When he had finished tweaking his schedule, he gave her the name of the Danubius Hotel in St John’s Wood and asked her to try to find out whether Owen Quine was staying there.

‘How’re the Hiltons going?’

‘Badly,’ said Robin. ‘I’ve only got two left. Nothing. If he’s at any of them he’s either using a different name or a disguise – or the staff are very unobservant, I suppose. You wouldn’t think they could miss him, especially if he’s wearing that cloak.’

‘Have you tried the Kensington one?’

‘Yes. Nothing.’

‘Ah well, I’ve got another lead: a self-published girlfriend called Kathryn Kent. I might visit her later. I won’t be able to pick up the phone this afternoon; I’m tailing Miss Brocklehurst. Text me if you need anything.’

‘OK, happy tailing.’

But it was a dull and fruitless afternoon. Strike was running surveillance on a very well-paid PA who was believed by her paranoid boss and lover to be sharing not only sexual favours but also business secrets with a rival. However, Miss Brocklehurst’s claim that she wanted to take an afternoon off to be better waxed, manicured and fake-tanned for her lover’s delectation appeared to be genuine. Strike waited and watched the front of the spa through a rain-speckled window of the Caffè Nero opposite for nearly four hours, earning himself the ire of sundry women with pushchairs seeking a space to gossip. Finally Miss Brocklehurst emerged, Bisto-brown and presumably almost hairless from the neck down, and after following her for a short distance Strike saw her slide into a taxi. By a near miracle given the rain, Strike managed to secure a second cab before she had moved out of view, but the sedate pursuit through the clogged, rainwashed streets ended, as he had expected from the direction of travel, at the suspicious boss’s own flat. Strike, who had taken photographs covertly all the way, paid his cab fare and mentally clocked off.

It was barely four o’clock and the sun was setting, the endless rain becoming chillier. Christmas lights shone from the window of a trattoria as he passed and his thoughts slid to Cornwall, which he felt had intruded itself on his notice three times in quick succession, calling to him, whispering to him.

How long had it been since he had gone home to that beautiful little seaside town where he had spent the calmest parts of his childhood? Four years? Five? He met his aunt and uncle whenever they ‘came up to London’, as they self-consciously put it, staying at his sister Lucy’s house, enjoying the metropolis. Last time, Strike had taken his uncle to the Emirates to watch a match against Manchester City.

His phone vibrated in his pocket: Robin, following instructions to the letter as usual, had texted him instead of calling.

Mr Gunfrey is asking for another meeting tomorrow at his office at 10, got more to tell you. Rx

Thanks, Strike texted back.

He never added kisses to texts unless to his sister or aunt.

At the Tube, he deliberated his next moves. The whereabouts of Owen Quine felt like an itch in his brain; he was half irritated, half intrigued that the writer was proving so elusive. He pulled the piece of paper that Elizabeth Tassel had given him out of his wallet. Beneath the name Kathryn Kent was the address of a tower block in Fulham and a mobile number. Printed along the bottom edge were two words: indie author.

Strike’s knowledge of certain patches of London was as detailed as any cabbie’s. While he had never penetrated truly upmarket areas as a child, he had lived in many other addresses around the capital with his late, eternally nomadic mother: usually squats or council accommodation, but occasionally, if her boyfriend of the moment could afford it, in more salubrious surroundings. He recognised Kathryn Kent’s address: Clement Attlee Court comprised old council blocks, many of which had now been sold off into private hands. Ugly square brick towers with balconies on every floor, they sat within a few hundred yards of million-pound houses in Fulham.

There was nobody waiting for him at home and he was full of coffee and pastries after his long afternoon in Caffè Nero. Instead of boarding the Northern line, he took the District line to West Kensington and set out in the dark along North End Road, past curry houses and a number of small shops with boarded windows, folding under the weight of the recession. By the time Strike had reached the tower blocks he sought, night had fallen.

