early on the morning he died. It was the last call he made.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing that mattered. It can’t have had anything to do with Papa dying. But,” she rushed on, as though wanting to extinguish any impression her last words might have made, “I think the main reason Raff isn’t keen on me hiring you is that he rather fell for your Venetia while she was in the office and now, well, obviously, he feels a bit of an idiot that he poured his heart out to her.”

“Fell for her, did he?” said Strike.

“Yes, so it’s hardly surprising he feels everyone’s made a fool of him.”

“The fact remains—”

“I know what you’re going to say, but—”

“—if you want me to investigate, it’ll be me who decides what matters, Izzy. Not you. So I want to know,” he ticked off all the times she had said that information “didn’t matter” on his fingers as he named them, “what your father called Raphael about the morning he died, what your father and Kinvara were rowing about when she hit him around the head with a hammer—and what your father was being blackmailed about.”

The sapphire cross winked darkly as Izzy’s chest rose and fell. When at last she spoke, it was jerkily.

“It’s not up to me to tell you about what Papa and Raff said to each other, the last t-time they spoke. That’s for Raff to say.”

“Because it’s private?”

“Yes,” she said, very pink in the face. He wondered whether she was telling the truth.

“You said your father had asked Raphael over to the house in Ebury Street the day he died. Was he rearranging the time? Canceling?”

“Canceling. Look, you’ll have to ask Raff,” she reiterated.

“All right,” said Strike, making a note. “What caused your stepmother to hit your father around the head with a hammer?”

Izzy’s eyes filled with tears. Then, with a sob, she pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve and pressed it to her face:

“I d-didn’t want to tell you that b-because I d-didn’t want you to think badly of Papa now he’s… now he’s… you see, he d-did something that…”

Her broad shoulders shook as she emitted unromantic snorts. Strike, who found this frank and noisy anguish more touching than he would have found delicate eye dabbing, sat in impotent sympathy while she tried to gasp out her apologies.

“I’m—I’m s—”

“Don’t be silly,” he said gruffly. “Of course you’re upset.”

But she seemed deeply ashamed of this loss of control, and her hiccuping return to calm was punctuated with further flustered “sorrys.” At last, she wiped her face dry as roughly as though cleaning a window, said one final “I’m so sorry,” straightened her spine and said with a forcefulness Strike rather admired, given the circumstances:

“If you take the case… once we’ve signed on the dotted line… I’ll tell you what Papa did that made Kinvara hit him.”

“I assume,” said Strike, “the same goes for the reason that Winn and Knight were blackmailing your father?”

“Look,” she said, tears welling again, “don’t you see, it’s Papa’s memory, his legacy, now. I don’t want those things to be the thing people remember about him—please help us, Corm. Please. I know it wasn’t suicide, I know it wasn’t…”

He let his silence do the work for him. At last, her expression piteous, she said with a catch in her voice:

“All right. I’ll tell you all about the blackmail, but only if Fizz and Torks agree.”

“Who’s Torks?” inquired Strike.

“Torquil. Fizzy’s husband. We swore we wouldn’t ever tell anyone, but I’ll t-talk to them and if they agree, I’ll t-tell you everything.”

“Doesn’t Raphael get consulted?”

“He never knew anything about the blackmail business. He was in jail when Jimmy first came to see Papa and anyway, he didn’t grow up with us, so he couldn’t—Raff never knew.”

“And what about Kinvara?” asked Strike. “Did she know?”

“Oh, yes,” said Izzy, and a look of malice hardened her usually friendly features, “but she definitely won’t want us to tell you. Oh, not to protect Papa,” she said, correctly reading Strike’s expression, “to protect herself. Kinvara benefited, you see. She didn’t mind what Papa was up to, so long as she reaped the rewards.”

39

… naturally I talk as little about it as possible; it is better to be silent about such things.

Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm

Robin was having a bad Saturday, following an even worse night.

She had woken with a yelp at 4 a.m., with the sensation of being still tangled in the nightmare in which she had been carrying a whole bag full of listening devices through darkened streets, knowing that men in masks were following her. The old knife wound on her arm had been gaping open and it was the trail of her spurting blood that her pursuers were following, and she knew she would never make it to the place where Strike was waiting for the bag of bugs…

“What?” Matthew had said groggily, half asleep.

“Nothing,” Robin had replied, before lying sleepless until seven, when she felt entitled to get up.

