“I mean, Jan was always a bit of a man-eater, but I never suspected anything like this, never. I’d’ve called her my best friend. I don’t know how I could’ve been such a fool! She used to offer to go food shopping for me, before I came back from staying at my daughter’s. Then I’d eat some of the stuff she’d put in the fridge, get ill, call her and ask her to come over. I suppose this is a comfier house than hers, and she liked staying here, and I sometimes gave her money, so that’s why I’m not dead. I don’t know whether I’ll ever get over the shock, honestly. I can’t sleep, I feel sick all the time, I can’t stop thinking about it. I look back now, and ask myself, how did I never see? And if it turns out she killed Larry, poor Larry who Eddie and I introduced her to, I don’t know how I’m going to live with myself, honestly, it’s all just a nightmare. You don’t expect this from a nurse, do you?”

And on this count, if no other, Strike was forced to agree with Irene Hickson. He asked himself why it had taken him so long to look closer at an alibi he’d known from the first was barely adequate, and why he’d taken Janice’s word at face value, when he’d challenged almost everyone else’s. He was forced to conclude that, like the women who’d climbed willingly into Dennis Creed’s van, he’d been hoodwinked by a careful performance of femininity. Just as Creed had camouflaged himself behind an apparently fey and gentle fa?ade, so Janice had hidden behind the persona of the nurturer, the selfless giver, the compassionate mother. Strike had preferred her apparent modesty to Irene’s garrulity and her sweetness to her friend’s spite, yet knew he’d have been far less ready to take those traits at face value, had he met them in a man. Ceres is nurturing and protective. Cancer is kind, instinct is to protect. A hefty dose of self-recrimination tempered Strike’s celebrations, which puzzled Ilsa and Nick, who were inclined to gloat over the newspaper reports of their friend’s latest and most celebrated detective triumph.

Meanwhile, Anna Phipps was longing to thank Strike and Robin in person, but the detective partners postponed a meeting until the first effusion of press attention died down. The hypercautious Strike, whose beard was now coming along nicely, finally agreed to a meeting over two weeks after Margot’s body had been found. Though he and Robin had been in daily contact by phone, this would also be the first time they’d met since solving the case.

Rain pattered against the window of Nick and Ilsa’s spare bedroom as Strike dressed that morning. He was pulling a sock over his false foot when his mobile beeped from the bedside table. Expecting to see a message from Robin, possibly warning him that press were on the prowl outside Anna and Kim’s house, he saw, instead, Charlotte’s name.

Hello Bluey. I thought Jago had thrown this phone away, but I’ve just found it hidden at the back of a cupboard. So, you’ve done another amazing thing. I’ve been reading all about you in the press. I wish they had some decent pictures of you, but I suppose you’re glad they don’t? Congratulations, anyway. It must feel good to prove everyone who didn’t believe in the agency wrong. Which includes me, I suppose. I wish I’d been more supportive, but it’s too late now. I don’t know whether you’ll be glad to hear from me or not. Probably not. You never called the hospital, or if you did, nobody told me. Maybe you’d have been secretly glad if I’d died? A problem solved, and you like solving things… Don’t think I’m not grateful. I suppose I am, or I will be, one day. But I know you’d have done what you did for anyone. That’s your code, isn’t it? And I always wanted something particular from you, something you wouldn’t give anyone else. Funny, I’ve started to appreciate people who’re decent to everyone, but it’s too late for that, too, isn’t it? Jago and I are separating, only he doesn’t want to call it that yet, because leaving your suicidal wife isn’t a good look and nobody would believe it’s me leaving him. I still mean the thing I said to you at the end. I always will.

Strike sat back down on the spare bed, mobile in his hands, one sock on, one off. The rainy daylight illuminated the phone’s screen, reflecting his bearded face back at him as he scowled at a text so Charlottian he could have written it himself: the apparent resignation to her fate, the attempts to provoke him into reassurance, the vulnerability wielded like a weapon. Had she really left Jago? Where were the now two-year-old twins? He thought of all the things he could have told her, which would have given her hope: that he’d wanted to call the hospital, that he’d dreamed about her since the suicide attempt, that she retained a potent hold over his imagination that he’d tried to exorcize but couldn’t. He considered ignoring the message, but then, on the point of setting the mobile back down, changed his mind, and, character by careful character, typed out his brief response.

