It was Robin who first laid eyes on Ricci himself, on the third Saturday the agency was watching the home. Beneath her raincoat, Robin was wearing a dress, because she was meeting Strike later at the Stafford hotel in Mayfair, to interview C. B. Oakden. Robin, who’d never been to the hotel, had looked it up and learned that the five-star establishment, with its bowler-hatted doormen, was one of the oldest and smartest hotels in London, hence her atypical choice of surveillance wear. As she’d previously disguised herself while lurking outside St. Peter’s (alternately beanie hat, hair up, dark contact lenses and sunglasses), she felt safe to look like herself for once as she strolled up and down the street, pretending to talk on the phone, although she’d added clear-lensed glasses she’d remove for the Stafford.

The elderly residents of St. Peter’s were occasionally escorted or wheeled down the street in the afternoon to the nearby square, which had a central private garden enclosed by railings, open only to keyholders, there to doze or enjoy the lilac and pansies while well wrapped up against the cold. Hitherto, the agency had seen only elderly women taken on the outings, but today, for the first time, an old man was among the group coming down a ramp at the side of the building.

Robin recognized Ricci instantly, not by his lion ring, which, if he was wearing it, was well hidden beneath a tartan rug, but by the profile that time might have exaggerated, but could not disguise. His thick black hair was now dark gray and his nose and earlobes enormous. The large eyes that reminded Strike of a Basset hound had an even more pronounced droop these days. Ricci’s mouth hung slightly open as one of the Polish nurses pushed him toward the square, talking to him brightly, but receiving no response.

“You all right, Enid, love?” the black male nurse called ahead to a frail-looking old lady wearing a sheepskin hat, and she laughed and nodded.

Robin gave the group a head start, then followed, watching as one of the nurses unlocked the gate to the garden, and the party disappeared inside. Walking around the square with her phone clamped to her ear, pretending to be in conversation, Robin thought how typical it was that today, of all days, she’d worn heels, never imagining that there might have been a possibility of approaching Ricci and chatting to him.

The group from the nursing home had come to a halt beside flower-beds of purple and yellow, Ricci parked in his wheelchair beside an empty park bench. The nurses chatted amongst themselves, and to those old ladies capable of doing so, while the old man stared vacantly across the lawns.

If she’d been wearing her usual trainers, Robin thought, she might possibly have been able to scale the railings and get into the garden unseen: there was a clump of trees that would provide cover from the nurses, and she could have sidled over to Ricci and found out, at the very least, whether he had dementia. Unfortunately, she had absolutely no chance of managing that feat in her dress and high heels.

As she completed her walk around the square, Robin spotted Saul Morris walking toward her. Morris was early, as he always tended to be, whenever it was Robin from whom he was taking over.

He’s going to mention either the glasses or the heels first, Robin thought.

“High heels,” said Morris, as soon as he was within earshot, his bright blue eyes sweeping over her. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you in heels before. Funny, I never think of you as tall, but you are, aren’t you? Sexy specs, too.”

Before Robin could stop him, he’d stooped and kissed her on the cheek.

“I’m the guy you’re meeting on a blind date,” he told her, straightening up again and winking.

“How do we account for the fact that I’m about to leave you standing here?” Robin asked, unsmiling, and Morris laughed too hard, just as he did at Strike’s mildest jokes.

“Dunno—what would it take to make you walk out on a blind date?” asked Morris.

You turning up, thought Robin, but ignoring the question she checked her watch and said,

“If you’re OK to take over now, I’ll head—”

“Here they come,” said Morris quietly. “Oh, the old fella’s outside this time, is he? I wondered why you’d abandoned the front door.”

The comment aggravated Robin almost as much as his flirtatious manner. Why did he think she’d leave the front door, unless the target had moved? Nevertheless, she waited beside him while the small group of nurses and residents, having decided that twenty minutes was enough fresh air, passed them on the other side of the street, heading back to the home.

“My kids were taken out like that at nursery,” said Morris quietly, watching the group pass. “All bundled up in pushchairs, the helpers wheeling them out. Some of that lot are probably wearing nappies, too,” he said, his bright blue eyes following the St. Peter’s party. “Christ, I hope I never end up like that. Ricci’s the only man, too, poor sod.”

