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He carried the four boxes one by one out on to the doorstep, on the last trip cohbor, as locking his own front door He wore rugby shirts with the collars turned up, and always brayed with panting laughter at Charlotte’s lightest witticisms

“Having a clear-out?” he asked

Strike shut Charlotte’s door firmly on him

He slid the door keys off his key ring in front of the hall mirror, and laid them carefully on the half-moon table, next to the bowl of potpourri Strike’s face in the glass was creviced and dirty-looking; his right eye still puffy; yellow and mauve A voice from seventeen years before ca like you ever pull that, Strike?” And it seemed incredible that he ever had, as he stood there in the hall he would never see again

One last moment of madness, the space between heartbeats, like the one that had sent hi after her five days previously: he would stay here, after all, waiting for her to return; then cupping her perfect face in his hands and saying “Let’s try again”

But they had already tried, again and again and again, and always, when the first crashing wave of ly wreck of the past lay revealed again, its shadow lying darkly over everything they tried to rebuild

He closed the front door behind hihbor had vanished Strike lifted the four boxes down the steps on to the pavement, and waited to hail a black cab

5

STRIKE HAD TOLD ROBIN THAT he would be late into the office on her last iven her the spare key, and told her to let herself in

She had been very slightly hurt by his casual use of the word “last” It told her that however well they had got along, albeit in a guarded and professional way; however anized his office was, and how lass door; however much better the bell downstairs looked, without that scrappy piece of paper taped beneath it, but a neatly typed name in the clear plastic holder (it had taken her half an hour, and cost her two broken nails, to prize the cover off); however efficient she had been at taking ently she had discussed the almost certainly nonexistent killer of Lula Landry, Strike had been counting down the days until he could get rid of her

That he could not afford a temporary secretary was perfectly obvious He had only two clients; he see in an office was a mark of terrible depravity) to be homeless; Robin saw, of course, that from Strike’s point of view itforward to Monday There would be a strange new office (Teh the address); a neat, bright, bustling place, no doubt, full of gossipy woed in activities that ht not believe in a murderer; she knew that Strike did not believe either; but the process of proving one nonexistent fascinated her

Robin had found the whole weekthan she would ever have confessed to Matthew All of it, even calling Freddie Bestigui’s production co repeated refusals to her requests to be put through to the filiven her a sense of i life Robin was fascinated by the interior workings of other people’s ree when an unforeseen incident had finished her university career

Half past ten, and Strike had still not returned to the office, but a large woe coat and a purple knitted beret had arrived This was Mrs Hook, a name familiar to Robin because it was that of Strike’s only other client Robin installed Mrs Hook on the sagging sofa beside her own desk, and fetched her a cup of tea (Acting on Robin’s aard description of the lascivious Mr Crowdy downstairs, Strike had bought cheap cups and a box of their own tea bags)

“I know I’ ineffectual little sips of boiling tea “I haven’t seen you before, are you new?”

“I’m temporary,” said Robin

“As I expect you’ve guessed, it’s“I suppose you see wo to know the worst I dithered for ages and ages But it’s best to know, isn’t it? Best to know I thought Cormoran would be here Is he out on another case?”

“That’s right,” said Robin, who suspected that Strike was actually doing so related to his iness about him as he had told her he would be late

“Do you knoho his father is?” asked Mrs Hook

“No, I don’t,” said Robin, thinking that they were talking about the poor woman’s husband

“Jonny Rokeby,” said Mrs Hook, with a kind of dramatic relish

“Jonny Roke—”

Robin caught her breath, realizing simultaneously that Mrs Hookup outside the glass door She could see that he was carrying soe

“Just one moment, Mrs Hook,” she said

“What?” asked Strike, peering around the edge of the cardboard box, as Robin darted out of the glass door and closed it behind her

“Mrs Hook’s here,” she whispered

“Oh, for fuck’s sake She’s an hour early”

“I know I thought you anize your office a bit before you take her in there”

Strike eased the cardboard box on to the metal floor

“I’ve got to bring these in off the street,” he said

“I’ll help,” offered Robin

“No, you go anda pottery class and she thinks her husband’s sleeping with his accountant”

Strike lilass door

Jonny Rokeby; could it be true?

“He’s on his way, just co herself at her desk “Mr Strike told me you do pottery I’ve alanted to try…”

For five minutes, Robin barely listened to the exploits of the pottery class, and the sweetly understanding young lass door opened and Strike entered, unencu politely at Mrs Hook, who jureet him

“Oh, Cormoran, your eye!” she said “Has somebody punched you?”

“No,” said Strike “If you’ll give et out your file”

“I know I’m early, Corht…”

“Let me take your cup, Mrs Hook,” said Robin, and she successfully distracted the client froh the inner door, the ca and the kettle

A few ed on a waft of artificial limes, and Mrs Hook vanished, with a terrified look at Robin, into his office The door closed behind them

Robin sat down at her desk again She had already opened theside to side on her swivel chair; then she ht up Wikipedia Then, with a disengaged air, as though she was unaware of what her fingers were up to, she typed in the two names: Rokeby Strike

The entry appeared at once, headed by a black-and-white photograph of an instantly recognizable man, famous for four decades He had a narrow Harlequin’s face and wild eyes, which were easy to caricature, the left one slightly off-kilter due to a weak divergent squint; hisas he bellowed into a microphone

Jonathan Leonard “Jonny” Rokeby, b August 1st 1948, is the lead singer of 70s rock band The Deadbeats, member of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, multi–Grammy Ainner…

Strike looked no

thing like hiht resemblance was in the inequality of the eyes, which in Strike was, after all, a transient condition

Down the entry Robin scrolled:

… tour of As bust in LA and the arrest of new guitarist David Carr, hom…

until she reached Personal Life: