‘Wilson came dashing out of the room behind the desk. I told him what had happened and he went straight out on to the street to see her, instead of running upstairs. Bloody fool. If only he’d gone upstairs first, he might have caught him! Then Freddie came down after me, and started trying to make me go back to our flat, because I wasn’t dressed.

‘Then Wilson came back, and told us she was dead, and told Freddie to call the police. Freddie virtually dragged me back upstairs – I was completely hysterical – and he dialled 999 from our sitting room. And then the police came. And nobody believed a single word I said.’

She sipped her wine again, set down the glass and said quietly:

‘If Freddie knew I was talking to you, he’d go ape.’

‘But you’re quite sure, aren’t you, Tansy,’ Bristow interjected, ‘that you heard a man up there?’

‘Yah, of course I am,’ said Tansy. ‘I’ve just said, haven’t I? There was definitely someone there.’

Bristow’s mobile rang.

‘Excuse me,’ he muttered. ‘Alison… yes?’ he said, picking up.

Strike could hear the secretary’s deep voice, without being able to make out the words.

‘Excuse me just a moment,’ Bristow said, looking harried, and he left the table.

A look of malicious amusement appeared on both sisters’ smooth, polished faces. They glanced at each other again; then, somewhat to his surprise, Ursula asked Strike:

‘Have you met Alison?’

‘Briefly.’

‘You know they’re together?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s a bit pathetic, actually,’ said Tansy. ‘She’s with John, but she’s actually obsessed with Tony. Have you met Tony?’

‘No,’ said Strike.

‘He’s one of the senior partners. John’s uncle, you know?’

‘Yes.’

‘Very attractive. He wouldn’t go for Alison in a million years. I suppose she’s settled for John as consolation prize.’

The thought of Alison’s doomed infatuation seemed to afford the sisters great satisfaction.

‘This is all common gossip at the office, is it?’ asked Strike.

‘Oh, yah,’ said Ursula, with relish. ‘Cyprian says she’s absolutely embarrassing. Like a puppy dog around Tony.’

Her antipathy towards Strike seemed to have evaporated. He was not surprised; he had met the phenomenon many times. People liked to talk; there were very few exceptions; the question was how you made them do it. Some, and Ursula was evidently one of them, were amenable to alcohol; others liked a spotlight; and then there were those who merely needed proximity to another conscious human being. A subsection of humanity would become loquacious only on one favourite subject: it might be their own innocence, or somebody else’s guilt; it might be their collection of pre-war biscuit tins; or it might, as in the case of Ursula May, be the hopeless passion of a plain secretary.