‘What’s worrying you?’ Strike asked.

‘I always drove her, right?’ said Kolovas-Jones, launching into his story in a way that told Strike he had rehearsed it. ‘She always asked for me.’

‘Did she have a contract with your company?’

‘Yeah. Well…’

‘It’s run through the front desk,’ said Derrick. ‘One of the services provided. If anyone wants a car, we call Execars, Kieran’s company.’

‘Yeah, but she always asked for me,’ Kolovas-Jones reiterated firmly.

‘You got on with her, did you?’

‘Yeah, we got on good,’ said Kolovas-Jones. ‘We’d got – you know – I’m not saying close – well, close, yeah, kinda. We were friendly; the relationship had gone beyond driver and client, right?’

‘Yeah? How far beyond?’

‘Nah, nothing like that,’ said Kolovas-Jones, with a grin. ‘Nothing like that.’

But Strike saw that the driver was not at all displeased that the idea had been mooted, that it had been thought plausible.

‘I’d been driving her for a year. We talked a lot, y’know. Had a lot in common. Similar backgrounds, y’know?’

‘In what way?’

‘Mixed race,’ said Kolovas-Jones. ‘And things were a bit dysfunctional in my family, right, so I knew where she was coming from. She didn’t know that many people like her, not once she got famous. Not to talk to properly.’

‘Being mixed race was an issue for her, was it?’

‘Growing up black in a white family, what d’you think?’

‘And you had a similar childhood?’

‘Me father’s half West Indian, half Welsh; me mother’s half Scouse, half Greek. Lula usedta say she envied me,’ he said, sitting up a little straighter. ‘She said, “You know where you come from, even if it is bloody everywhere.” And on my birthday, right,’ he added, as though he had not yet sufficiently impressed upon Strike something which he felt was important, ‘she give me this Guy Somé jacket that was worth, like, nine hundred quid.’

Evidently expected to show a reaction, Strike nodded, wondering whether Kolovas-Jones had come along simply to tell somebody how close he had been to Lula Landry. Satisfied, the driver went on:

‘So, right, the day she died – day before, I should say – I drove her to her mum’s in the morning, right? And she was not happy. She never liked going to see her mother.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because that woman’s fucking weird,’ said Kolovas-Jones. ‘I drove them both out for a day, once, I think it was the mother’s birthday. She’s fucking creepy, Lady Yvette. Darling, my darling to Lula, every other word. She used to hang off her. Just fucking strange and possessive and over the top, right?

‘Anyway, that day, right, her mum had just got out of hospital, so that wasn’t gonna be fun, was it? Lula wasn’t looking forward to seeing her. She was uptight like I hadn’t seen her before.

‘And then I told her I couldn’t drive her that night, because I was booked for Deeby Macc, and she wasn’t happy about that, neither.’