Strike agreed that this would be a good idea. When Bristow had given him the name and address of his favourite place to eat near his office, and hung up, Strike reached for his cigarettes, and lay for a while smoking and contemplating the pattern made on the ceiling by the sun through the blind slats, savouring the silence and the solitude, the absence of children screaming, of Lucy’s attempts to question him over the raucous yells of her youngest. Feeling almost kindly towards his peaceful office, he stubbed out the cigarette, got up and prepared to take his usual shower at ULU.

He finally reached Derrick Wilson, after several more attempts, late on Sunday evening.

‘You can’t come this week,’ said Wilson. ‘Mister Bestigui’s round a lot at the moment. I gotta think about about mi job, you understand me. I’ll call you if there’s a good time, all right?’

Strike heard a distant buzzer.

‘Are you at work now?’ called Strike, before Wilson could hang up.

He heard the security guard say, away from the receiver:

‘(Just sign the book, mate.) What?’ he added loudly, to Strike.

‘If you’re there now, could you check the logbook for the name of a friend who used to visit Lula sometimes?’

‘What friend?’ asked Wilson. ‘(Yeah, see yuh.)’

‘The girl Kieran talked about; the friend from rehab. Rochelle. I want her surname.’

‘Oh, her, yeah,’ said Wilson. ‘Yeah, I’ll take a look an’ I’ll buzz y—’

‘Could you have a quick look now?’

He heard Wilson sigh.

‘Yeah, all right. Wait there.’

Indistinct sounds of movement, clunks and scrapings, then the flick of turning pages. While Strike waited, he contemplated various items of clothing designed by Guy Somé, which were arrayed on his computer screen.

‘Yeah, she’s here,’ said Wilson’s voice in his ear. ‘Her name’s Rochelle… I can’ read… looks like Onifade.’

‘Can you spell it?’

Wilson did so, and Strike wrote it down.

‘When’s the last time she was there, Derrick?’

‘Back in early November,’ said Wilson. ‘(Yeah, good evenin’.) I gotta go now.’