“Bloody good,” said Strike. He turned back to Kyle. “How many waitresses d’you know who got trafficked into it?”

“Well, obviously none but—I mean, you’re bound to’ve seen that bad stuff, aren’t you, being police—”

“As long as you don’t have to see it, all good, eh?”

“Well, if you feel like that…” said Kyle, red in the face now, “if you’re so against it, you must never’ve—you’ve never used porn, then, you don’t—?”

“If nobody else wants pudding,” said Robin loudly, standing up and pointing toward the sofa area, “shall we have coffee over there?”

Without waiting for an answer, she headed for the kitchen area. Behind her, she heard the scraping of a couple of chairs. After switching on the kettle, she headed downstairs to the bathroom, where, after she’d peed, she sat for five minutes on the toilet with her face in her hands.

Why had Strike turned up drunk? Why did they have to talk about rape and porn? Her attacker had been a voracious consumer of violent pornography, with a particular emphasis on choking, but his internet search history had been deemed inadmissible evidence by the judge. Robin didn’t want to know whether Strike used porn; she didn’t want to think about trafficked children being filmed, just as she didn’t want to remember Morris’s dick pic on her phone, or the snuff movie Bill Talbot had stolen. Tired and low, she asked herself why Strike couldn’t leave the students alone, if not out of consideration for his host, then for her, his partner.

She headed back upstairs. Halfway to the living area she heard Kyle’s heated voice and knew the argument had escalated. Arriving on the top floor, Robin saw the other five sitting around the coffee table, on which stood a cafetière, a bottle and the chocolates Jonathan had brought. Strike and Max were both holding glasses of brandy while Courtney, who was now very obviously drunk, though nowhere near as much as Strike, was nodding along with Kyle’s argument, a cup of coffee balanced precariously in her hands. Robin sat back down at the abandoned dining table, away from the rest of the group, took a piece of beef out of the casserole and fed it to a pathetically grateful Wolfgang.

“The point is to destigmatize and reclaim derogatory language about women,” Kyle was saying to Strike. “That’s the point.”

“And that’ll be ’chieved by a bunch’f nice middle-class girls going f’ra walk in their underwear, will it?” said Strike, his voice thick with alcohol.

“Well, not necessar’ly under—” began Courtney.

“It’s about ending victim-blaming,” said Kyle loudly. “Surely you can—?”

“An’ how’s it end victim-blaming?”

“Well, obv’sly,” said Courtney loudly, “by changing the adertu—the underlying attitudes—”

“You think rapists’ll see you all marching ’long and think ‘better jack in the raping,’ do you?”

Courtney and Kyle both began shouting at Strike. Jonathan glanced anxiously at his sister, who felt another of those sickening drops in her stomach.

“It’s about destigmatizing—”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, plen’y of men will enjoy watching you all strut past in your bras,” said Strike, taking a sloppy gulp of brandy, “’n’ I’m sure you’ll look great on Instagram—”

“It’s not about Instagram!” said Courtney, who sounded almost tearful now. “We’re making a serious point about—”

“Men who call women sluts, yeah, you said,” said Strike, talking over her again. “I’m sure they’ll feel properly rebuked, watching you prounce—prance by in your mini-skirt.”

“It’s not about rebuking,” said Kyle, “you’re missing the—”

“I’m not missing your super-subtle fucking point,” snapped Strike. “I’m telling you that in the real world, this f’cking Whore Walk—”

“SlutWalk,” said Kyle and Courtney loudly.

“—’ll make fuck-all difference. The kind of man who calls women sluts’ll look at your fucking sideshow and think ‘there go a load of sluts, look.’ Reclaim fucking language all you fucking like. You don’t change real altit—att—real-world attitudes by deciding slurs aren’t derug—derogat’ry.”

Wolfgang, who was still quivering at Robin’s ankle in the hope of getting more beef, emitted a loud whimper, which made Strike glance around. He saw Robin sitting there, pale and impassive.

