‘Really? Where are you working?’

‘Whut’s it to you?’ she demanded again.

‘I’m showing polite interest.’

A tiny, brief smile touched the wide mouth, and she relented again.

‘I’m doing afternoons in a shop up the road from my new place.’

‘Are you in another hostel?’

‘No,’ she said, and he sensed again the digging in, the refusal to go further that he would push at his peril. He changed tack.

‘It must have been a shock to you when Lula died, was it?’

‘Yeah. It wuz,’ she said, thoughtlessly; then, realising what she had said, she backtracked. ‘I knew she wuz depressed, but you never ’spect people tuh do that.’

‘So you wouldn’t say she was suicidal when you saw her that day?’

‘I dunno. I never saw ’er for long enough, did I?’

‘Where were you when you heard she’d died?’

‘I wuz in the hostel. Loadsa people knew I knew her. Janine woke me up and told me.’

‘And your immediate thought was that it was suicide?’

‘Yeah. An’ I gotta go now. I gotta go.’

She had made up her mind and he could see that he was not going to be able to stop her. After wriggling back into the ludicrous fur jacket, she hoisted her handbag on to her shoulder.

‘Say hullo to Kieran for me.’

‘Yeah, I will.’

‘See yuh.’

She waddled out of the restaurant without a backward glance.

Strike watched her walk past the window, her head down, her brows knitted, until she passed out of sight. It had stopped raining. Idly he pulled her tray towards him and finished her last few fries.

Then he stood up so abruptly that the baseball-capped girl who had been approaching his table to clear and wipe it jumped back a step with a little cry of surprise. Strike hurried out of the McDonald’s and off up Grantley Road.

Rochelle was standing on the corner, clearly visible in her furry magenta coat, part of a knot of people waiting for the lights to change at a pedestrian crossing. She was gabbling into the pink jewelled Nokia. Strike caught up with her, insinuating himself into the group behind her, making of his bulk a weapon, so that people moved aside to avoid him.

‘… wanted to know who she was arrangin’ to meet that night… yeah, an’—’

Rochelle turned her head, watching traffic, and realised that Strike was right behind her. Removing the mobile from her ear, she jabbed at a button, cutting the call.

‘What?’ she asked him aggressively.

‘Who were you calling then?’

‘Mind yer own fuckin’ business!’ she said furiously. The waiting pedestrians stared. ‘Are you followin’ me?’

‘Yeah,’ said Strike. ‘Listen.’

The lights changed; they were the only two not to start off over the road, and were jostled by the passing walkers.

‘Will you give me your mobile number?’

The implacable bull’s eyes looked back at him, unreadable, bland, secretive.

‘Wha’ for?’