Stafford Cripps House was the block nearest the road, set just behind a low, modern medical centre. The optimistic architect of the council flats, perhaps giddy with socialist idealism, had given each one its own small balcony space. Had they imagined the happy inhabitants tending window boxes and leaning over the railings to call cheery greetings to their neighbours? Virtually all of these exterior areas had been used by the occupants for storage: old mattresses, prams, kitchen appliances, what looked like armfuls of dirty clothes sat exposed to the elements, as though cupboards full of junk had been cross-sectioned for public view.

A gaggle of hooded youths smoking beside large plastic recycling bins eyed him speculatively as he passed. He was taller and broader than any of them.

‘Big fucker,’ he caught one of them saying as he passed out of their sight, ignoring the inevitably out-of-order lift and heading for the concrete stairs.

Kathryn Kent’s flat was on the third floor and was reached via a windswept brick balcony that ran the width of the building. Strike noted that, unlike her neighbours, Kathryn had hung real curtains in the windows, before rapping on the door.

There was no response. If Owen Quine was inside, he was determined not to give himself away: there were no lights on, no sign of movement. An angry-looking woman with a cigarette jammed in her mouth stuck her head out of the next door with almost comical haste, gave Strike one brief searching stare, then withdrew.

The chilly wind whistled along the balcony. Strike’s overcoat was glistening with raindrops but his uncovered head, he knew, would look the same as ever; his short, tightly curling hair was impervious to the effects of rain. He drove his hands deep inside his pockets and there found a stiff envelope he had forgotten. The exterior light beside Kathryn Kent’s front door was broken, so Strike ambled two doors along to reach a functioning bulb and opened the silver envelope.

Mr and Mrs Michael Ellacott

request the pleasure of your company

at the wedding of their daughter

Robin Venetia

to

Mr Matthew John Cunliffe

at the church of St Mary the Virgin, Masham

on Saturday 8th January 2011

at two o’clock

and afterwards at

Swinton Park

The invitation exuded the authority of military orders: this wedding will take place in the manner described hereon. He and Charlotte had never got as far as the issuing of stiff cream invitations engraved with shining black cursive.

Strike pushed the card back into his pocket and returned to wait beside Kathryn’s dark door, digging into himself, staring out over dark Lillie Road with its swooshing double lights, headlamps and reflections sliding along, ruby and amber. Down on the ground the hooded youths huddled, split apart, were joined by others and regrouped.

At half past six the expanded gang loped off together in a pack. Strike watched them until they were almost out of sight, at which point they passed a woman coming in the opposite direction. As she moved through the light puddle of a street lamp, he saw a thick mane of bright red hair flying from beneath a black umbrella.

Her walk was lopsided, because the hand not holding the umbrella was carrying two heavy carrier bags, but the impression she gave from this distance, regularly tossing back her thick curls, was not unattractive; her windblown hair was eye-catching and her legs beneath the loose overcoat were slender. Closer and closer she moved, unaware of his scrutiny from three floors up, across the concrete forecourt and out of sight.

Five minutes later she had emerged onto the balcony where Strike stood waiting. As she drew nearer, the straining buttons on the coat betrayed a heavy, apple-shaped torso. She di

d not notice Strike until she was ten yards away, because her head was bowed, but when she looked up he saw a lined and puffy face much older than he had expected. Coming to an abrupt halt, she gasped.

‘You!’

Strike realised that she was seeing him in silhouette because of the broken lights.

‘You fucking bastard!’

The bags hit the concrete floor with a tinkle of breaking glass: she was running full tilt at him, hands balled into fists and flailing.

‘You bastard, you bastard, I’ll never forgive you, never, you get away from me!’

Strike was forced to parry several wild punches. He stepped backwards as she screeched, throwing ineffectual blows and trying to break past his ex-boxer’s defences.

‘You wait – Pippa’s going to fucking kill you – you wait—’

The neighbour’s door opened again: there stood the same woman with a cigarette in her mouth.

‘Oi!’ she said.

Light from the hall flooded onto Strike, revealing him. With a half gasp, half yelp, the red-headed woman staggered backwards, away from him.

‘The fuck’s going on?’ demanded the neighbour.

‘Case of mistaken identity, I think,’ said Strike pleasantly.

The neighbour slammed her door, plunging the detective and his assailant back into darkness.

‘Who are you?’ she whispered. ‘What do you want?’

‘Are you Kathryn Kent?’

‘What do you want?’

Then, with sudden panic, ‘If it’s what I think it is, I don’t work in that bit!’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Who are you, then?’ she demanded, sounding more frightened than ever.

‘My name’s Cormoran Strike and I’m a private detective.’

He was used to the reactions of people who found him unexpectedly on their doorsteps. Kathryn’s response – stunned silence – was quite typical. She backed away from him and almost fell over her own abandoned carrier bags.

‘Who’s set a private detective on me? It’s her, is it?’ she said ferociously.

‘I’ve been hired to find the writer Owen Quine,’ said Strike. ‘He’s been missing for nearly a fortnight. I know you’re a friend of his—’

‘No, I’m not,’ she said and bent to pick up her bags again; they clinked heavily. ‘You can tell her that from me. She’s welcome to him.’

‘You’re not his friend any more? You don’t know where he is?’

‘I don’t give a shit where he is.’

A cat stalked arrogantly along the edge of the stone balcony.

‘Can I ask when you last—?’

‘No, you can’t,’ she said with an angry gesture; one of the bags in her hand swung and Strike flinched, thinking that the cat, which had drawn level with her, would be knocked off the ledge into space. It hissed and leapt down. She aimed a swift, spiteful kick at it.

‘Damn thing!’ she said. The cat streaked away. ‘Move, please. I want to get into my house.’

He took a few steps back from the door to let her approach it. She could not find her key. After a few uncomfortable seconds of trying to pat her own pockets while carrying the bags she was forced to set them down at her feet.

‘Mr Quine’s been missing since he had a row with his agent about his latest book,’ said Strike, as Kathryn fumbled in her coat. ‘I was wondering whether—’

‘I don’t give a shit about his book. I haven’t read it,’ she added. Her hands were shaking.

‘Mrs Kent—’

‘Ms,’ she said.

‘Ms Kent, Mr Quine’s wife says a woman called at his house looking for him. By the description, it sounded—’

Kathryn Kent had found the key but dropped it. Strike bent to pick it up for her; she snatched it from his grasp.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘You didn’t go looking for him at his house last week?’

‘I told you, I don’t know where he is, I don’t know anything,’ she snapped, ramming the key into the lock and turning it.

She caught up the two bags, one of which clinked heavily again. It was, Strike saw, from a local hardware store.

‘That looks heavy.’

‘My ballcock’s gone,’ she told him fiercely.

And she slammed her door in his face.

10

VERDONE: We came to fight.

CLEREMONT: Ye shall fight, Gentlemen,

And fight enough; but a short turn or two…

Francis Beaumont and Philip Massinger,

The Little French Lawyer

Robin emerged from the Tube the following morning, clutching a redundant umbrella and feeling sweaty and uncomfortable. After days of downpours, of Tube trains full of the smell of wet cloth, of slippery pavements and rain-speckled windows, the sudden switch to bright, dry weather had taken her by surprise. Other spirits might have lightened in the respite from the deluge and lowering grey clouds, but not Robin’s. She and Matthew had had a bad row.

It was almost a relief, when she opened the glass door engraved with Strike’s name and job title, to find that her boss was already on the telephone in his own office, with the door closed. She felt obscurely that she needed to pull herself together before she faced him, because Strike had been the subject of last night’s argument.

‘You’ve invited him to the wedding?’ Matthew had said sharply.

