When he had decided that the streets surrounding Barrack had no more to tell him, Strike continued on foot, making notes of yellow lines in the vicinity, of Friday-night parking restrictions and of those establishments nearby that also had their own security cameras. His notes complete, he felt that he had earned a cup of tea and a bacon roll on expenses, both of which he enjoyed in a small café, while reading an abandoned copy of the Daily Mail.

His mobile rang as he was starting his second cup of tea, halfway through a gleeful account of the Prime Minister’s gaffe in calling an elderly female voter ‘bigoted’ without realising that his microphone was still turned on.

A week ago, Strike had allowed his unwanted temp’s calls to go to voicemail. Today, he picked up.

‘Hi, Robin, how’re you?’

‘Fine. I’m just calling to give you your messages.’

‘Fire away,’ said Strike, as he drew out a pen.

‘Alison Cresswell’s just called – John Bristow’s secretary – to say she’s booked a table at Cipriani at one o’clock tomorrow, so that he can introduce you to Tansy Bestigui.’

‘Great.’

‘I’ve tried Freddie Bestigui’s production company again. They’re getting irritated. They say he’s in LA. I’ve left another request for him to call you.’

‘Good.’

‘And Peter Gillespie’s telephoned again.’

‘Uh huh,’ said Strike.

‘He says it’s urgent, and could you please get back to him as soon as possible.’

Strike considered asking her to call Gillespie back and tell him to go and fuck himself.

‘Yeah, will do. Listen, could you text me the address of the nightclub Uzi?’

‘Right.’

‘And try and find a number for a bloke called Guy Somé? He’s a designer.’

‘It’s pronounced “ghee”,’ said Robin.

‘What?’

‘His Christian name. It’s pronounced the French way: “Ghee”.’

‘Oh, right. Well, could you try and find a contact number for him?’

‘Fine,’ said Robin.

‘Ask him if he’d be prepared to talk to me. Leave a message saying who I am, and who’s hired me.’

‘Fine.’

It was borne in on Strike that Robin’s tone was frosty. After a second or two, he thought he might know why.

‘By the way, thanks for that text you sent yesterday,’ he said. ‘Sorry I didn’t get back to you; it would have looked strange if I’d started texting, where I was. But if you could call Nigel Clements, Duffield’s agent, and ask for an appointment, that would be great too.’

Her animosity fell away at once, as he had meant it to; her voice was many degrees warmer when she spoke again; verging, in fact, on excited.

‘But Duffield can’t have had anything to do with it, can he? He had a cast-iron alibi!’