‘He was dead… what, you mean the real one? Yeah, she was interested, but it was no go, wannit? Her mother didn’t know who he was.’

‘She never told you whether she’d managed to find out anything about him?’

‘She tried, but she didn’t get anywhere, so she decided that she was gonna to do a course in African studies. That was gonna be Daddy, the whole fucking continent of Africa. Fucking Somé was behind that, shit-stirring as usual.’

‘In what way?’

‘Anything that took her away from me was good. Anything that bracketed them together. He was one possessive bastard where she was concerned. He was in love with her. I know he’s a poof,’ Duffield added impatiently, as Ciara began to protest, ‘but he’s not the first one I’ve known who’s gone funny over a girlfriend. He’ll fuck anything, man-wise, but he didn’t want to let her out of his sight. He threw hissy fits if she didn’t see him, he didn’t like her working for anyone else.

‘He hates my fucking guts. Right back atcha, you little shit. Egging Lu on with Deeby Macc. He’d’ve got a real kick out of her fucking him. Doing me over. Hearing all the fucking details. Getting her to introduce him, get his fucking clothes photographed on a gangster. He’s no fucking fool, Somé. He used her for his business all the time. Tried to get her cheap and for free, and she was dumb enough to let him.’

‘Did Somé give you these?’ asked Strike, pointing at the black leather gloves on the coffee table. He had recognised the tiny gold GS logo on the cuff.

‘You what?’

Duffield leaned over and hooked one of the gloves on to an index finger; he dangled it in front of his eyes, examining it.

‘Fuck, you’re right. They’re going in the bin, then,’ and he threw the glove into a corner; it hit the abandoned guitar, which let out a hollow, echoing chord. ‘I kept them from that shoot,’ said Duffield, pointing at the black-and-white magazine cover. ‘Somé wouldn’t give me the steam off his piss. Have you got another fag?’

‘I’m all out,’ lied Strike. ‘Are you going to tell me why you invited me home, Evan?’

There was a long silence. Duffield glared at Strike, who intuited that the actor knew he was lying about having no cigarettes. Ciara was gazing at him too, her lips slightly parted, the epitome of beautiful bewilderment.

‘What makes you think I’ve got anything to tell you?’ sneered Duffield.

‘I don’t think you asked me back here for the pleasure of my company.’

‘I dunno,’ said Duffield, with a distinct overtone of malice. ‘Maybe I hoped you were a laugh, like your old man?’

‘Evan,’ snapped Ciara.