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pay?”
    “A month’s fee in advance will be great,” said Strike. Quashing feeble stirrings of shame, and remembering that Bristow himself had offered a double fee, he named an exorbitant amount, and to his delight Bristow did not quibble, nor ask whether he accepted credit cards nor even promise to drop the money in later, but drew out a real check-book and a pen.
    “If, say, a quarter of it could be in cash,” Strike added, chancing his luck; and was staggered for the second time that morning when Bristow said, “I did wonder whether you’d prefer…” and counted out a pile of fifties in addition to the check.
    They emerged into the outer office at the very moment that Robin was about to enter with Strike’s fresh coffee. Bristow’s girlfriend stood up when the door opened, and folded her newspaper with the air of one who had been kept waiting too long. She was almost as tall as Bristow, large-framed, with a surly expression and big, mannish hands.
    “So you’ve agreed to do it, have you?” she asked Strike. He had the impression that she thought he was taking advantage of her rich boyfriend. Very possibly she was right.
    “Yes, John’s hired me,” he replied.
    “Oh well,” she said, ungraciously. “You’re pleased, I expect, John.”
    The lawyer smiled at her, and she sighed and patted his arm, like a tolerant but slightly exasperated mother to a child. John Bristow raised his hand in a salute, then followed his girlfriend out of the room, and their footsteps clanged away down the metal stairs.

5
    STRIKE TURNED TO ROBIN , WHO had sat back down at the computer. His coffee was sitting beside the piles of neatly sorted mail lined up on the desk beside her.
    “Thanks,” he said, taking a sip, “and for the note. Why are you a temp?”
    “What d’you mean?” she asked, looking suspicious.
    “You can spell and punctuate. You catch on quick. You show initiative—where did the cups and the tray come from? The coffee and biscuits?”
    “I borrowed them all from Mr. Crowdy. I told him we’d return them by lunchtime.”
    “Mr. who?”
    Mr. Crowdy, the man downstairs. The graphic designer.”
    “And he just let you have them?”
    “Yes,” she said, a little defensively. “I thought, having offered the client coffee, we ought to provide it.”
    Her use of the plural pronoun was like a gentle pat to his morale.
    “Well, that was efficiency way beyond anything Temporary Solutions has sent here before, take it from me. Sorry I kept calling you Sandra; she was the last girl. What’s your real name?”
    “Robin.”
    “Robin,” he repeated. “That’ll be easy to remember.”
    He had some notion of making a jocular allusion to Batman and his dependable sidekick, but the feeble jest died on his lips as her face turned brilliantly pink. Too late, he realized that the most unfortunate construction could be put on his innocent words. Robin swung the swivel chair back towards the computer monitor, so that all Strike could see was an edge of a flaming cheek. In one frozen moment of mutual mortification, the room seemed to have shrunk to the size of a telephone kiosk.
    “I’m going to nip out for a bit,” said Strike, putting down his virtually untouched coffee and moving crabwise towards the door, taking down the overcoat hanging beside it. “If anyone calls…”
    “Mr. Strike—before you go, I think you ought to see this.”
    Still flushed, Robin took, from on top of the pile of opened letters beside her computer, a sheet of bright pink writing paper and a matching envelope, both of which she had put into a clear plastic pocket. Strike noticed her engagement ring as she held the things up.
    “It’s a death threat,” she said.
    “Oh yeah,” said Strike. “Nothing to worry about. They come in about once a week.”
    “But—”
    “It’s a disgruntled ex-client. Bit unhinged. He thinks he’s throwing me off the scent by using that paper.”
    “Surely, though—shouldn’t the police see