“Why the hell?”

Robin paused at the door, looking back at Strike.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

She let herself out of the room, leaving Strike to frown after her, wondering what was obvious. He could imagine only two reasons to buy a woman flowers: because you were hoping to sleep with her, or to avoid being criticized for not buying flowers on a day when flowers might be expected. Neither seemed to apply in this case.

The team was sitting in a cramped circle outside, Hutchins and Barclay on the fake leather sofa, Morris on one of the fold-up plastic chairs that had been bought when the team outgrew the existing seats, and Pat on her own wheeled desk chair, which left another two uncomfortable plastic chairs for the partners. Robin noticed how all three men stopped talking when Strike emerged from the inner office: when she’d led the meeting alone, she’d had to wait until Hutchins and Morris finished discussing a mutual police acquaintance who’d been caught taking bribes.

The bright pink daisy-like gerberas sat in a small vase on Pat’s desk now. Strike glanced at them before saying,

“All right, let’s start with Shifty. Morris, did you get anywhere with that bloke in the tracksuit?”

“Yeah, I did,” said Morris, consulting his notes. “His name’s Barry Fisher. He’s divorced with one kid and he’s a manager at Shifty’s gym.”

Appreciative, low-toned growls of approval and interest issued from Strike, Barclay and Hutchins. Robin contented herself with a slight eyebrow raise. It was her experience that the slightest hint of warmth or approval from her was interpreted by Morris as an invitation to flirtation.

“So, I’ve booked myself in for a trial session with one of their trainers,” said Morris.

Bet it’s with a woman, thought Robin.

“While I was talking to her, I saw him wandering about talking to some of the other girls. He’s definitely hetero, judging by how he was looking at one of the women on the cross-trainer. I’m going back Monday for a workout, if that’s all right with you, boss. Try and find out more about him.”

“Fine,” said Strike. “Well, this looks like our first solid lead: a link between Shifty and whatever’s going on inside Elinor Dean’s house.”

Robin, who’d spent the night before last sitting in her Land Rover outside Elinor’s house, said,

“It might not be relevant, but Elinor took an Amazon delivery yesterday morning. Two massive boxes. They looked quite light, but—”

“We should open a book,” Morris told Strike, talking over Robin. “Twenty on dominatrix.”

“Never seen the appeal in bein’ whipped,” said Barclay thoughtfully. “If I want pain, I jus’ forget to put the bins oot.”

“Bit mumsy-looking, though, isn’t she?” said Hutchins. “If I had SB’s money, I’d go for something a bit more—”

He sketched a slimmer figure in mid-air. Morris laughed.

“Ach, there’s no accountin’ for taste,” said Barclay. “Army mate o’ mine wouldnae look at anythin’ under thirteen stone. We usedtae call him the Pork Whisperer.”

The men laughed. Robin smiled, mainly because Barclay was looking at her, and she liked Barclay, but she felt too tired and demoralized to be truly amused. Pat was wearing a “boys will be boys” expression of bored tolerance.

“Unfortunately, I’ve got to go back to Cornwall on Sunday,” said Strike, “which I appreciate—”

“The fuck are ye gonna get tae Cornwall?” asked Barclay, as the office windows shook with the wind.

“Jeep,” said Strike. “My aunt’s dying. Looks like she’s got days.”

Robin looked at Strike, startled.

“I appreciate that leaves us stretched,” Strike continued matter-of-factly, “but it can’t be helped. I think it’s worth continuing to keep an eye on SB himself. Morris’ll do some digging with this bloke at the gym and the rest of you can divvy up shifts on Elinor Dean. Unless anyone’s got anything to add,” said Strike, pausing for comments. The men all shook their heads and Robin, too tired to mention the Amazon boxes again, remained silent. “Let’s have a look at Postcard.”

“I’ve got news,” said Barclay laconically. “She’s back at work. I’ve talked tae her. Yer woman,” he added, to Robin, “short. Big round glasses. Ambled over and started askin’ questions.”

“What about?” asked Morris, a smirk playing around his lips.

