At the precise moment Matthew turned to walk away from Robin in Holborn, Strike, who was sitting in his parked car three miles away, outside the familiar terraced house in Stoke Newington, decided to call his brother, lest Al sit in wait for him at the office all day. The detective’s anger was shot through with other, less easily identifiable feelings, of which the least painful to acknowledge was grudging admiration for Al’s persistence. Strike didn’t doubt that Al had come to the office for a last-ditch attempt to persuade Strike into some form of reconciliation with his father, preferably before or during the party to celebrate his father’s new album. Having always considered Al a fairly weak and sybaritic character, Strike had to admit he was showing guts, risking his older brother’s fury.

Strike waited until Elinor Dean had unloaded the foam and the cheap wood from her car and carried it all inside with the aid of her friend from Shifty’s gym, watched the front door close, then called Al’s number.

“Hi,” said Al, picking up after a single ring.

“Why are you in my office?” asked Strike.

“Wanted to see you, bruv. Talk face to face.”

“Well, I won’t be back there today,” lied Strike. “So I suggest you say whatever it is you’ve got to say now.”

“Bruv—”

“Who’s there with you?”

“Er—your secretary—Pat, is it?” Strike heard Al turn away from his mobile to check, and heard Pat’s caw of agreement, “and a bloke called—”

“Barclay,” said the Scot loudly, in the background.

“Right, well, go into my office for some privacy,” said Strike. He listened while Al told Pat what Strike had asked him to do, heard the familiar sound of his own office door closing, then said, “If this is about what I think it’s about—”

“Cormoran, we didn’t want to tell you this, but Dad’s got cancer.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Strike leaned forwards momentarily and rested his forehead on the steering wheel of his car, before he sat up again.

“Prostate,” Al continued. “They reckon they’ve caught it early. But we thought you should know, because this party isn’t just about celebrating the band’s anniversary, and the new album. It’s about giving him something to look forward to.”

There was a silence.

“We thought you should know,” Al repeated.

Why should I fucking know? thought Strike, eyes on the closed door of Elinor Dean’s house. He had no relationship with Rokeby. Did Al expect him to weep, to rush to Rokeby’s side, to express compassion or pity? Rokeby was a multimillionaire. Doubtless he’d enjoy the very best treatment. The memory of Joan’s lily urn bobbing away on the sea recurred as Strike said, “OK, well, I don’t really know how to respond to that. I’m sure it’s a bugger for everyone who cares about him.”

Another long silence followed.

“We thought this might make a difference,” said Al quietly.

“To what?”

“To your attitude.”

“As long as they’ve caught it early, he’ll be fine,” said Strike bracingly. “Probably live to father another couple of kids he never sees.”

“Jesus Christ!” said Al, really angry now. “You might not give a shit, but he happens to be my dad—”

“I give a shit about people who’ve ever given a shit about me,” said Strike, “and keep your fucking voice down, those are my employees you’re airing my private business in front of.”

“That’s your priority?”

Strike thought of Charlotte who, according to the papers, remained in hospital, and of Lucy, who was agitating to know whether Strike would be able to take the weekend off, to join Ted at her house in Bromley for the weekend. He thought of the clients in the Shifty case, who were hinting they’d terminate payment in a week’s time unless the agency found out what hold Shifty had on his boss. He thought of Margot Bamborough, and the rapidly vanishing year they’d been allotted to find out what had happened to her. Inexplicably, he thought of Robin, and the fact that he’d forgotten that today was her mediation session with Matthew.

“I’ve got a life,” said Strike, keeping a curb on his temper only by exercising maximum self-control, “which is hard and complicated, just like everyone else’s. Rokeby’s got a wife and half a dozen kids and I’m at maximum capacity for people who need me. I’m not coming to his fucking party, I’m not interested in hearing from him, I don’t want a relationship with him. I don’t know how much clearer I can make this, Al, but I’m—”

The line went dead. Without regretting anything he’d said, but nevertheless breathing heavily, Strike threw his mobile onto the passenger seat, lit a cigarette and watched Elinor Dean’s front door for another fifteen minutes until, on a sudden whim, he snatched up the phone from beside him again, and called Barclay.

“What are you doing right now?”

“Filin’ my expenses,” said the Scot laconically. “That casino cost ye a fortune.”

“Is my brother still there?”

“No, he left.”

“Good. I need you to come and take over in Stoke Newington.”

“I havenae got my car wi’ me.”

“OK, well, fuck it, then,” said Strike angrily.

“I’m sorry, Strike,” said Barclay, “but I’m s’posed tae have this afternoon off—”

“No, I’m sorry,” said Strike, closing his eyes. He had the same sensation of a wire tightening around his forehead that he’d experienced in St. Mawes. “Getting frustrated. Enjoy your afternoon off. Seriously,” he added, in case Barclay thought he was being sarcastic.

Having hung up on Barclay, Strike rang Robin.

“How did mediation go?”

“Fine,” said Robin, though she sounded strangely flat. “We’ve settled.”

“Great!”

“Yeah. It’s a relief.”

“Did you say you’re going to Betty Fuller’s?”

“Yes, I was just about to head into the Tube.”

“Remind me where she lives?”

“Sheltered housing on Sans Walk in Clerkenwell.”

“OK, I’ll meet you there,” said Strike.

“Really? I’m fine to—”

“I know, but I want to be there,” Strike cut across her.

He pulled away from Elinor Dean’s house knowing that he’d just been abrasive toward his two favorite colleagues. If he was going to vent his temper, it could at least have been at Pat and Morris’s expense.

Twenty minutes later, Strike entered Clerkenwell via Percival Street. To his right were the nondescript red-brick flats where Janice Beattie and Steve Douthwaite had once lived, and he wondered yet again what had become of Margot’s one-time patient, whose whereabouts, in spite of his and Robin’s best efforts, remained unknown.

Sans Walk was a narrow pedestrianized one-way street. Strike parked his BMW as close to it as possible. The day was surprisingly warm, in spite of a good amount of cloud. As he approached Sans Walk, he saw Robin waiting for him at the entrance.

“Hi,” she said. “It’s up the other end, that red-brick modern building with the circular tower thing on top.”

“Great,” said Strike, as they set off together. “Sorry for earlier, I—”

“No, it’s fine,” said Robin, “I know we really need results soon.”

But Strike thought he detected a slight coolness.

“Al pissed me off,” he explained. “So I might’ve been a bit—”

“Cormoran, it’s fine,” repeated Robin, but with a smile that reassured Strike.

“Great news about the mediation,” he said.

“Yes,” said Robin, though she didn’t look particularly pleased. “So, what d’you think’s the best tack to take with Betty Fuller?”

“Be honest and direct about who we are and what we’re investigating,” said Strike, “and then play it by ear, I think. And hope to Christ she’s not demented…”

Priory House was a modern, multi-level building with a shared garden at the back. As they approached the front doors, a middle-aged couple came out; they had the relieved look of people who’d just done their duty, and, smiling at Strike and Robin, they held open the door to let them walk inside.

“Thanks very much,” said Robin, smiling at them, and as the couple walked on, she heard the woman say, “At least she remembered who we are, this time…”

Had it not been for the mobility scooters, the place would have resembled a hall of residence, with its hardy dark gray carpet underfoot, its bulletin board bristling with pamphlets and a depressing smell of communal cooking hanging in the air.

“She’s on the ground floor,” said Robin, pointing toward a corridor. “I checked the names on the buzzer.”

They passed a number of identical pine doors until they reached the one with “Elizabeth Fuller” printed on a card in a metal holder. Through the wood came the muffled sounds of voices. Just as it had been when he’d visited Janice Beattie, the TV was turned up very high inside. Strike rapped hard on the door.

After a lengthy wait, the door opened very slowly to reveal a panting old lady wearing a nasal cannula, who’d pulled her oxygen tank to the door with her. Over her shoulder, Strike saw a TV blaring the reality show The Only Way is Essex.

“I’m fine. You just upset me, Arg,” a heavily made-up girl in bright blue was saying onscreen.

Betty Fuller looked as though she’d been subject to heavier gravity than the rest of humankind. Everything about her had sagged and drooped: the corners of her lipless mouth, her papery eyelids, her loose jowls, the tip of her thin nose. It appeared that the flesh had been sucked down out of her upper body into her lower: Betty had almost no bust, but her hips were broad and her poor bare legs were immensely swollen, both ankles thicker than her neck. She wore what looked like a pair of men’s slippers and a dark green knitted dress on which there were several stains. A yellowish scalp was clearly visible through the sparse gray hair slicked back off her face and a hearing aid was prominent in her left ear.