This modus operandi owed much to his experiences with Charlotte. Attempting to make up with Charlotte before every last ounce of her fury had been spent had been like trying to rebuild a house during an earthquake. Sometimes, after he refused to accede to some new demand—usually leaving the army, but sometimes giving up contact with another female friend or refusing to spend money he didn’t have, all of which were seen by Charlotte as proof he didn’t love her—Charlotte would walk out, and only after she came back, by which time Strike might well have met or slept with someone else, would the row be discussed. Their arguments had often lasted a week or more. A couple of times, Strike had returned to postings abroad before anything was resolved.

Yet, as he ate a much-needed bacon roll, drank coffee and downed a couple of Nurofen; after he’d called Ted, heard that Joan was still holding out, and assured him that he and Lucy would be there the following day; while opening a couple of bits of post, and ripping up a large gilt-edged invitation to the Deadbeats’ fiftieth anniversary party in May; while food shopping in the everlasting wind and rain, stocking up for what might be a journey of many hours; while he packed clothes for the trip, spoke to Lucy and checked the weather forecast, his thoughts kept returning to Robin.

Gradually he realized that what was bothering him most was the fact that he’d got used to Robin being on his side, which was one of the main reasons he tended to seek reasons to call her if he was at a loose end or feeling low. Over time, they’d developed a most soothing and satisfying camaraderie, and Strike hadn’t imagined it could be disrupted by what he categorized as a dinner party row.

When his phone rang at four o’clock in the afternoon, he surprised himself by snatching it up in hopes that it was his partner, only to see yet another unknown number. Wondering whether he was about to hear Rokeby again, or some other unknown blood relative, he answered.

“Strike.”

“What?” said a sharp, middle-class female voice.

“Cormoran Strike here. Who’s this?”

“Clare Spencer, the Athorns’ social worker. You left a message for me.”

“Oh, yes,” said Strike, pulling out a kitchen chair and sitting down. “Thanks for getting back to me, Mrs.—er—Ms. Spencer.”

“Mrs.,” she said, sounding very slightly amused. “Can I just ask—are you the Cormoran Strike?”

“I doubt there are many others,” said Strike.

He reached for his cigarettes, then pushed them away again. He really did need to cut down.

“I see,” said Clare Spencer. “Well, it was a bit of a shock to get a message from you. How d’you know the Athorns?”

“Their name came up,” said Strike, thinking how very inaccurate a statement that was, “in the course of a case I’m investigating.”

“Was it you who went into their downstairs neighbor’s shop, and threatened him?”

“I didn’t threaten him,” said Strike. “But his attitude seemed aggressive, so I pointed out that they had friends who might take it amiss if he bullied them.”

“Ha,” said Clare, sounding warmer. “He’s a horror, that man. He’s been trying to get them out of that flat for ages. Wants to buy the whole building. He removed a supporting wall, then tried to blame Deborah and Samhain for his ceiling sagging. He’s caused them a lot of stress.”

“The flat was—” Strike almost said “mucked out,” but tried to find a politer way of saying it, “—thoroughly cleaned recently, he said?”

“Yes. I’m not denying it was pretty messy, but we’ve sorted that out now, and as for saying they’ve caused structural damage, we got a surveyor in who went through the whole place and agreed there’s nothing wrong with it. What a chancer the man is. Anyway, you did a good thing, there, warning him off. He thinks because they haven’t got many close relatives, he can get away with browbeating them. So, what’s this case you’re investigating?”

Briefly, Strike told her about Margot Bamborough, her disappearance in 1974, and the information that had led him to the Athorns’ door.

“… and so,” he concluded, “I wanted to talk to someone who could tell me how much reliance I can put on what they’ve told me.”

There was a brief silence.

“I see,” said Clare, who sounded a little more guarded now. “Well, I’m afraid I’ve got a duty of confidentiality as their social worker, so—”

“Could I ask you some questions? And if you can’t answer, obviously I’ll accept that.”

“All right,” she said. He had the impression that his actions with regard to the bullying ironmonger had put her on his side.

“They’re clearly competent to live alone,” said Strike.

“With support, yes,” said Clare. “They’ve done very well, actually. They’ve got a strong mutual bond. It’s probably kept both of them out of institutionalized care.”

“And what exactly—?” Strike wondered how to word the -question sensitively. Clare came to his aid.

“Fragile X syndrome,” she said. “Deborah’s relatively high-functioning, although she’s got some social difficulties, but she can read and so forth. Samhain copes better socially, but his cognitive impairment’s greater than his mother’s.”

“And the father, Gwilherm—?”

Clare laughed.

“I’ve only been their social worker for a couple of years. I never knew Gwilherm.”

“You can’t tell me how sane he was?”

There was a longer pause.

“Well,” she said, “I suppose… it seems to be common knowledge that he was very odd. Various family members have spoken to me about him. Apparently he thought he could hex people. With black magic, you know.”

“Deborah told me something I found… slightly concerning. It involved a doctor called Dr. Brenner, who was a partner of Dr. Bamborough’s at the St. John’s practice. She might’ve been referring to a medical examination, but—”

He thought Clare had said something.

“Sorry?”

“No, nothing. What exactly did she tell you?”

“Well,” said Strike, “she mentioned having to take her pants off, and not wanting to, but she said Gwilherm told her she had to. I assumed—”

“This was a doctor?”

“Yes,” said Strike.

There was another, longer pause.

“I don’t really know what to tell you,” said Clare finally. “It’s possible that was a medical examination, but… well, a lot of men used to visit that flat.”

Strike said nothing, wondering whether he was being told what he thought he was being told.

“Gwilherm had to get drink and drugs money somewhere,” said Clare. “From what Deborah’s disclosed to social workers over the years, we think he was—well, not to put too fine a point on it, we think he was pimping her out.”

“Christ,” muttered Strike, in disgust.

“I know,” said Clare. “From bits and piece she’s told caregivers, we think Gwilherm used to take Samhain out whenever she was with a client. It is dreadful. She’s so vulnerable. On balance, I can’t be sorry Gwilherm died young. But please—don’t mention any of this to Deborah’s family, if you speak to them. I’ve no idea how much they know, and she’s happy and settled these days. There’s no need to upset anyone.”

“No, of course not,” said Strike, and he remembered Samhain’s words: old Joe Brenner was a dirty old man.

“How reliable would you say Samhain’s memory is?”

“Why? What’s he told you?”

“A couple of things his Uncle Tudor said.”

“Well, people with Fragile X usually have quite good long-term memories,” said Clare cautiously. “I’d say he’d be more reliable about things his Uncle Tudor told him than on many subjects.”

“Apparently Uncle Tudor had a theory about what happened to Margot Bamborough. It involved some people called ‘Nico and his boys.’”

“Ah,” said Clare, “yes. D’you know who that is?”

“Go on.”

“There was an old gangster who used to live in Clerkenwell,” said Clare, “called Niccolo Ricci. Samhain likes talking about ‘Nico and his boys.’ Like they’re folk heroes, or something.”

They talked for a couple more minutes, but Clare had nothing more of interest to tell.

“Well, thanks very much for getting back to me,” said Strike. “Social workers work Saturdays as well as detectives, I see.”

“People don’t stop needing help at weekends,” she said drily. “Good luck. I hope you find out what happened to that poor doctor.”

But he could tell by her tone, however friendly, that she thought it highly unlikely.

Strike’s headache had now settled into a dull throb that increased if he bent over or stood up too suddenly. He returned to his methodical arrangements for next day’s departure to Cornwall, emptying his fridge of perishables, making sandwiches for the trip; listening to the news, which told him that three people had died that day as a result of the adverse weather conditions; packing his kit bag; ensuring his emails were up to date, setting up an out-of-office message redirecting potential clients to Pat, and checking the rota, to make sure it had been altered to accommodate his absence. Through all these tasks he kept an ear out for his mobile, in case a text from Robin arrived, but nothing came.

Finally, at eight o’clock, while he was finishing cooking the fry-up he felt he was owed given his hangover and how hard he’d worked all day, his mobile buzzed at last. From across the table, he saw that three long consecutive texts had arrived. Knowing that he was leaving the following morning without any clear idea of when he’d be back, Robin appeared to have begun the reconciliation process as women were wont to do, with an essay on her various grievances. He opened the first message, magnanimously prepared to accept almost any terms for a negotiated peace, and only then realized that it was from an unknown number.