‘She hated Cuckoo. Jealous as fuck; I could see it, even if Cuckoo couldn’t. She was in it for the freebies, she didn’t give a monkey’s whether Cuckoo lived or died. Lucky for her, as it turned out…

‘So, the longer I watched the news, I knew there wasn’t a mistake. I fell a-fucking-part.’

His fingers trembled a little on the snow-white stick he was sucking.

‘They said that a neighbour had overheard an argument; so of course I thought it was Duffield. I thought Duffield had knocked her through the window. I was all set to tell the pigs what a cunt he is; I was ready to stand in the dock and testify to the fucker’s character. And if this ash falls off my cigarette,’ he continued in precisely the same tone, ‘I will fire that little bitch.’

As though she had heard him, Trudie’s rapid footfalls grew louder and louder until she emerged again into the room, breathing heavily and clutching a heavy glass ashtray.

‘Thank you,’ said Somé, with a pointed inflection, as she placed it in front of him and scurried back downstairs.

‘Why did you think it was Duffield?’ asked Strike, once he judged Trudie to be safely out of earshot.

‘Who else would Cuckoo have let in at two in the morning?’

‘How well do you know him?’

‘Well enough, little piss ant that he is.’ Somé picked up his mint tea. ‘Why do women do it? Cuckoo, too… she wasn’t stupid – actually, she was razor-sharp – so what did she see in Evan Duffield? I’ll tell you,’ he said, without pausing for an answer. ‘It’s that wounded-poet crap, that soul-pain shit, that too-much-of-a-tortured-genius-to-wash bollocks. Brush your teeth, you little bastard. You’re not fucking Byron.’

He slammed his glass down and cupped his right elbow in his left hand, steadying his forearm and continuing to draw heavily on the cigarette.

‘No man would put up with the likes of Duffield. Only women. Maternal instinct gone warped, if you ask me.’

‘You think he had it in him to kill her, do you?’

‘Of course I do,’ said Somé dismissively. ‘Of course he has. All of us have got it in us, somewhere, to kill, so why would Duffield be any exception? He’s got the mentality of a vicious twelve-year-old. I can imagine him in one of his rages, having a tantrum and then just—’

With his cigarette-free hand he made a violent shoving movement.

‘I saw him shouting at her once. At my after-show party, last year. I got in between them; I told him to have a go at me instead. I might be a little poof,’ Somé said, the round-cheeked face set, ‘but I’d back myself against that drugged-up fuck any day. He was a tit at the funeral, too.’

‘Really?’