‘I’m only asking,’ said Strike. ‘I read somewhere that you’d told the press she died in one of your dresses.’

‘That wasn’t me, I never announced it. Some tabloid bitch rang the office and asked for the name of that dress. One of the seamstresses told her, and they called her my spokesman. Making out I’d tried to get publicity out of it, the cunts. Fucking hell.’

‘D’you think you could put me in touch with Ciara Porter and Bryony Radford?’

Somé seemed off-balance, confused.

‘What? Yeah…’

But he had begun to cry in earnest; not like Bristow, with wild gulps and sobs, but silently, with tears sliding down his smooth dark cheeks and on to his T-shirt. He swallowed and closed his eyes, turned his back on Strike, rested his forehead against the wall and trembled.

Strike waited in silence until Somé had wiped his face several times and turned again towards him. He made no mention of his tears, but walked back to his chair, sat down and lit a cigarette. After two or three deep drags, he said in a practical and unemotional voice:

‘If she changed her clothes, it was because she was expecting someone. Cuckoo always dressed the part. She must’ve been waiting for someone.’

‘Well that’s what I thought,’ said Strike. ‘But I’m no expert on women and their clothes.’

‘No,’ said Somé, with a ghost of his malicious smile, ‘you don’t look it. You want to speak to Ciara and Bryony?’

‘It’d help.’

‘They’re both doing a shoot for me on Wednesday: 1 Arlington Terrace in Islington. If you come along fivish, they’d be free to talk to you.’

‘That’s good of you, thanks.’

‘It isn’t good of me,’ said Somé quietly. ‘I want to know what happened. When are you speaking to Duffield?’

‘As soon as I can get hold of him.’

‘He thinks he’s got away with it, the little shit. She must’ve changed because she knew he was coming, mustn’t she? Even though they’d rowed, she knew he’d follow her. But he’ll never talk to you.’

‘He’ll talk to me,’ said Strike easily, as he put away his notebook and checked his watch. ‘I’ve taken up a lot of your time. Thanks again.’

As Somé led Strike back down the spiral stairs and along the white-walled corridor, some of his swagger returned to him. By the time they shook hands in the cool tiled lobby, no trace of distress remained on show.

‘Lose some weight,’ he told Strike, as a parting shot, ‘and I’ll send you something XXL.’