‘He’s always a bit ADHD,’ said Ciara apologetically. ‘Plus, he’s still really, really fucked up about Looly. He is,’ she insisted, half cross, half amused, as Strike raised his eyebrows and looked pointedly in the direction of the voluptuous brunette, who was now cradling an empty mojito glass and looking morose. ‘You’ve got something on your smart jacket,’ Ciara added, and she leaned forwards to brush off what Strike thought were pizza crumbs. He caught a strong whiff of her sweet, spicy perfume. The silver material of her dress was so stiff that it gaped, like armour, away from her body, affording him an unhampered view of small white breasts and pointed shell-pink nipples.

‘What’s that perfume you’re wearing?’

She thrust a wrist under his nose.

‘It’s Guy’s new one,’ she said. ‘It’s called Éprise – it’s French for “smitten”, you know?’

‘Yeah,’ he said.

Duffield had returned, holding another drink, cleaving his way back through the crowd, whose faces revolved after him, tugged by his aura. His legs in their tight jeans were like black pipe cleaners, and with his darkly smudged eyes he looked like a Pierrot gone bad.

‘Evan, babes,’ said Ciara, when Duffield had reseated himself, ‘Cormoran’s investigating—’

‘He heard you the first time,’ Strike interrupted her. ‘There’s no need.’

He thought that the actor had heard that, too. Duffield drank his drink quickly, and tossed a few comments into the group beside them. Ciara sipped her cocktail, then nudged Duffield.

‘How’s the film going, sweetie?’

‘Great. Well. Suicidal drug dealer. It’s not a stretch, y’know.’

Everyone smiled, except Duffield himself. He drummed his fingers on the table, his legs jerking in time.

‘Bored now,’ he announced.

He was squinting towards the door, and the group was watching him, openly yearning, Strike thought, to be scooped up and taken along.

Duffield looked from Ciara to Strike.

‘Wanna come back to mine?’

‘Fabby,’ squeaked Ciara, and with a feline glance of triumph at the brunette, she downed her drink in one.

Just outside the VIP area, two drunk girls ran at Duffield; one of them pulled up her top and begged him to sign her breasts.

‘Don’t be dirty, love,’ said Duffield, pushing past her. ‘You gotta car, Cici?’ he yelled over his shoulder, as he ploughed his way through the crowds, ignoring shouts and pointing fingers.

‘Yes, sweetie,’ she shouted. ‘I’ll call him. Cormoran, darling, have you got my phone?’

Strike wondered what the paparazzi outside would make of Ciara and Duffield leaving the club together. She was shouting into her iPhone. They reached the entrance; Ciara said, ‘Wait – he’s going to text when he’s right outside.’

Both she and Duffield looked slightly nervy; watchful, self-aware, like competitors waiting to enter a stadium. Then Ciara’s phone gave a little buzz.

‘OK, he’s there,’ she said.