A scruffy young blond man had been lurking in Albury Street for the past two days. He barely bothered to conceal the fact that he was keeping their house under observ

ation. Robin had discussed him with Strike, who was sure that he was a journalist rather than a private detective, probably a junior one, dispatched to keep tabs on her because Mitch Patterson’s hourly rate had become an unjustifiable expense.

She and Matthew had moved to Albury Street to escape the place where the Shacklewell Ripper had lurked. It was supposed to be a place of safety, yet it, too, had become contaminated by contact with unnatural death. Mid-morning, Robin had taken refuge in the bathroom before Matthew could realize she was hyperventilating again. Sitting on the bathroom floor, she had recourse to the technique she had learned in therapy, cognitive restructuring, which sought to identify the automatic thoughts of pursuit, pain and danger that sprang into her mind given certain triggers. He’s just some idiot who works for the Sun. He wants a story, that’s all. You’re safe. He can’t get at you. You’re completely safe.

When Robin emerged from the bathroom and went downstairs, she found her husband slamming kitchen doors and drawers as he threw together a sandwich. He did not offer to make one for her.

“What are we supposed to tell Tom and Sarah, with that bastard staring through the windows?”

“Why would we tell Tom and Sarah anything?” asked Robin blankly.

“We’re going to theirs for dinner tonight!”

“Oh, no,” groaned Robin. “I mean, yes. Sorry. I forgot.”

“Well, what if the bloody journalist follows us?”

“We ignore him,” said Robin. “What else can we do?”

She heard her mobile ringing upstairs and, glad of the excuse to get out of Matthew’s vicinity, went to answer it.

“Hi,” said Strike. “Good news. Izzy’s hired us to look into Chiswell’s death. Well,” he corrected himself, “what she actually wants is for us to prove Kinvara did it, but I managed to broaden the remit.”

“That’s fantastic!” whispered Robin, carefully closing the bedroom door and sitting down on the bed.

“I thought you’d be pleased,” said Strike. “Now, what we need for starters is a line on the police investigation, especially forensics. I’ve just tried Wardle, but he’s been warned not to talk to us. They seem to have guessed I’d still be sniffing around. Then I tried Anstis, but nothing doing, he’s full time on the Olympics and doesn’t know anyone on the case. So I was going to ask, is Vanessa back off compassionate leave?”

“Yes!” said Robin, suddenly excited. It was the first time she had had the useful contact, rather than Strike. “But even better than Vanessa—she’s dating a guy in forensics, Oliver, I’ve never met him, but—”

“If Oliver would agree to talk to us,” said Strike, “that would be fantastic. Tell you what, I’ll call Shanker, see whether he’ll sell me something we can offer in exchange. Call you back.”

He hung up. Though hungry, Robin did not go back downstairs, but stretched out on the smart mahogany bed, which had been a wedding gift from Matthew’s father. It was so cumbersome and heavy that it had taken the full complement of removal men, sweating and swearing under their breath, to haul it up the stairs in pieces and reassemble it in the bedroom. Robin’s dressing table, on the other hand, was old and cheap. Light as an orange crate without its drawers in, it had required only one man to pick it up and place it between the bedroom windows.

Ten minutes later, her mobile rang again.

“That was quick.”

“Yeah, we’re in luck. Shanker’s having a rest day. Our interests happen to coincide. There’s somebody he wouldn’t mind the police picking off. Tell Vanessa we’re offering information on Ian Nash.”

“Ian Nash?” repeated Robin, sitting up to grab pen and paper and make a note of the name. “Who exactly—?”

“Gangster. Vanessa will know who he is,” said Strike.

“How much did it cost?” asked Robin. The personal bond between Strike and Shanker, profound in its way, never interfered with Shanker’s rules of business.

“Half the first week’s fee,” said Strike, “but it’ll be money well spent if Oliver comes across with the goods. How’re you?”

“What?” said Robin, disconcerted. “I’m fine. Why d’you ask?”

“Don’t suppose it’s ever occurred to you that I’ve got a duty of care, as your employer?”

“We’re partners.”

“You’re a salaried partner. You could sue for poor working conditions.”

“Don’t you think,” said Robin, examining the forearm where the eight-inch purple scar still stood out, livid, against her pale skin, “I’d’ve already done that, if I was going to? But if you’re offering to sort out the loo on the landing—”

“I’m just saying,” persisted Strike, “it’d be natural if you’d had a bit of reaction. Finding a body isn’t many people’s idea of fun.”

“I’m absolutely fine,” lied Robin.

