Bristow glared at him. There was no noise in the office but the distant shouts of the workmen below.

‘Would you like your – er, wife, is she? – to come in?’

‘No,’ said Bristow, still tense, with his hand on the doorknob. ‘Alison doesn’t think I ought to be doing this. I don’t know why she wanted to come along, actually. Probably hoping you’d turn me down.’

‘Please – sit down. Let’s go over this properly.’

Bristow hesitated, then moved back towards his abandoned chair.

His self-restraint crumbling at last, Strike took a chocolate biscuit and crammed it, whole, into his mouth; he took an unused notepad from his desk drawer, flicked it open, reached for a pen and managed to swallow the biscuit in the time it took Bristow to resume his seat.

‘Shall I take that?’ he suggested, pointing to the envelope Bristow was still clutching.

The lawyer handed it over as though unsure he could trust Strike with it. Strike, who did not wish to to peruse the contents in front of Bristow, put it aside with a small pat, which was intended to show that it was now a valued component of the investigation, and readied his pen.

‘John, if you could give me a brief outline of what happened on the day your sister died, it would be very helpful.’

By nature methodical and thorough, Strike had been trained to investigate to a high and rigorous standard. First, allow the witness to tell their story in their own way: the untrammelled flow often revealed details, apparent inconsequentialities, that would later prove invaluable nuggets of evidence. Once the first gush of impression and recollection had been harvested, then it was time to solicit and arrange facts rigorously and precisely: people, places, property…

‘Oh,’ said Bristow, who seemed, after all his vehemence, unsure where to start, ‘I don’t really… let’s see…’

‘When was the last time you saw her?’ Strike prompted.

‘That would have been – yes, the morning before she died. We… we had an argument, as a matter of fact, though thank God we made it up.’

‘What time was this?’

‘It was early. Before nine, I was on my way in to the office. Perhaps a quarter to nine?’

‘And what did you argue about?’

‘Oh, about her boyfriend, Evan Duffield. They’d just got back together again. The family had thought it was over and we’d been so pleased. He’s a horrible person, an addict and a chronic self-publicist; about the worst influence on Lula you could imagine.

‘I might have been a bit heavy-handed, I – I see that now. I was eleven years older than Lula. I felt protective of her, you know. Perhaps I was bossy at times. She was always telling me that I didn’t understand.’

‘Understand what?’

‘Well… anything. She had lots of issues. Issues with being adopted. Issues with being black in a white family. She used to say I had it easy… I don’t know. Perhaps she was right.’