The brunette looked deflated as Duffield jumped nimbly to his feet; thin and yet well muscled, he slid out from behind the table to embrace Ciara, who was eight inches taller than he in her platform shoes; she dropped Strike’s hand to return the hug. The whole bar seemed, for a few shining moments, to be watching; then they remembered themselves, and returned to their chat and their cocktails.

‘Evan, this is Cormoran Strike,’ said Ciara. She moved her mouth close to Duffield’s ear and Strike saw rather than heard her say, ‘He’s Jonny Rokeby’s son!’

‘All right, mate?’ asked Duffield, holding out a hand, which Strike shook.

Like other inveterate womanisers Strike had encountered, Duffield’s voice and mannerisms were slightly camp. Perhaps such men became feminised by prolonged immersion in women’s company, or perhaps it was a way of disarming their quarry. Duffield indicated with a flutter of the hand that the others should move along the bench to make room for Ciara; the brunette looked crestfallen. Strike was left to find himself a low stool, drag it alongside the table and ask Ciara what she wanted to drink.

‘Oooh, get me a Boozy-Uzi,’ she said, ‘and use my money, sweetie.’

Her cocktail smelled strongly of Pernod. Strike bought himself water, and returned to the table. Ciara and Duffield were now almost nose to nose, talking; but when Strike set down the drinks, Duffield looked around.

‘So what d’you do, Cormoran? Music biz?’

‘No,’ said Strike. ‘I’m a detective.’

‘No shit,’ said Duffield. ‘Who’m I supposed to have killed this time?’

The group around him permitted themselves wry, or nervous, smiles, but Ciara said:

‘Don’t joke, Evan.’

‘I’m not joking, Ciara. You’ll notice when I am, because it’ll be fucking funny.’

The brunette giggled.

‘I said I’m not joking,’ snapped Duffield.

The brunette looked as though she had been slapped. The rest of the group seemed imperceptibly to withdraw, even in the cramped space; they began their own conversation, temporarily excluding Ciara, Strike and Duffield.

‘Evan, not nice,’ said Ciara, but her reproach seemed to caress rather than sting, and Strike noticed that the glance she threw the brunette held no pity.

Duffield drummed his fingers on the edge of the table.

‘So, what kind of a detective are you, Cormoran?’

‘A private one.’

‘Evan, darling, Cormoran’s been hired by Looly’s brother…’

But Duffield had apparently spotted someone or something of interest up at the bar, for he leapt to his feet and disappeared into the crowd there.