You’re right, I’d have done what I did for anyone. That doesn’t mean I’m not glad you’re alive, because I am. But you need to stay alive for yourself and your kids now. I’m about to change my number. Look after yourself.

He re-read his words before sending. She’d doubtless experience the words as a blow, but he’d done a lot of thinking since her suicide attempt. Having always told himself that he’d never changed his number because too many contacts had it, he’d lately admitted to himself that he’d wanted to keep a channel of communication open between himself and Charlotte, because he wanted to know she couldn’t forget him, any more than he could forget her. It was time to cut that last, thin thread. He pressed “send” on the text, then finished dressing.

Having made sure that both of Nick and Ilsa’s cats were shut up in the kitchen, he left the house. Another text from Charlotte arrived as he was walking up the road in the rain.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt so envious in my life as I am of that girl Robin.

And this, Strike decided to ignore.

He’d set off for Clapham South station deliberately early, because he wanted time for a cigarette before Robin picked him up and drove them the short distance to Anna and Kim’s flat. Standing beneath the overhang outside the station, he lit up, looking out over a row of bicycles at a muddy corner of Clapham Common, where ochre-leaved trees shivered in the downpour. He’d only taken a couple of drags on his cigarette when his mobile rang in his pocket. Resolving not to answer if it was Charlotte, he pulled it out and saw Polworth’s name.

“All right, Chum?”

“Still got time for the little people, then, Sherlock?”

“I can spare you a minute or two,” said Strike, watching the rain. “Wouldn’t want people to think I’ve lost the common touch. How’s things?”

“We’re coming up to London for a weekend.”

Polworth sounded about as excited as a man facing a colonoscopy.

“I thought London was the heart of all evil?”

“Not my choice. It’s Roz’s birthday. She wants to see the fucking Lion King and Trafalgar Square and shit.”

“If you’re looking for somewhere to stay, I’ve only got one bedroom.”

“We’re booked into an Airbnb. Weekend after next. Just wondered if you were up for a pint. Could bring your Robin along, so Penny’s got someone to talk to. Unless, I dunno, the fucking Queen’s got a job for you.”

“Well, she has, but I told her the waiting list’s full. That’d be great,” said Strike. “What else is new?”

“Nothing,” said Polworth. “You saw the Scots bottled it?”

The old Land Rover had appeared in a line of traffic. Having no desire to get onto the subject of Celtic nationalism, Strike said,

“If ‘bottling’ ’s what you want to call it, yeah. Listen, I’m gonna have to go, mate, Robin’s about to pick me up in the car. I’ll ring you later.”

Chucking his cigarette end down a nearby storm drain, he was ready to climb into the Land Rover as soon as Robin pulled up.

“Morning,” she said, as Strike hoisted himself into the passenger seat. “Am I late?”

“No, I was early.”

“Nice beard,” said Robin, as she pulled away from the curb in the rain. “You look like a guerrilla leader who’s just pulled off a successful coup.”

“Feel like one,” said Strike, and in fact, right now, reunited with Robin, he felt the straightforward sense of triumph that had eluded him for days.

“Was that Pat you were just talking to?” asked Robin. “On the phone?”

“No, Polworth. He’s coming up to London weekend after next.”

“I thought he hated London?”

“He does. One of his kids wants to visit. He wants to meet you, but I wouldn’t advise it.”

“Why not?” asked Robin, who was mildly flattered.

“Women don’t usually like Polworth.”

“I thought he was married?”

“He is. His wife doesn’t like him.”

Robin laughed.

“Why did you think Pat would be calling me?” asked Strike.

“I’ve just had her on the phone. Miss Jones is upset at not getting updates from you personally.”

“I’ll FaceTime her later,” said Strike, as they drove across the common, windscreen wipers working. “Hopefully the beard’ll put her off.”

“Some women like them,” said Robin, and Strike couldn’t help wondering whether Robin was one of them.

“Sounds like Hutchins and Barclay are closing in on Dopey’s partner,” he said.

“Yes,” said Robin. “Barclay’s offering to go out to Majorca and have a look around.”

“I’ll bet he is. Are you still on for interviewing the new subcontractor together, Monday?”

“Michelle? Yes, definitely,” said Robin

“Hopefully we’ll be back in the office by then.”