‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Strike. He raised his voice as he passed underneath a flyover, across which traffic was moving noisily. ‘Well, if you do happen to remember the name of Lula’s Vashti friend…’

‘I’m afraid I still don’t really understand why you’re so interested in her.’

‘Lula made this girl travel all the way from Hammersmith to Notting Hill, spent fifteen minutes with her and then walked out. Why didn’t she stay? Why meet for such a short space of time? Did they argue? Anything out of the ordinary that happens around a sudden death could be relevant.’

‘I see,’ said Bristow hesitantly. ‘But… well, that sort of behaviour wasn’t really out of the ordinary for Lula. I did tell you that she could be a bit… a bit selfish. It would be like her to think that a token appearance would keep the girl happy. She often had these brief enthusiasms for people, you know, and then dropped them.’

His disappointment at Strike’s chosen line of inquiry was so evident that the detective felt it might be politic to slip in a little covert justification of the immense fee his client was paying.

‘The other reason I was calling was to let you know that tomorrow evening I’m meeting one of the CID officers who covered the case. Eric Wardle. I’m hoping to get hold of the police file.’

‘Fantastic!’ Bristow sounded impressed. ‘That’s quick work!’

‘Yeah, well, I’ve got good contacts in the Met.’

‘Then you’ll be able to get some answers about the Runner! You’ve read my notes?’

‘Yeah, very useful,’ said Strike.

‘And I’m trying to fix up a lunch with Tansy Bestigui this week, so you can meet her and hear her testimony first hand. I’ll ring your secretary, shall I?’

‘Great.’

There was this to be said for having an underworked secretary he could not afford, Strike thought, once he had rung off: it gave a professional impression.

St Elmo’s Hostel for the Homeless turned out to be situated right behind the noisy concrete flyover. A plain, ill-proportioned and contemporaneous cousin of Lula’s Mayfair house, red brick with humbler, grubby white facings; no stone steps, no garden, no elegant neighbours, but a chipped door opening directly on to the street, peeling paint on the window ledges and a forlorn air. The utilitarian modern world had encroached until it sat huddled and miserable, out of synch with its surroundings, the flyover a mere twenty yards away, so that the upper windows looked directly out upon the concrete barriers and the endlessly passing cars. An unmistakably institutional flavour was given by the large silver buzzer and speaker beside the door, and the unapologetically ugly black camera, with its dangling wires, that hung from the lintel in a wire cage.