‘It wasn’t a fucking shopping list,’ groaned Strike, thumping the desk, ‘and nobody writes a suicide note eight hours in advance, and then goes dancing. She was writing a bloody will, don’t you get it? She took it into Vashti to get Rochelle to witness it…’

‘Bollocks!’ said Carver, yet again, but Strike ignored him, addressing Wardle.

‘… which fits with her telling Ciara Porter that she was going to leave everything to her brother, doesn’t it? She’d just made it legal. It was on her mind.’

‘Why suddenly make a will?’

Strike hesitated and sat back. Carver leered at him.

‘Imagination run out?’

Strike let out his breath in a long sigh. An uncomfortable night of alcohol-sodden unconsciousness; last night’s pleasurable excesses; half a cheese and pickle sandwich in twelve hours: he felt hollowed-out, exhausted.

‘If I had hard evidence, I’d have brought it to you.’

‘The odds of people close to a suicide killing themselves go right up, did you know that? This Raquelle was a depressive. She has a bad day, remembers the way out her mate took, and does a copycat jump. Which leads us right back to you, pal, persecuting people and pushing them…’

‘… over the edge, yeah,’ said Strike. ‘People keep saying that. Very poor fucking taste, in the circumstances. What about Tansy Bestigui’s evidence?’

‘How many times, Strike? We proved she couldn’t have heard it,’ Wardle said. ‘We proved it beyond doubt.’

‘No you didn’t,’ said Strike – finally, when he least expected it, losing his temper. ‘You based your whole case on one almighty fuck-up. If you’d taken Tansy Bestigui seriously, if you’d broken her down and got her to tell you the whole fucking truth, Rochelle Onifade would still be alive.’

Pulsating with rage, Carver kept Strike there for another hour. His last act of contempt was to tell Wardle to make sure he saw ‘Rokeby Junior’ firmly off the premises.

Wardle walked Strike to the front door, not speaking.

‘I need you to do something,’ said Strike, halting at the exit, beyond which they could see the darkening sky.

‘You’ve had enough from me already, mate,’ said Wardle, with a wry smile. ‘I’m gonna be dealing with that,’ he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, towards Carver and his temper, ‘for days because of you. I told you it was suicide.’

‘Wardle, unless someone brings the fucker in, there are two more people in danger of being knocked off.’

‘Strike…’

‘What if I bring you proof that Tansy Bestigui wasn’t in her flat at all when Lula fell? That she was somewhere she could have heard everything?’

Wardle looked up towards the ceiling, and closed his eyes momentarily.

‘If you’ve got proof…’

‘I haven’t, but I will have in the next couple of days.’

Two men walked past them, talking, laughing. Wardle shook his head, looking exasperated, and yet he did not turn away.

‘If you want something from the police, call Anstis. He’s the one who owes you.’