‘It was the way she sounded. You’ve heard it – she was so excited… I had this feeling. It was the kind of thing Cuckoo would’ve done, and she’d have expected me to be as pleased as she was, and fuck her career, fuck me, counting on her to launch my brand-new accessories line…’

‘Was this the five-million-pound contract her brother told me about?’

‘Yeah, and I’ll bet the Accountant pushed her to hold out for as much as she could get, too,’ said Somé, with another flash of temper. ‘It wasn’t like Cuckoo to try and wring every last penny out of me. She knew it was going to be fabulous, and would take her to a whole new level if she fronted it. It shouldn’t have been all about the money. Everyone associated her with my stuff; her big break came on a shoot for Vogue when she wore my Jagged dress. Cuckoo loved my clothes, she loved me, but people get to a certain level, and everyone’s telling them they’re worth more, and they forget who put them there, and suddenly it’s all about the bottom line.’

‘You must’ve thought she was worth it, to commit to a five-million-pound contract?’

‘Yeah, well, I’d pretty much designed the range for her, so having to shoot around a fucking pregnancy wouldn’t have been funny. And I could just imagine Cuckoo going silly afterwards, throwing it all in, not wanting to leave the fucking baby. She was the type; always looking for people to love, for a surrogate family. Those Bristows fucked her up good. They only adopted her as a toy for Yvette, who is the scariest bitch in the world.’

‘In what way?’

‘Possessive. Morbid. Didn’t want to let Cuckoo out of her sight in case she died, like the kid she’d been bought to replace. Lady Bristow used to come to all the shows, getting under everyone’s feet, till she got too ill. And there was an uncle, who treated Cuckoo like scum until she started pulling in big money. He got a bit more respectful then. They all know the value of a buck, the Bristows.’

‘They’re a wealthy family, aren’t they?’

‘Alec Bristow didn’t leave that much, not relatively speaking. Not compared to proper money. Not like your old man. How come,’ said Somé, swerving suddenly off the conversational track, ‘Jonny Rokeby’s son’s working as a private dick?’

‘Because that’s his job,’ said Strike. ‘Go on about the Bristows.’

Somé did not appear to resent being bossed around; if anything, he seemed to relish it, possibly because it was such an unusual experience.