“What d’you think ’bout all this?” Strike asked her loudly, waving his glass in the direction of the students, so that brandy slopped over the rim onto the carpet.

“I think it would be a good idea to change the subject,” said Robin, whose heart was beating so fast it hurt.

“Would you go on a fucking Whore—?”

“I don’t know, maybe,” said Robin, blood thumping in her ears, wanting only for the conversation to end. Her rapist had grunted “whore” over and over again during the attack. If her would-be killer had squeezed her neck for another thirty seconds, it would have been the last word she heard on earth.

“She’s b’ng polite,” said Strike, turning back to the students.

“Talking for women now, are you?” sneered Kyle.

“For an actual rape victim!” said Courtney.

The room seemed to warp. A clammy silence descended. On the edge of Robin’s field of vision she saw Max turn to look at her.

Strike got to his feet at the second attempt. Robin knew he was saying something to her, but it was all noise: her ears felt full of cotton wool. Strike lurched off toward the door: he was leaving. He bounced off the doorframe and disappeared from sight.

Everyone continued to stare at Robin.

“Oh God, I’m really sorry if I shouldn’t have said that,” whispered Courtney through the fingers she’d pressed to her mouth. Her eyes were brimming with tears. From downstairs came the sound of the door slamming.

“It’s fine,” said a distant voice that sounded quite like Robin’s own. “Excuse me a moment.”

She got to her feet, and followed Strike.

41

With that they gan their shiuering speares to shake,

And deadly points at eithers breast to bend,

Forgetfull each to haue bene euer others frend.

Edmund Spenser

The Faerie Queene

The dark, unfamiliar road took the exceptionally drunk Strike by surprise. Rain and high winds battered him as he stood, swaying, wondering which direction the Tube was. His usually reliable sense of direction was telling him to turn right, so he lurched off that way, searching his pockets for cigarettes as he went, savoring the delicious release of tension and temper he’d just enjoyed. The memory of what had just happened presented itself in a few scattered fragments: Kyle’s angry red face. Tosser. Fucking students. Max laughing at something Strike had said. Lots of food. Even more drink.

Rain sparkled in the street lights and blurred Strike’s vision. Objects seemed to shrink and enlarge around him, particularly the parked car that suddenly put itself in his path as he attempted to walk in a straight line down the street. His thick fingers fumbled fruitlessly in his pockets. He couldn’t find his cigarettes.

That last brandy might have been a mistake. He could still taste it. He didn’t like brandy, and he’d had a hell of a lot of Doom Bar with Nick in the pub.

It was a mighty effort to walk in these high winds. His glow of well-being was wearing off, but he definitely didn’t feel sick, even after all that beef casserole and a sizable bit of cheesecake, though he didn’t really want to think about them, nor about the forty or so cigarettes he’d consumed in the past twenty-four hours, nor about the brandy he could still taste.

Without warning, his stomach contracted. Strike staggered to a gap between two cars, bent double and vomited as copiously as he’d done at Christmas, over and over, for several minutes, until he was standing with his hands on his knees, still heaving, but bringing nothing else up.

Sweaty-faced, he stood up, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, pistons banging in his head. It was several seconds before he became aware of the pale figure standing watching him, its fair hair blowing wildly in the wind.

“Wh—? Oh,” he said, as Robin came into focus. “It’s you.”

It occurred to him that she might have followed him to bring his forgotten cigarettes and looked hopefully at her hands, but they were empty. Strike moved away from the puddle of vomit in the gutter and leaned up against another parked car.

“I was in the pub with Nick all afternoon,” he said thickly, under the impression that Robin might be concerned about him.

Something hard was pressing into his buttock. Now he realized that he did have his cigarettes on him, after all, and he was glad of this, because he’d rather taste tobacco than vomit. He tugged the pack out of his back pocket and, after a few false starts, managed to light up.

At last, it penetrated his consciousness that Robin’s demeanor was unusual. Focusing on her face, he registered it as white and oddly pinched.

“What?”