‘Your picture’s on the front of the Standard,’ she panted.

‘What?’

It was a photograph of Ciara following Duffield into his flat. Ciara looked stunning; for half a second Strike was transported back to half past two that morning, when she had lain, white and naked, beneath him, that long silky hair spread on the pillow like a mermaid’s as she whispered and moaned.

Strike refocused: he was half cropped out of the picture; one arm raised to keep the paparazzi at bay.

‘That’s all right,’ he told Robin with a shrug, handing her back the paper. ‘They think I was the minder.’

‘It says,’ said Robin, turning to the inside page, ‘that she left Duffield’s with her security guard at two.’

‘There you go, then.’

Robin stared at him. His account of the night had terminated with himself, Duffield and Ciara at Duffield’s flat. She had been so interested in the various pieces of evidence he had laid out before her, she had forgotten to wonder where he had slept. She had assumed that he had left the model and the actor together.

He had arrived at the office still wearing the clothes in the photograph.

She turned away, reading the story on page two. The clear implication of the piece was that Ciara and Duffield had enjoyed an amorous encounter while the supposed minder waited in the hall.

‘Is she stunning-looking in person?’ asked Robin with an unconvincing casualness as she folded the Standard.

‘Yeah, she is,’ said Strike, and he wondered whether it was his imagination that the three syllables sounded like a boast. ‘D’you want cheese and pickle, or egg mayonnaise?’

Robin made her selection at random and returned to her desk chair to eat. Her new hypothesis about Strike’s overnight whereabouts had eclipsed even her excitement over the progress of the case. It was going to be difficult to reconcile her view of him as a blighted romantic with the fact that he had just (it seemed incredible, and yet she had heard his pathetic attempt to conceal his pride) slept with a supermodel.

The telephone rang again. Strike, whose mouth was full of bread and cheese, raised a hand to forestall Robin, swallowed, and answered it himself.

‘Cormoran Strike.’

‘Strike, it’s Wardle.’

‘Hi, Wardle; how’s it going?’

‘Not so good, actually. We’ve just fished a body out of the Thames with your card on it. Wondered what you could tell us about it.’

10

It was the first taxi that Strike had felt justified in taking since the day he had moved his belongings out of Charlotte’s flat. He watched the charges mount with detachment, as the cab rolled towards Wapping. The taxi driver was determined to tell him why Gordon Brown was a fucking disgrace. Strike sat in silence for the entire trip.