1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“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 night-club 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.”