He was sweating with pain. Even as he sat here, in the sunlit window of the Feathers, urging the policeman to action, Strike was wondering whether he might have dislocated his knee or fractured the small amount of tibia left to him in the fall down Yvette Bristow’s stairwell. He had not wanted to start fiddling with his leg in the taxi, which was now waiting for him at the kerb outside. The meter was eating steadily away at the advance Bristow had paid him, of which he would never receive another instalment, for today would see an arrest, if only Wardle would rouse himself.

‘I grant you, this might show motive…’

‘Might?’ repeated Strike. ‘Might? Ten million might constitute a motive? For fuck’s—’

‘… but I need evidence that’ll stand up in court, and you haven’t brought me any of that.’

‘I’ve just told you where you can find it! Have I been wrong yet? I told you it was a fucking will, and there,’ Strike jabbed the plastic sleeve, ‘it fucking is. Get a warrant!’

Wardle rubbed the side of his handsome face as though he had toothache, frowning at the will.

‘Jesus Christ,’ said Strike, ‘how many more times? Tansy Bestigui was on the balcony, she heard Landry say “I’ve already done it”…’

‘You put yourself on very thin ice there, mate,’ said Wardle. ‘Defence makes mincemeat of lying to suspects. When Bestigui finds out there aren’t any photos, he’s going to deny everything.’

‘Let him. She won’t. She’s ripe to tell anyway. But if you’re too much of a pussy to do anything about this, Wardle,’ said Strike, who could feel cold sweat on his back and a fiery pain in what remained of his right leg, ‘and anyone else who was close to Landry turns up dead, I’m gonna go straight to the fucking press. I’ll tell them I gave you every bit of information I had, and that you had every fucking chance to bring this killer in. I’ll make up my fee in selling the rights to my story, and you can pass that message on to Carver for me.

‘Here,’ he said, pushing across the table a piece of torn paper, on which he had scribbled several six-figure numbers. ‘Try them first. Now get a fucking warrant.’

He pushed the will across the table to Wardle and slid off the high bar stool. The walk from the pub to the taxi was agony. The more pressure he put on his right leg, the more excruciating the pain became.

Robin had been calling Strike every ten minutes since one o’clock, but he had not picked up. She rang again as he was climbing, with enormous difficulty, up the metal stairs towards the office, heaving himself up with the use of his arms. She heard his ringtone echoing up the stairwell, and hurried out on to the top landing.