1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“God knows what Lula was doing with her,” said Tansy. “Oh, you must
remember, John. She was fat. Scruffy. Looked a bit subnormal.”
“I don’t…” mumbled Bristow.
“Are you talking about Rochelle?” asked Strike.
“Oh, yah, I think that was her name. She was at the funeral, anyway,” said
Tansy. “I noticed her. She was sitting right at the back.
“Now, you will remember, won’t you,” she turned the full force of her dark
eyes upon Strike, “that this is all entirely off the record. I mean, I cannot afford
for Freddie to find out I’m talking to you. I’m not going to go through all that shit
with the press again. Bill, please,” she barked at the waiter.
When it arrived, she passed it without comment to Bristow.
As the sisters were preparing to leave, shaking their glossy brown hair back
over their shoulders and pulling on expensive jackets, the door of the restaurant
opened and a tall, thin, besuited man of around sixty entered, looked around and
headed straight for their table. Silver-haired and distinguished-looking,
impeccably dressed, there was a certain chilliness about his pale blue eyes. His
walk was brisk and purposeful.
“This is a surprise,” he said smoothly, stopping in the space between the two
women’s chairs. None of the other three had seen the man coming, and all bar
Strike displayed equal parts of shock and something more than displeasure at the
sight of him. For a fraction of a second, Tansy and Ursula froze, Ursula in the act
of pulling sunglasses out of her bag.
Tansy recovered first.
“Cyprian,” she said, offering her face for his kiss. “Yes, what a lovely
surprise!”
“I thought you were going shopping, Ursula dear?” he said, his eyes on his
wife as he gave Tansy a conventional peck on each cheek.
“We stopped for lunch, Cyps,” she replied, but her color was heightened, and
Strike sensed an ill-defined nastiness in the air.
The older man’s pale eyes moved deliberately over Strike and came to rest on
Bristow.
“I thought Tony was handling your divorce, Tansy?” he asked.
“He is,” said Tansy. “This isn’t a business lunch, Cyps. Purely social.”
He gave a wintry smile.