Strike slammed the door, grinning. Kolovas-Jones was back in the driver’s seat; they were pulling away from the kerb, and this time they were not pursued.

After a block or so of silence, Kolovas-Jones looked in the rear-view mirror and asked Ciara:

‘Home?’

‘I suppose so. Kieran, will you turn on the radio? I fancy a bit of music,’ she said. ‘Louder than that, sweetie. Oh, I love this.’

‘Telephone’ by Lady Gaga filled the car.

She turned to Strike as the orange glow of street lights swept across her extraordinary face. Her breath smelled of alcohol, her skin of that sweet, peppery perfume.

‘Don’t you want to ask me anything else?’

‘You know what?’ said Strike. ‘I do. Why would you have a detachable lining in a handbag?’

She stared at him for several seconds, then let out a great giggle, slumping sideways into his shoulder, nudging him. Lithe and slight, she continued to rest against him as she said:

‘You are funny.’

‘But why would you?’

‘Well, it just makes the bag more, like, individual; you can customise them, you see; you can buy a couple of linings and swap them over; you can pull them out and use them as scarves; they’re beautiful. Silk with gorgeous patterns. The zip edging is very rock-and-roll.’

‘Interesting,’ said Strike, as her upper leg moved to rest lightly along his own, and she gave a second, deep-throated giggle.

Call all you want, but there’s no one home, sang Lady Gaga.

The music masked their conversation, but Kolovas-Jones’s eyes were moving with unnecessary regularity from road ahead to rear-view mirror. After another minute, Ciara said:

‘Guy’s right, I do like them big. You’re very butch. And, like, stern. It’s sexy.’

A block later she whispered:

‘Where do you live?’ while rubbing her silky cheek against his, like a cat.

‘I sleep on a camp bed in my office.’

She giggled again. She was definitely a little drunk.

‘Are you serious?’

‘Yeah.’

‘We’ll go to mine, then, shall we?’

Her tongue was cool and sweet and tasted of Pernod.

‘Have you slept with my father?’ he managed to say, between the pressings of her full lips on to his.

‘No… God, no…’ A little giggle. ‘He dyes his hair… it’s, like, purple close up… I used to call him the rocking prune…’

And then, ten minutes later, a lucid voice in his mind urging him not to let desire lead on to humiliation, he surfaced for air to mutter:

‘I’ve only got one leg.’

‘Don’t be silly…’

‘I’m not being silly… it got blown off in Afghanistan.’

‘Poor baby…’ she whispered. ‘I’ll rub it better.’

‘Yeah – that’s not my leg… It’s helping, though…’

9