A ragdoll cat came prowling into the room, stepping delicately through the puddles of sunlight on the floor, its clear blue eyes like Joan’s across the bay. After subjecting both Strike and Robin to dispassionate scrutiny, it leapt lightly onto the sofa and into Strike’s lap.

“Ironically,” said Kim, as she carried a tray laden with cups and biscuits to the table, “Cagney absolutely loves men.”

Strike and Robin laughed politely. Anna brought over the coffee pot, and the two women sat down side by side, facing Strike and Robin, their faces in the full glare of the sun until Anna reached for a remote control, which automatically lowered cream-colored sun blinds.

“Wonderful place,” said Robin, looking around.

“Thanks,” said Kim. “Her work,” she said, patting Anna’s knee. “She’s an architect.”

Anna cleared her throat.

“I want to apologize,” she said, looking steadily at Strike with her unusual silver-gray eyes, “for the way I behaved last night. I’d had a few glasses of wine. You probably thought I was a crank.”

“If I’d thought that,” said Strike, stroking the loudly purring cat, “I wouldn’t be here.”

“But mentioning the medium probably gave you entirely the wrong… because, believe me, Kim’s already told me what a fool I was to go and see her.”

“I don’t think you’re a fool, Annie,” Kim said quietly. “I think you’re vulnerable. There’s a difference.”

“May I ask what the medium said?” asked Strike.

“Does it matter?” asked Kim, looking at Strike with what Robin thought was mistrust.

“Not in an investigative sense,” said Strike, “but as he—she?—is the reason Anna approached me—”

“It was a woman,” said Anna, “and she didn’t really tell me anything useful… not that I…”

With a nervous laugh, she shook her head and started again.

“I know it was a stupid thing to do. I—I’ve been through a difficult time recently—I left my firm and I’m about to turn forty and… well, Kim was away on a course and I—well, I suppose I wanted—”

She waved her hands dismissively, took a deep breath and said,

“She’s quite an ordinary-looking woman who lives in Chiswick. Her house was full of angels—made of pottery and glass, I mean, and there was a big one painted on velvet over the fireplace.

“Kim,” Anna pressed on, and Robin glanced at the psychologist, whose expression was impassive, “Kim thinks she—the medium—knew who my mother was—that she Googled me before I arrived. I’d given her my real name. When I got there, I simply said that my mother died a long time ago—although of course,” said Anna, with another nervous wave of her thin hands, “there’s no proof that my mother’s dead—that’s half the—but anyway, I told the medium she’d died, and that nobody had ever been clear with me about how it happened.

“So the woman went into a—well, I suppose you’d call it a trance,” Anna said, looking embarrassed, “and she told me that people thought they were protecting me for my own good, but that it was time I knew the truth and that I would soon have a ‘leading’ that would take me to it. And she said ‘your mother’s very proud of you’ and ‘she’s always watching over you,’ and things like that, I suppose they’re boilerplate—and then, at the end, ‘she lies in a holy place.’”

“‘Lies in a holy place’?” repeated Strike.

“Yes. I suppose she thought that would be comforting, but I’m not a churchgoer. The sanctity or otherwise of my mother’s final resting place—if she’s buried—I mean, it’s hardly my primary concern.”

“D’you mind if I take notes?” Strike asked.

He pulled out a notebook and pen, which Cagney the cat appeared to think were for her personal amusement. She attempted to bat the pen around as Strike wrote the date.

“Come here, you silly animal,” said Kim, getting up to lift the cat clear and put her back on the warm wooden floor.

“To begin at the beginning,” said Strike. “You must’ve been very young when your mother went missing?”

“Just over a year old,” said Anna, “so I can’t remember her at all. There were no photographs of her in the house while I was growing up. I didn’t know what had happened for a long time. Of course, there was no internet back then—anyway, my mother kept her own surname after marriage. I grew up as Anna Phipps, which is my father’s name. If anybody had said ‘Margot Bamborough’ to me before I was eleven, I wouldn’t have known she had any connection to me.

“I thought Cynthia was my mum. She was my childminder when I was little,” she explained. “She’s a third cousin of my father’s and quite a bit younger than him, but she’s a Phipps, too, so I assumed we were a standard nuclear family. I mean—why wouldn’t I?

“I do remember, once I’d started school, questioning why I was calling Cyn ‘Cyn’ instead of ‘Mum.’ But then Dad and Cyn decided to get married, and they told me I could call her ‘Mum’ now if I wanted to, and I thought, oh, I see, I had to use her name before, because they weren’t married. You fill in the gaps when you’re a child, don’t you? With your own weird logic.

“I was seven or eight when a girl at school said to me, ‘That’s not your real mum. Your real mum disappeared.’ It sounded mad. I didn’t ask Dad or Cyn about it. I just locked it away, but I think, on some deep level, I sensed I’d just been handed the answer to some of the strange things I’d noticed and never been given answers to.

“I was eleven when I found out properly. By then, I’d heard other things from other kids at school. ‘Your real mum ran away’ was one of them. Then one day, this really poisonous boy said to me, ‘Your mum was killed by a man who cut off her head.’”

“I went home and I told my father what that boy had said. I wanted him to laugh, to say it was ridiculous, what a horrible little boy… but he turned white.

“That same evening he and Cynthia called me downstairs out of my bedroom, sat me down in the sitting room and told me the truth.

“And everything I thought I knew crumbled away,” said Anna quietly. “Who thinks something like this has happened in their own family? I adored Cyn. I got on better with her than with my father, to tell you the truth. And then I found out that she wasn’t my mum at all, and they’d both lied—lied in fact, lied by omission.

“They told me my mother walked out of her GP’s practice one night and vanished. The last person to see her alive was the receptionist. She said she was off to the pub, which was five minutes up the road. Her best friend was waiting there. When my mother didn’t turn up, the friend, Oonagh Kennedy, who’d waited an hour, thought she must have forgotten. She called my parents’ house. My mother wasn’t there. My father called the practice, but it was closed. It got dark. My mother didn’t come home. My father called the police.

“They investigated for months and months. Nothing. No clues, no sightings—at least, that’s what my father and Cyn said, but I’ve since read things that contradict that.

“I asked Dad and Cyn where my mother’s parents were. They said they were dead. That turned out to be true. My grandfather died of a heart attack a couple of years after my mother disappeared and my grandmother died of a stroke a year later. My mother was an only child, so there were no other relatives I could meet or talk to about her.

“I asked for photographs. My father said he’d got rid of them all, but Cyn dug some out for me, a couple of weeks after I found out. She asked me not to tell my father she’d done it; to hide them. I did: I had a pajama case shaped like a rabbit and I kept my mother’s photographs in there for years.”

“Did your father and stepmother explain to you what might have happened to your mother?” Strike asked.

“Dennis Creed, you mean?” said Anna. “Yes, but they didn’t tell me details. They said there was a chance she’d been killed by a—by a bad man. They had to tell me that much, because of what the boy at school had said.

“It was an appalling idea, thinking she might have been killed by Creed—I found out his name soon enough, kids at school were happy to fill me in. I started having nightmares about her, headless. Sometimes she came into my bedroom at night. Sometimes I dreamed I found her head in my toy chest.