1 The Cuckoo's Calling

The unbuttoned neck of her thin silk shirt revealed an expanse of butterscotch
skin stretched over her bony sternum, giving an unattractively knobbly effect; yet
two full, firm breasts jutted from her narrow ribcage, as though they had been
borrowed for the day from a fuller-figured friend. “We could have met
somewhere more discreet,” commented Strike.
“No, it’s fine, because nobody here will know who you are. You don’t look
anything like your father, do you? I met him at Elton’s last summer. Freddie
knows him. D’you see much of Jonny?”
“I’ve met him twice,” said Strike.
“Oh,” said Tansy.
The monosyllable contained equal parts of surprise and disdain.
Charlotte had had friends like this; sleek-haired, expensively educated and
clothed, all of them appalled by her strange yen for the enormous, batteredlooking
Strike. He had come up against them for years, by phone and in person,
with their clipped vowels and their stockbroker husbands, and the brittle
toughness Charlotte had never been able to fake.
“I don’t think she should be talking to you at all,” said Ursula abruptly. Her
tone and expression would have been appropriate had Strike been a waiter who
had just thrown aside his apron and joined them, uninvited, at the table. “I think
you’re making a big mistake, Tanz.”
Bristow said: “Ursula, Tansy simply—”
“It’s up to me what I do,” Tansy snapped at her sister, as though Bristow had
not spoken, as though his chair was empty. “I’m only going to say what I heard,
that’s all. It’s all off the record; John’s agreed to that.”
Evidently she too viewed Strike as domestic class. He was irked not only by
their tone, but also by the fact that Bristow was giving witnesses assurances
without his say-so. How could Tansy’s evidence, which could have come from
nobody but her, be kept off the record?
For a few moments all four of them ran their eyes over the culinary options in
silence. Ursula was the first to put down her menu. She had already finished a
glass of wine. She helped herself to another, and glanced restlessly around the
restaurant, her eyes lingering for a second on a blonde minor royal, before
passing on.
“This place used to be full of the most fabulous people, even at lunchtime.
Cyprian only ever wants to go to bloody Wiltons, with all the other stiffs in
suits…”
“Is Cyprian your husband, Mrs. May?” asked Strike.