Scribbling away for Landry’s benefit, Strike wondered whether his belief in genetic predetermination accounted for some of Bristow’s preoccupation with Lula’s black relatives. Doubtless Bristow had been privy to his uncle’s views through the years; children absorbed the views of their relatives at some deep, visceral level. He, Strike, had known in his bones, long before the words had ever been said in front of him, that his mother was not like other mothers, that there was (if he believed in the unspoken code that bound the rest of the adults around him) something shameful about her.

‘You saw Lula the day she died, I think?’ Strike said.

Landry’s eyelashes were so fair they looked silver.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Yeah…’ Strike flicked back through his notebook ostentatiously, coming to a halt at an entirely blank page. ‘… you met her at your sister’s flat, didn’t you? When Lula called in to see Lady Bristow?’

‘Who told you that? John?’

‘It’s all in the police file. Isn’t it true?’

‘Yes, it’s perfectly true, but I can’t see how it’s relevant to anything we’ve been discussing.’

‘I’m sorry; when you arrived, you said you’d been expecting to hear from me. I got the impression you were happy to answer questions.’

Landry had the air of a man who has found himself unexpectedly snookered.

‘I have nothing to add to the statement I gave to the police,’ he said at last.

‘Which is,’ said Strike, leafing backwards through blank pages, ‘that you dropped in to visit your sister that morning, where you met your niece, and that you then drove to Oxford to attend a conference on international developments in family law?’

Landry was chewing on air again.

‘That’s correct,’ he said.

‘What time would you say you arrived at your sister’s flat?’

‘It must have been about ten,’ said Landry, after a short pause.

‘And you stayed how long?’

‘Half an hour, perhaps. Maybe longer. I really can’t remember.’

‘And you drove directly from there to the conference in Oxford?’

Over Landry’s shoulder, Strike saw John Bristow questioning a waitress; he appeared out of breath and a little dishevelled, as though he had been running. A rectangular leather case dangled from his hand. He glanced around, panting slightly, and when he spotted the back of Landry’s head, Strike thought that he looked frightened.

6

‘John,’ said Strike, as his client approached them.

‘Hi, Cormoran.’

Landry did not look at his nephew, but picked up his knife and fork and took a first bite of his terrine. Strike moved around the table to make room for Bristow to sit down opposite his uncle.

‘Have you spoken to Reuben?’ Landry asked Bristow coldly, once he had finished his mouthful of terrine.

‘Yes. I’ve said I’ll go over this afternoon and take him through all the deposits and drawings.’