1 The Cuckoo's Calling

its doorway was surmounted by CCTV cameras, whose range, he thought, would
cover most of the street. He walked around the building, noting the fire exits, and
making for himself a rough sketch of the area.
After a second long internet session the previous evening, Strike felt that he
had a thorough grasp of the subject of Deeby Macc’s publicly declared interest in
Lula Landry. The rapper had mentioned the model in the lyrics of three tracks, on
two separate albums; he had also spoken about her in interviews as his ideal
woman and soul mate. It was difficult to gauge how seriously Macc intended to
be taken when he made these comments; allowance had to be made, in all the
print interviews Strike had read, firstly for the rapper’s sense of humor, which
was both dry and sly, and secondly for the awe tinged with fear every interviewer
seemed to feel when confronted with him.
An ex-gang member who had been imprisoned for gun and drug offenses in
his native Los Angeles, Macc was now a multimillionaire, with a number of
lucrative businesses aside from his recording career. There was no doubt that the
press had become “excited,” to use Robin’s word, when news had leaked out that
Macc’s record company had rented him the apartment below Lula’s. There had
been much rabid speculation as to what might happen when Deeby Macc found
himself a floor away from his supposed dream woman, and how this incendiary
new element might affect the volatile relationship between Landry and Duffield.
These non-stories had all been peppered with undoubtedly spurious comments
from friends of both—“He’s already called her and asked her to dinner,” “She’s
preparing a small party for him in her flat when he hits London.” Such
speculation had almost eclipsed the flurry of outraged comment from sundry
columnists that the twice-convicted Macc, whose music (they said) glorified his
criminal past, was entering the country at all.
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 realizing 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.”