“I think they’re very well looked after,” Robin said, as the Trinidadian nurse shouted,

“Up we go, Enid!”

“Like being a kid again, though, isn’t it?” said Morris, as they watched the wheelchairs rolling along in procession. “But with none of the perks.”

“S’pose so,” said Robin. “I’ll head off, then, if you’re ready to take over.”

“Yeah, no problem,” said Morris, but he immediately added, “where’re you going, all dressed up like that?”

“I’m meeting Strike.”

“Oh,” said Morris, eyebrows raised, “I see—”

“No,” said Robin, “you don’t. We’re interviewing someone at a really smart hotel.”

“Ah,” said Morris. “Sorry.”

But there was a strange complacency, bordering on complicity, about the way Morris bade her goodbye, and it wasn’t until Robin had reached the end of the street that the unwelcome thought occurred to her that Morris had entirely misread the sharpness of her denial that she was going on a date with Strike; that he might, in fact, have interpreted it as Robin wanting to make it quite clear that her affections weren’t engaged elsewhere.

Was Morris—could he be—so deluded as to think that Robin was secretly hoping that his unsubtle flirtation might lead to something happening between them? Even after what had happened on Boxing Day, when she’d shouted at him for sending her that dick pic? Little though she wanted to believe it, she was afraid that the answer was “yes.” Morris had been extremely drunk when she’d shouted at him, and possibly incapable of judging just how truly angry and disgusted she’d been. He’d seemed sincerely ashamed of himself in the immediate aftermath, so she’d forced herself to be friendlier than she wanted to be, purely out of a desire to foster team cohesion. The result had been that Morris had returned to his pre–dick pic ways. She only answered his late-night texts, mostly containing jokes and attempts at banter, to stop him pestering her with “have I offended you?” follow-ups. Now it occurred to her that what she considered professionalism Morris took as encouragement. Everything he said to her about work suggested that he saw her as less able and less experienced than the rest of the agency: perhaps he also thought her naive enough to be flattered by the attentions of a man she actually found condescending and slimy.

Morris, Robin thought, as she headed toward the Tube, didn’t actually like women. He desired them, but that, of course, was an entirely different matter: Robin, who was forever marked by the ineradicable memory of the man in the gorilla mask, knew better than most that desire and liking were different, and sometimes mutually exclusive, things. Morris gave himself away constantly, not only in the way he spoke to Robin, but in his desire to call Mrs. Smith “Rich Bitch,” his attribution of venal or provocative motives to every woman under surveillance, in the barely disguised disgust with which he noted that Mucky Ricci was now forced to live in a houseful of females. Christ, I hope I never end up like that.

Robin walked another few steps, and suddenly stopped dead, earning herself a curious glance from a passing traffic warden. She’d had an idea, triggered by what Morris had just said to her: or rather, the idea had slammed its way into the forefront of her mind and she knew that it had been there in her subconscious all along, waiting for her to admit it.

Moving aside so as not to get in the way of passers-by, Robin pulled out her phone and checked the list of paraphilias she’d last consulted when looking up sleeping princess syndrome.

Autonepiophilia.

“Oh God,” Robin muttered. “That’s it. That’s got to be it.”

Robin called Strike, but his number went to voicemail; he was doubtless already on the Tube, heading for the Stafford. After a moment or two’s thought, she called Barclay.

“Hiya,” said the Scot.

“Are you still outside Elinor Dean’s?”

“Yeah.”

“Is there anyone in there with her?”

“No.”

“Sam, I think I know what she’s doing for those men.”

“Whut?”

Robin told him. The only answer was a long silence. Finally, Barclay said,

“You’re aff yer heid, Robin.”

“Maybe,” said Robin, “but the only way to know for sure is to knock on her door and ask if she’ll do it for you. Say you were recommended to her by SB.”

“Will I fuck,” said Barclay. “Does Strike know ye’re asking me tae do this?”

“Sam, we’ve got a week left before the client pulls the plug. The worst that can happen is that she denies it. We’re not going to have many more chances.”

She heard Barclay exhale, hard.

“All right, but it’s on ye if ye’re wrong.”