‘I’m a private detective,’ said Strike, raising his voice, and the bald man looked around, interested. ‘Here’s my card. I’ve been hired by Lula Landry’s brother, and I need to talk to—’

‘Oh, you looking for Rochelle?’ asked the bald man, approaching the grille. ‘She’s not here, pal. She left.’

His colleague, evincing some irritation at his willingness to talk to Strike, ceded her place at the counter and vanished from sight.

‘When was this?’

‘It’d be weeks now. Coupla months, even.’

‘Any idea where she went?’

‘No idea, mate. Probably sleeping rough again. She’s come and gone a good few times. She’s a difficult character. Mental health problems. Carrianne might know something though, hang on. Carrianne! Hey! Carrianne!’

The bloodless young girl with the scabbed lip came in out of the sunshine, her eyes narrowed.

‘Wha’?’

‘Rochelle, have you seen her?’

‘Why would I wanna see that fuckin’ bitch?’

‘So you haven’t seen her?’ asked the bald man.

‘No. Gorra fag?’

Strike gave her one; she put it behind her ear.

‘She’s still round ’ere somewhere. Janine said she seen ’er,’ said Carrianne. ‘Rochelle reckoned she’d gorra flat or some’t. Lying fuckin’ bitch. An’ Lula Landry left her ev’rything. Not. Whadd’ya want Rochelle for?’ she asked Strike, and it was clear that she was wondering whether there was money in it, and whether she might do instead.

‘Just to ask some questions.’

‘Warrabout?’

‘Lula Landry.’

‘Oh,’ said Carrianne, and her card-counting eyes flickered. ‘They weren’t such big fuckin’ mates. You don’t wanna believe everything Rochelle says, the lying bitch.’

‘What did she lie about?’ asked Strike.

‘Fuckin’ everything. I reckon she stole half the stuff she pretended Landry bought ’er.’

‘Come on, Carrianne,’ said the bald man gently. ‘They were friends,’ he told Strike. ‘Landry used to come and pick her up in her car. It caused,’ he said, with a glance at Carrianne, ‘a bit of tension.’

‘Not from me it fuckin’ didn’t,’ snapped Carrianne. ‘I thought Landry was a fuckin’ jumped-up bitch. She weren’t even that good-lookin’.’

‘Rochelle told me she’s got an aunt in Kilburn,’ said the bald man.

‘She dun gerron with ’er, though,’ said the girl.

‘Have you got a name or an address for the aunt?’ asked Strike, but both shook their heads. ‘What’s Rochelle’s surname?’

‘I don’t know; do you, Carrianne? We often know people just by their Christian names,’ he told Strike.

There was little more to be gleaned from them. Rochelle had last stayed at the hostel more than two months previously. The bald man knew that she had attended an outpatients’ clinic at St Thomas’s for a while, though he had no idea whether she still went.

‘She’s had psychotic episodes. She’s on a lot of medication.’

‘She didn’t give a shit when Lula died,’ said Carrianne, suddenly. ‘She didn’t give a flying fuck.’

Both men looked at her. She shrugged, as one who has simply expressed an unpalatable truth.

‘Listen, if Rochelle turns up again, will you give her my details and ask her to call me?’