1 The Cuckoo's Calling

Wardle snorted.
“Heard about that, did you? Mr. Bestigui wasn’t too chuffed about it. Oh yeah.
Two hundred white roses in a crystal vase the size of a dustbin. Apparently he’d
read that Macc asks for white roses in his rider. His rider,” Wardle said, as
though Strike’s silence implied an ignorance of what the term meant. “Stuff they
ask for in their dressing rooms. I’d’ve thought you’d know about this stuff.”
Strike ignored the insinuation. He had hoped for better from Anstis.
“Ever find out why Bestigui wanted Macc to have roses?”
“Just schmoozing, isn’t it? Probably wanted to put Macc in a film. He was
fucked off to the back teeth when he heard Bryant had ruined them. Yelling the
place down when he found out.”
“Anyone find it strange that he was upset about a bunch of flowers, when his
neighbor’s lying in the street with her head smashed in?”
“He’s one obnoxious fucker, Bestigui,” said Wardle, with feeling. “Used to
people jumping to attention when he speaks. He tried treating all of us like staff,
till he realized that wasn’t clever.
“But the shouting wasn’t really about the flowers. He was trying to drown out
his wife, give her a chance to pull herself together. He kept forcing his way in
between her and anyone who wanted to question her. Big guy as well, old
Freddie.”
“What was he worried about?”
“That the longer she bawled and shook like a frozen whippet, the more bloody
obvious it became that she’d been doing coke. He must’ve known it was lying
around somewhere in the flat. He can’t have been delighted to have the Met come
bursting in. So he tried to distract everyone with a tantrum about his fivehundred-quid
floral arrangement.
“I read somewhere that he’s divorcing her. I’m not surprised. He’s used to the
press tiptoeing around him, because he’s such a litigious bastard; he can’t have
enjoyed all the attention he got after Tansy shot her mouth off. The press made
hay while they could. Rehashed old stories about him throwing plates at
underlings. Punches in meetings. They say he paid his last wife a massive lump
sum to stop her talking about his sex life in court. He’s pretty well known as a
prize shit.”
“You didn’t fancy him as a suspect?”
“Oh, we fancied him a lot; he was on the spot and he’s got a rep for violence.
It never looked likely, though. If his wife knew that he’d done it, or that he’d
been out of the flat at the moment Landry fell, I’m betting she’d have told us so: