After nearly nine hours at the wheel, Strike’s neck, back and legs were stiff and sore and his bag of provisions long since empty. The first star was glimmering out of the pale, inky wash above when his mobile rang. It was the usual time for his sister, Lucy, to call “for a chat”; he ignored three out of four of her calls, because, much as he loved her, he could muster no interest in her sons’ schooling, the PTA’s squabbles or the intricacies of her husband’s career as a quantity surveyor. Seeing that it was Barclay on the line, however, he turned into a rough and ready lay-by, really the turnoff to a field, cut the engine and answered.

“’M in,” said Barclay laconically. “Wi’ Jimmy.”

“Already?” said Strike, seriously impressed. “How?”

“Pub,” said Barclay. “Interrupted him. He was talkin’ a load o’ pish about Scottish independence. The grea’ thing about English lefties,” he continued, “is they love hearin’ how shit England is. Havenae hadtae buy a pint all afternoon.”

“Bloody hell, Barclay,” said Strike, lighting himself another cigarette on top of the twenty he had already had that day, “that was good work.”

“That was just fer starters,” said Barclay. “You shoulda heard them when I told them how I’ve seen the error of the army’s imperialist ways. Fuck me, they’re gullible. I’m off tae a CORE meetin’ the morrow.”

“How’s Knight supporting himself? Any idea?”

“He told me he’s a journalist on a couple o’ lefty websites and he sells CORE T-shirts and a bit o’ dope. Mind, his shit’s worthless. We went back tae his place, after the pub. Ye’d be better off smokin’ fuckin’ Oxo cubes. I’ve said I’ll get him better. We can run that through office expenses, aye?”

“I’ll put it under ‘sundries,’” said Strike. “All right, keep me posted.”

Barclay rang off. Deciding to take the opportunity to stretch his legs, Strike got out of the car, still smoking, leaned on the five-bar gate facing a wide, dark field, and rang Robin.

“It’s Vanessa,” Robin lied, when she saw Strike’s number come up on her phone.

She and Matthew had just eaten a takeaway curry off their knees while watching the news. He had arrived home late and tired; she didn’t need another argument.

Picking up the mobile, she headed out through the French doors onto the patio that had served as the smoking area for the party. After making sure that the doors were completely closed, she answered.

“Hi. Everything OK?”

“Fine. All right to talk for a moment?”

“Yes,” said Robin, leaning against the garden wall, and watching a moth banging fruitlessly against the bright glass, trying to enter the house. “How did it go with Dawn Clancy?”

“Nothing usable,” said Strike. “I thought I might have a lead, some Jewish ex-boss Jimmy had a vendetta against, but I rang the company and the poor bloke died of a stroke last September. Then I got a call from Chiswell just after I left her. He says the Sun’s sniffing around.”

“Yes,” said Robin. “They called his wife.”

“We could’ve done without that,” said Strike, with what Robin felt was considerable understatement. “I wonder who’s tipped off the papers?”

“I’d bet on Winn,” said Robin, remembering the way that Geraint had talked that afternoon, the name-dropping, the self-importance. “He’s just the type to hint to a journalist that there’s a story on Chiswell, even if he hasn’t got proof of it yet. Seriously,” she said again, with no real hope of an answer, “what d’you think Chiswell did?”

“Be nice to know, but it doesn’t really matter,” said Strike, who sounded tired. “We aren’t being paid to get the goods on him. Speaking of which—”

“I haven’t been able to plant the bug yet,” said Robin, anticipating the question. “I hung around as late as possible, but Aamir locked the door after they both left.”

Strike sighed.

“Well, don’t get overeager and balls it up,” he said, “but we’re up against it if the Sun’s involved. Anything you can do. Get in early or something.”

“I will, I’ll try,” said Robin. “I did get something odd about the Winns today, though,” and she told him about the confusion Della had made between herself and one of Chiswell’s real goddaughters, and the story of Rhiannon on the fencing team. Strike seemed only distantly interested.

“Doubt that explains the Winns wanting Chiswell out of office. Anyway—”

“—means before motive,” she said, quoting Strike’s own, oft-repeated words.

“Exactly. Listen, can you meet me after work tomorrow, and we’ll have a proper debrief?”

“All right,” said Robin.

“Barclay’s doing good work, though,” said Strike, as though the thought of it cheered him up. “He’s already well in with Jimmy.”

“Oh,” said Robin. “Good.”

After telling her that he would text the name of a convenient pub, Strike rang off, leaving Robin alone and pensive in the quiet dark of the yard, while stars grew pin-bright overhead.

Barclay’s doing good work, though.

As opposed to Robin, who had found out nothing but an irrelevancy about Rhiannon Winn.

The moth was still fluttering desperately against the sliding doors, frantic to get at the light.

Idiot, Robin thought. It’s better out here.

The ease with which the lie about Vanessa being on the phone had slid out of her mouth ought, she reflected, to have made her feel guilty, but she was merely glad that she had got away with it. As she watched the moth continuing to bang its wings hopelessly against the brilliant glass, Robin remembered what her therapist had said to her during one of the sessions when Robin had dwelled at length on her need to discern where the real Matthew ended and her illusions about him began.

“People change in ten years,” the therapist had responded. “Why does it have to be a question of you being mistaken in Matthew? Perhaps it’s simply that you’ve both changed?”

The following Monday would mark their first wedding anniversary. At Matthew’s suggestion, they were going to spend next weekend at a fancy hotel near Oxford. In a funny kind of way, Robin was looking forward to it, because she and Matthew seemed to get along better these days with a change of scene. Being surrounded by strangers nudged them out of their tendency to bicker. She had told him the story of Ted Heath’s bust turning green, along with several other (to her) interesting facts about the House of Commons. He had maintained a bored expression through all of them, determined to signal his disapproval of the whole venture.

Reaching a decision, she opened the French window and the moth fluttered merrily inside.

“What did Vanessa want?” asked Matthew, his eyes on the news as Robin sat down again. Sarah Shadlock’s stargazer lilies were sitting on a table beside her, still in bloom ten days after they had arrived in the house, and Robin could smell their heady scent even over the curry.

“I picked up her sunglasses by mistake last time we went out,” said Robin, feigning exasperation. “She wants them back, they’re Chanel. I said I’ll meet her before work.”

“Chanel, eh?” said Matthew, with a smile that Robin found patronizing. She knew that he thought he had discovered a weakness in Vanessa, but perhaps he liked her better to think that she valued designer labels and wanted to make sure she got them back.

“I’ll have to leave at six,” said Robin.

“Six?” he said, annoyed. “Christ, I’m knackered, I don’t want to wake up at—”

“I was going to suggest I sleep in the spare room,” Robin said.

“Oh,” said Matthew, mollified. “Yeah, OK. Thanks.”