‘OK, if you haven’t got anything to tell me…’ said Strike, and he pushed himself up out of the armchair. To his slight surprise, and Duffield’s evident displeasure, Ciara set her empty wine glass down and began to unfold her long legs, preparatory to standing.

‘All right,’ said Duffield sharply. ‘There’s one thing.’

Strike sank back into his chair. Ciara thrust one of her own cigarettes at Duffield, who took it with muttered thanks, then she too sat down, watching Strike.

‘Go on,’ said the latter, while Duffield fiddled with his lighter.

‘All right. I dunno whether it matters,’ said the actor. ‘But I don’t want you to say where you got the information.’

‘I can’t guarantee that,’ said Strike.

Duffield scowled, his knees jumping up and down, smoking with his eyes on the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, Strike saw Ciara open her mouth to speak, and forestalled her, one hand in the air.

‘Well,’ said Duffield, ‘two days ago I was having lunch with Freddie Bestigui. He left his BlackBerry on the table when he went up to the bar.’ Duffield puffed and jiggled. ‘I don’t wanna be fired,’ he said, glaring at Strike. ‘I need this fucking job.’

‘Go on,’ said Strike.

‘He got an email. I saw Lula’s name. I read it.’

‘OK.’

‘It was from his wife. It said something like, “I know we’re supposed to be talking through lawyers, but unless you can do better than £1.5 million, I will tell everyone exactly where I was when Lula Landry died, and exactly how I got there, because I’m sick of taking shit for you. This is not an empty threat. I’m starting to think I should tell the police anyway.” Or something like that,’ said Duffield.

Dimly, through the curtained window, came the sound of a couple of the paparazzi outside laughing together.

‘That’s very useful information,’ Strike told Duffield. ‘Thank you.’

‘I don’t want Bestigui to know it was me who told you.’

‘I don’t think your name’ll need to come into it,’ said Strike, standing up again. ‘Thanks for the water.’

‘Hang on, sweetie, I’m coming,’ said Ciara, her phone pressed to her ear. ‘Kieran? We’re coming out now, Cormoran and me. Right now. Bye-bye, Evan darling.’

She bent over and kissed him on both cheeks, while Duffield, halfway out of his chair, looked disconcerted.

‘You can crash here if you—’

‘No, sweetie, I’ve got a job tomorrow afternoon; need my beauty sleep,’ she said.

More flashes blinded Strike as he stepped outside; but the paparazzi seemed confused this time. As he helped Ciara down the steps, and followed her into the back of the car, one of them shouted at Strike: ‘Who the fuck are you?’