I have to be fine, she thought, after they had bidden each other goodbye. I’m not losing everything, all over again.

40

Your starting-point is so very widely removed from his, you see.

Henrik Ibsen, Rosmersholm

At six o’clock on Wednesday morning, Robin, who had again slept in the spare room, got up and dressed herself in jeans, T-shirt, sweatshirt and trainers. Her backpack contained a dark wig that she had bought online and which had been delivered the previous morning, under the very nose of the skulking journalist. She crept quietly downstairs, so as not to wake Matthew, with whom she had not discussed her plan. She knew perfectly well that he would disapprove.

There was a precarious peace between them, even though dinner on Saturday night with Tom and Sarah had been an awful affair: in fact, precisely because dinner had been so dreadful. It had started inauspiciously because the journalist had indeed followed them up the street. They had succeeded in shaking him off, largely due to Robin’s counter-surveillance training, which had led them to dodge unseen out of a crowded Tube compartment just before the doors closed, leaving Matthew aggravated by what he considered undignified, childish tricks. But even Matthew could not lay the blame for the rest of the evening at Robin’s door.

What had begun as light-hearted analysis over dinner of their failure to win the charity cricket match had turned suddenly nasty and aggressive. Tom had suddenly lashed out drunkenly at Matthew, telling him he was not half as good as he thought he was, that his arrogance had grated on the rest of the team, that, indeed, he was not popular in the office, that he put people’s backs up, rubbed them the wrong way. Rocked by the sudden attack, Matthew had tried to ask what he had done wrong at work, but Tom, so drunk that Robin thought he must have started on the wine long before their arrival, had taken Matthew’s hurt incredulity as provocation.

“Don’t play the fucking innocent with me!” he had shouted. “I’m not going to stand for it any more! Belittling me and fucking needling me—”

“Was I?” Matthew asked Robin, shaken, as they walked back towards the Tube in the darkness.

“No,” said Robin, honestly. “You didn’t say anything nasty to him at all.”

She added “tonight” only in her head. It was a relief to be taking a hurt and bewildered Matthew home, rather than the man she usually lived with, and her sympathy and support had won her a couple of days’ ceasefire at home. Robin was not about to jeopardize their truce by telling Matthew what she was planning this morning to throw the still-lurking journalist off her trail. She couldn’t afford to be followed to a meeting with a forensic pathologist, especially as Oliver, according to Vanessa, had needed a great deal of persuasion to meet Strike and Robin in the first place.

Letting herself out quietly of the French windows into the courtyard behind the house, Robin used one of the garden chairs to clamber onto the top of the wall that divided their garden from that of the house directly behind them, of which the curtains were, mercifully, closed. With a muffled, earthy thud, she slid off the wall onto the neighbors’ lawn.

The next part of her escape was a little trickier. She had firs

t to drag a heavy ornamental bench in their neighbor’s garden several feet, until it stood plumb with the fence, then, balancing on the back of it, she climbed over the top of the creosoted panel, which swayed precariously as she dropped down into a flowerbed on the other side, where she staggered and fell. Scrambling up again, she hurried across the new lawn to the opposite fence, in which there was a door to the car park on the other side.

To Robin’s relief, the bolt opened easily. As she pulled the garden gate closed behind her, she thought ruefully of the footprints she had just left across the dewy lawns. If the neighbors woke early, it would be only too easy to discover whence had come the intruder who had invaded their gardens, shifted their garden furniture and squashed their begonias. Chiswell’s killer, if killer there was, had been far more adept at covering their tracks.

Crouching down behind a parked Skoda in the deserted car park that served the garage-less street, Robin used the wing mirror to adjust the dark wig she had taken out of her backpack, then walked off briskly along the street that ran parallel with Albury Street, until she turned right into Deptford High Street.

Other than a couple of vans making early morning deliveries and the proprietor of a newsagent raising the metal security roller door from his shop front, there was hardly anybody around. Glancing over her shoulder, Robin felt a sudden rush, not of panic, but of elation: nobody was following her. Even so, she didn’t remove her wig until she was safely on the Tube, giving the young man who had been eyeing her covertly over his Kindle something of a surprise.

Strike had chosen the Corner Café on Lambeth Road for its proximity to the forensics laboratory where Oliver Bargate worked. When Robin arrived, she found Strike standing outside, smoking. His gaze fell to the muddy knees of her jeans.

“Rough landing in a flowerbed,” she explained, as she came within earshot. “That journalist is still hanging around.”

“Matthew give you a leg up?”