‘I think he was deported back to Liverpool,’ said Somé. ‘But the police checked him out; they told me he was in a secure ward up there the night she died.’

‘Do you know the Bestiguis?’

‘Only what Lula told me, that he was sleazy and she’s a walking waxwork. I don’t need to know her. I know her type. Rich girls spending their ugly husbands’ money. They come to my shows. They want to be my friend. Gimme an honest hooker any day.’

‘Freddie Bestigui was at the same country-house weekend as Lula, a week before she died.’

‘Yeah, I heard. He had a hard-on for her,’ said Somé dismissively. ‘She knew it, as well; it wasn’t exactly a unique experience in her life, you know. He never got further than trying to get in the same lift, though, from what she told me.’

‘You never spoke to her after their weekend at Dickie Carbury’s, did you?’

‘No. Did he do something then? You don’t suspect Bestigui, do you?’

Somé sat up in his seat, staring.

‘Fuck… Freddie Bestigui? Well, he’s a shit, I know that. This little girl I know… well, friend of a friend… she was working for his production company, and he tried to fucking rape her. No, I am not exaggerating,’ said Somé. ‘Literally. Rape. Got her a bit drunk after work and had her on the floor; some assistant had forgotten his mobile and came back for it, and walked in on them. Bestigui paid them both off. Everyone was telling her to press charges, but she took the money and ran. They say he used to discipline his second wife in some pretty fucking kinky ways; that’s why she walked away with three mill; she threatened him with the press. But Cuckoo would never have let Freddie Bestigui into her flat at two in the morning. Like I say, she wasn’t a stupid girl.’

‘What do you know about Derrick Wilson?’

‘Who’s he?’

‘The security guard who was on duty the night she died.’

‘Nothing.’

‘He’s a big guy, with a Jamaican accent.’

‘This might shock you, but not all the black people in London know each other.’

‘I wondered whether you’d ever spoken to him, or heard Lula talk about him.’

‘No, we had more interesting things to talk about than the security guard.’

‘Does the same apply to her driver, Kieran Kolovas-Jones?’

‘Oh, I know who Kolovas-Jones is,’ said Somé, with a slight smirk. ‘Striking little poses whenever he thought I might be looking out of the window. He’s about five fucking feet too short to model.’

‘Did Lula ever talk about him?’

‘No, why would she?’ asked Somé restlessly. ‘He was her driver.’

‘He’s told me they were quite close. He mentioned that she’d given him a jacket you designed. Worth nine hundred quid.’