“Light effects in the landscapes o’ James Duffield Harding,” said Barclay. “What d’ye think I asked, who she fancied for the Champions League?”

Strike laughed, and so did Robin, this time, glad to see Morris looking foolish.

“Yeah, I read the notice by his portrait an’ looked him up on my phone round the corner,” said Barclay. “Wanted a way o’ getting ontae the subject o’ weather wi’ her. Anyway,” said the Glaswegian, “coupla minutes intae the conversation, talkin’ light effects an’ broodin’ skies an’ that, she brought up oor weatherman friend. Turned pink when she mentioned him. Said he’d described a viewer’s picture as ‘Turneresque’ last week.

“It’s her,” said Barclay, addressing Robin. “She wanted tae mention him for the pleasure of sayin’ his name. She’s Postcard.”

“Bloody well done,” Strike told Barclay.

“It’s Robin’s win,” said Barclay. “She made the pass. I jus’ tapped it in.”

“Thanks, Sam,” said Robin, pointedly, not looking at Strike, who registered both the tone and her expression.

“Fair point,” said Strike, “well done, both of you.”

Aware that he’d been short with Robin during their meeting about the Bamborough case, Strike sought to make amends by asking her opinion on which of the waiting list clients they ought to contact, now that the Postcard case was as good as wrapped up, and she said she thought the commodities broker who thought her husband was sleeping with their nanny.

“Great,” said Strike. “Pat, can you get in touch and tell her we’re ready to roll if she still wants him under surveillance? If nobody’s got anything else—”

“I have,” said Hutchins, generally the quietest person in the agency. “It’s about that roll of film you wanted passed to the Met.”

“Oh yeah?” said Strike. “Is there news?”

“My mate rang last night. There’s nothing to be done with it. You won’t get any prosecutions now.”

“Why not?” said Robin.

She sounded angrier than she’d meant to. The men all looked at her.

“Perpetrators’ faces all hidden,” said Hutchins. “That arm that appears for a moment: you can’t build a prosecution case on an out-of-focus ring.”

“I thought your contact said the roll had come out of a raid on one of Mucky Ricci’s brothels?” said Robin.

“He thinks it did,” Hutchins corrected her. “You won’t get DNA evidence off a can that old, that’s been kept in a shed and an attic and handled by a hundred people. It’s a no-go. Shame,” he said indifferently, “but there you are.”

Strike now heard his mobile ringing back on the partners’ desk, where he’d left it. Worried it might be Ted, he excused himself from the meeting and retreated into the inner office, closing the door behind him.

There was no caller ID on the number ringing his mobile.

“Cormoran Strike.”

“Hello, Cormoran,” said an unfamiliar, husky voice. “It’s Jonny.”

There was a brief silence.

“Your father,” Rokeby added.

Strike, whose tired mind was full of Joan, of the agency’s three open cases, of guilt about being grumpy with his partner, and the logistical demands he was placing on his employees by disappearing to Cornwall again, said nothing at all. Through the dividing door, he could hear the team still discussing the roll of film.

“Wanted a chat,” said Rokeby. “Is that all right?”

Strike felt suddenly disembodied; completely detached from everything, from the office, from his fatigue, from the concerns that had seemed all-important just seconds ago. It was as though he and his father’s voice existed alone and nothing else was fully real, except Strike’s adrenaline, and a primal desire to leave a mark that Rokeby wouldn’t quickly forget.

“I’m listening,” he said.

Another silence.

“Look,” said Rokeby, sounding slightly uneasy, “I don’t wanna do this by phone. Let’s meet. It’s been too fucking long. Water under the bridge. Let’s meet, let’s… I wanna—this can’t go on. This fucking—feud, or whatever it is.”

Strike said nothing.

“Come to the house,” said Rokeby. “Come over. Let’s talk, and… you’re not a kid any more. There are two sides to every story. Nothing’s black and white.”

He paused. Strike still said nothing.

“I’m proud of you, d’you know that?” said Rokeby. “I’m really fucking proud of you. What you’ve done and…”