‘I don’t say they went there specifically to nick cars; they might have spotted an opportunity, seeing it parked there – what kind of tosser leaves a Maserati parked on the street? But it was nearly two in the morning, the temperature was below zero, and I can’t think of many innocent reasons why two men would choose to meet at that time, in a Mayfair street where neither of them, as far as we could find out, lived.’

‘No idea where they came from, or where they went afterwards?’

‘We’re pretty sure the one Bristow’s obsessed with, the one who was walking towards her flat just before she fell, got off the number thirty-eight bus in Wilton Street at a quarter past eleven. There’s no saying what he did before he passed the camera at the end of Bellamy Road an hour and a half later. He tanked back past it about ten minutes after Landry jumped, sprinted up Bellamy Road and most probably turned right down Weldon Street. There’s some footage of a guy more or less meeting his description – tall, black, hoodie, scarf round the face – caught on Theobalds Road about twenty minutes later.’

‘He made good time if he got to Theobalds Road in twenty minutes,’ commented Strike. ‘That’s out towards Clerkenwell, isn’t it? Must be two, two and a half miles. And the pavements were frozen.’

‘Yeah, well, it might not’ve been him. The footage was shit. Bristow thought it was very suspicious that he had his face covered, but it was minus ten that night, and I was wearing a balaclava to work myself. Anyway, whether he was in Theobalds Road or not, nobody ever came forward to say they’d recognised him.’

‘And the other one?’

‘Sprinted off down Halliwell Street, about two hundred yards down; no idea where he went after that.’

‘Or when he entered the area?’

‘Could’ve come from anywhere. We haven’t got any other footage of him.’

‘Aren’t there supposed to be ten thousand CCTV cameras in London?’

‘They aren’t everywhere yet. Cameras aren’t the answer to our problems, unless they’re maintained and monitored. The one in Garriman Street was out, and there aren’t any in Meadowfield Road or Hartley Street. You’re like everyone else, Strike; you want your civil liberties when you’ve told the missus you’re at the office and you’re at a lap-dancing club, but you want twenty-four-hour surveillance on your house when someone’s trying to force your bathroom window open. Can’t have it both ways.’

‘I’m not after it either way,’ said Strike. ‘I’m just asking what you know about Runner Two.’