‘Lula was the kind of girl who would call somebody thirty times in a row, on the flimsiest pretext. She was spoiled. She expected people to jump to attention at the sight of her name.’

Strike glanced at Bristow.

‘She was – sometimes – a bit like that,’ her brother muttered.

‘Do you think your sister was upset purely because your mother was weak from her operation, John?’ Strike asked Bristow. ‘Her driver, Kieran Kolovas-Jones, is emphatic that she came away from the flat in a dramatically altered mood.’

Before Bristow could answer, Landry, abandoning his food, stood up and began to put on his overcoat.

‘Is Kolovas-Jones that strange-looking coloured boy?’ he asked, looking down at Strike and Bristow. ‘The one who wanted Lula to get him modelling and acting work?’

‘He’s an actor, yeah,’ said Strike.

‘Yes. On Yvette’s birthday, the last before she became ill, I had a problem with my car. Lula and that man called by to give me a lift to the birthday dinner. Kolovas-Jones spent most of the journey badgering Lula to use her influence with Freddie Bestigui to get him an audition. Quite an encroaching young man. Very familiar in his manner. Of course,’ he added, ‘the less I knew about my adopted niece’s love life, the better, as far as I was concerned.’

Landry threw a ten-pound note down on the table.

‘I’ll expect you back at the office soon, John.’

He stood in clear expectation of a response, but Bristow was not paying attention. He was staring, wide-eyed, at the picture on the news story that Strike had been reading when Landry arrived; it showed a young black soldier in the uniform of the 2nd Battalion The Royal Regiment of Fusiliers.

‘What? Yes. I’ll be straight back,’ he told his uncle distractedly, who was looking at him coldly. ‘Sorry,’ Bristow added to Strike, as Landry walked away. ‘It’s just that Wilson – Derrick Wilson, you know, the security guard – he’s got a nephew out in Afghanistan. For a moment, God forbid… but it’s not him. Wrong name. Dreadful, this war, isn’t it? And is it worth this loss of life?’

Strike shifted the weight off his prosthesis – the trudge across the park had not helped the soreness in his leg – and made a non-committal noise.

‘Let’s walk back,’ said Bristow, when they had finished eating. ‘I fancy some fresh air.’

Bristow chose the most direct route, which involved navigating stretches of lawn that Strike would not have chosen to walk, on his own, because it demanded much more energy than tarmac. As they passed the memorial fountain to Diana, Princess of Wales, whispering, tinkling and gushing along its long channel of Cornish granite, Bristow suddenly announced, as though Strike had asked:

‘Tony’s never liked me much. He preferred Charlie. People said that Charlie looked like Tony did, when he was a boy.’