She had been afraid that Strike might mention the invitation over drinks that evening, and that if she did not warn Matthew first, Strike would bear the brunt of Matthew’s displeasure.

‘Since when are we just asking people without telling each other?’ Matthew had said.

‘I meant to tell you. I thought I had.’

Then Robin had felt angry with herself: she never lied to Matthew.

‘He’s my boss, he’ll expect to be invited!’

Which wasn’t true; she doubted that Strike cared one way or the other.

‘Well, I’d like him there,’ she said, which, at last, was honesty. She wanted to tug the working life that she had never enjoyed so much closer to the personal life that currently refused to meld with it; she wanted to stitch the two together in a satisfying whole and to see Strike in the congregation, approving (approving! Why did he have to approve?) of her marrying Matthew.

She had known that Matthew would not be happy, but she had hoped that by this time the two men would have met and liked each other, and it was not her fault that that had not happened yet.

‘After all the bloody fuss we had when I wanted to invite Sarah Shadlock,’ Matthew had said – a blow, Robin felt, that was below the belt.

‘Invite her then!’ she said angrily. ‘But it’s hardly the same thing – Cormoran’s never tried to get me into bed – what’s that snort supposed to mean?’

The argument had been in full swing when Matthew’s father telephoned with the news that a funny turn Matthew’s mother had suffered the previous week had been diagnosed as a mini-stroke.

After this, she and Matthew felt that squabbling about Strike was in bad taste, so they went to bed in an unsatisfactory state of theoretical reconciliation, both, Robin knew, still seething.

It was nearly midday before Strike finally emerged from his office. He was not wearing his suit today, but a dirty and holey sweater, jeans and trainers. His face was thick with the heavy stubble that accrued if he did not shave every twenty-four hours. Forgetting her own troubles, Robin stared: she had never, even in the days when he was sleeping in the office, known Strike to look like a down-and-out.

‘Been making calls for the Ingles file and getting some numbers for Longman,’ Strike told Robin, handing her the old-fashioned brown card folders, each with a handwritten serial number on the spine, that he had used in the Special Investigation Branch and which remained his favourite way of collating information.

‘Is that a – a deliberate look?’ she asked, staring at what looked like grease marks on the knees of his jeans.

/>

‘Yeah. It’s for Gunfrey. Long story.’

While Strike made them both tea, they discussed details of three current cases, Strike updating Robin on information received and further points to be investigated.

‘And what about Owen Quine?’ Robin asked, accepting her mug. ‘What did his agent say?’

Strike lowered himself onto the sofa, which made its usual farting noises beneath him, and filled her in on the details of his interview with Elizabeth Tassel and his visit to Kathryn Kent.

‘When she first saw me, I could swear she thought I was Quine.’

Robin laughed.

‘You’re not that fat.’

‘Cheers, Robin,’ he said drily. ‘When she realised I wasn’t Quine, and before she knew who I was, she said, “I don’t work in that bit.” Does that mean anything to you?’

‘No… but,’ she added diffidently, ‘I did manage to find out a bit about Kathryn Kent yesterday.’

‘How?’ asked Strike, taken aback.

‘Well, you told me she’s a self-published writer,’ Robin reminded him, ‘so I thought I’d look online and see what’s out there and’ – with two clicks of her mouse she brought up the page – ‘she’s got a blog.’

‘Good going!’ said Strike, moving gladly off the sofa and round the desk to read over Robin’s shoulder.

The amateurish web page was called ‘My Literary Life’, decorated with drawings of quills and a very flattering picture of Kathryn that Strike thought must be a good ten years out of date. The blog comprised a list of posts, arranged by date like a diary.

‘A lot of it’s about how traditional publishers wouldn’t know good books if they were hit over the head with them,’ said Robin, scrolling slowly down the web page so he could look at it. ‘She’s written three novels in what she calls an erotic fantasy series, called the Melina Saga. They’re available for download on Kindle.’