1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“The window’s visible from the bathroom?”
“Yeah. Well, just.”
“You got there pretty quickly, didn’t you?”
“Uniformed lot were there in about eight minutes, and Carver and I were there
in about twenty.” Wardle lifted his glass, as though to toast the force’s efficiency.
“I’ve spoken to Wilson, the security guard,” said Strike.
“Yeah? He didn’t do bad,” said Wardle, with a trace of condescension. “It
wasn’t his fault he had the runs. But he didn’t touch anything, and he did a proper
search right after she’d jumped. Yeah, he did all right.”
“He and his colleagues were a bit lazy on the door codes.”
“People always are. Too many pin numbers and passwords to remember.
Know the feeling.”
“Bristow’s interested in the possibilities of the quarter of an hour when Wilson
was in the bog.”
“We were, too, for about five minutes, before we’d satisfied ourselves that
Mrs. Bestigui was a publicity-mad cokehead.”
“Wilson mentioned that the pool was unlocked.”
“Can he explain how a murderer got into the pool area, or back to it, without
walking right past him? A fucking pool,” said Wardle, “nearly as big as the one
I’ve got at my gym, and all for the use of three fucking people. A gym on the
ground floor behind the security desk. Underground fucking parking. Flats done
up with marble and shit like…like a fucking five-star hotel.”
The policeman sat shaking his head very slowly over the unequal distribution
of wealth.
“Different world,” he said.
“I’m interested in the middle flat,” said Strike.
“Deeby Macc’s?” said Wardle, and Strike was surprised to see a grin of
genuine warmth spread across the policeman’s face. “What about it?”
“Did you go in there?”
“I had a look, but Bryant had already searched it. Empty. Windows bolted,
alarm set and working properly.”
“Is Bryant the one who knocked into the table and smashed a big floral
arrangement?”