‘Yep, that’s me,’ said Bryony brightly at last, hoisting a heavy box over her shoulder and picking up more cases in each hand. ‘See you, Ciara. Goodbye,’ she added to Strike, and left.

‘She is so bloody nosy, and such a gossip,’ Ciara told Strike. She threw back her long white hair, rearranged her coltish legs and asked:

‘D’you see a lot of Al and Eddie?’

‘No,’ said Strike.

‘And your mum,’ she said, unfazed, blowing smoke out of the corner of her mouth. ‘I mean, she’s just, like, a legend. You know how Baz Carmichael did a whole collection two seasons back called “Supergroupie”, and it was like, Bebe Buell and your mum were the whole inspiration? Maxi skirts and buttonless shirts and boots?’

‘I didn’t,’ said Strike.

‘Oh, it was, like – you know that great quote about Ossie Clark dresses, how men liked them because they could just, like, open them up really easily and fuck the girls? That’s, like, your mum’s whole era.’

She shook her hair out of her eyes again and gazed at him, not with the chilling and offensive appraisal of Tansy Bestigui, but in what seemed to be frank and open wonder. It was difficult for him to decide whether she was sincere, or performing her own character; her beauty got in the way, like a thick cobweb through which it was difficult to see her clearly.

‘So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you about Lula.’

‘God, yeah. Yeah. No, I really want to help. When I heard someone was investigating it, I was, like, well, good. At last.’

‘Really?’

‘God, yeah. The whole thing was so fucking shocking. I just couldn’t believe it. She’s still on my phone, look at this.’

She rummaged in an enormous handbag, finally retrieving a white iPhone. Scrolling down the contact list, she leaned into him, showing him the name ‘Looly’. Her perfume was sweet and peppery.

‘I keep expecting her to call me,’ said Ciara, momentarily subdued, slipping the phone back into her bag. ‘I can’t delete her; I keep going to do it, and then just, like, bottling it, you know?’

She raised herself restlessly, twisted one of the long legs underneath her, sat back down and smoked in silence for a few seconds.

‘You were with her most of her last day, weren’t you?’ Strike asked.

‘Don’t fucking remind me,’ said Ciara, closing her eyes. ‘I’ve only been over it, like, a million times. Trying to get my head around how you can go from, like, completely bloody happy to dead in, like, hours.’

‘She was completely happy?’

‘God, happier than I’d ever seen her, that last week. We got back from a job in Antigua for Vogue, and she and Evan got back together and they had the commitment ceremony; it was all fantastic for her, she was on cloud nine.’