While Anstis searched out their numbers, he asked after Strike’s business, right leg and fiancée. Strike lied about the status of all three.

‘Glad to hear it,’ said Anstis cheerfully. ‘OK, here’s Wardle’s number. He’s all right; loves himself, but you’ll be better off with him than Carver; he’s a cunt. I can put in a word with Wardle. I’ll ring him right now for you, if you like.’

Strike tweaked a tourist leaflet from a wooden display on the wall, and copied down Wardle’s number in the space beside a picture of the Horse Guards.

‘When’re you coming over?’ Anstis asked. ‘Bring Charlotte one night.’

‘Yeah, that’d be great. I’ll give you a ring; got a lot on just now.’

After hanging up, Strike sat in deep thought for a while, then called an acquaintance much older than Anstis, whose life path had run in a roughly opposite direction.

‘Calling in a favour, mate,’ said Strike. ‘Need some information.’

‘On what?’

‘You tell me. I need something I can use for leverage with a copper.’

The conversation ran to twenty-five minutes, and involved many pauses, which grew longer and more pregnant until finally Strike was given an approximate address and two names, which he also copied down beside the Horse Guards, and a warning, which he did not write down, but took in the spirit in which he knew it was intended. The conversation ended on a friendly note, and Strike, now yawning widely, dialled Wardle’s number, which was answered almost immediately by a loud, curt voice.

‘Wardle.’

‘Yeah, hello. My name’s Cormoran Strike, and—’

‘You’re what?’

‘Cormoran Strike,’ said Strike, ‘is my name.’

‘Oh yeah,’ said Wardle. ‘Anstis just rang. You’re the private dick? Anstis said you were interested in talking about Lula Landry?’

‘Yeah, I am,’ said Strike again, suppressing another yawn as he examined the painted panels on the ceiling; bacchanalian revels that became, as he looked, a feast of fairies: Midsummer Night’s Dream, a man with a donkey’s head. ‘But what I’d really like is the file.’

Wardle laughed.

‘You didn’t save my fucking life, mate.’

‘Got some information you might be interested in. Thought we could do an exchange.’

There was a short pause.

‘I take it you don’t want to do this exchange over the phone?’

‘That’s right,’ said Strike. ‘Is there anywhere you like to have a pint after a hard day’s work?’

Having jotted down the name of a pub near Scotland Yard, and agreed that a week today (failing any nearer date) would suit him too, Strike rang off.

It had not always been thus. A couple of years ago, he had been able to command the compliance of witnesses and suspects; he had been like Wardle, a man whose time had more value than most of those with whom he consorted, and who could choose when, where and how long interviews would be. Like Wardle, he had needed no uniform; he had been constantly cloaked in officialdom and prestige. Now, he was a limping man in a creased shirt, trading on old acquaintances, trying to do deals with policemen who would once have been glad to take his calls.