She ran outside. Bestigui, who was five feet six inches at the most, had pushed his way out from behind his desk now; as unafraid of the enormous Strike as a pit bull whose yard has been invaded by a Rottweiler. Elena had left the door open; the inhabitants of the outer office were staring in, frightened, mesmerised.

‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you for a few weeks, Mr Bestigui…’

‘You are in a shitload of trouble, my friend,’ said Bestigui, advancing with a set jaw, his thick shoulders braced.

‘… to talk about the night Lula Landry died.’

Two men in white shirts and carrying walkie-talkies were running along the glass wall to Strike’s right; young, fit, tense-looking.

‘Get him out of here!’ Bestigui roared, pointing at Strike, as the two guards bounced off each other in the doorway, then forced their way inside.

‘Specifically,’ said Strike, ‘about the whereabouts of your wife, Tansy, when Lula fell…’

‘Get him out of here and call the fucking police! How did he get in here?’

‘… because I’ve been shown some photographs that make sense of your wife’s testimony. Get your hands off me,’ Strike added to the younger of the guards now tugging his upper arm, ‘or I’ll knock you through that window.’

The security guard did not let go, but looked towards Bestigui for instructions.

The producer’s bright dark eyes were fixed intently on Strike. He clenched and relaxed his thug’s hands. After several long seconds he said:

‘You’re full of shit.’

But he did not instruct the waiting guards to drag Strike from his room.

‘The photographer was standing on the pavement opposite your house in the early hours of the eighth of January. The guy who took the pictures doesn’t realise what he’s got. If you don’t want to discuss it, fine; police or press, I don’t care. It’ll come to the same thing in the end.’

Strike took a few steps towards the door; the guards, each of whom was still holding him by the arm, were caught by surprise, and momentarily forced into the absurd position of holding him back.

‘Get out,’ Bestigui said abruptly to his minions. ‘I’ll let you know if I need you. Close the door behind you.’

They left. When the door had closed, Bestigui said:

‘All right, whatever your fucking name is, you can have five minutes.’

Strike sat down, uninvited, in one of the black leather chairs facing Bestigui’s desk, while the producer returned to his seat behind it, subjecting Strike to a hard, cold glare that was quite unlike the one Strike had received from Bestigui’s estranged wife; this was the intense scrutiny of a professional gambler. Bestigui reached for a packet of cigarillos, pulled a black glass ashtray towards himself and lit up with a gold lighter.