1 The Cuckoo's Calling

companion, and although its name was unreadable onscreen, he knew, from what
Wardle had said, that it must be Halliwell Street.
The police had thought that the fact that the first man had picked up a friend
off-camera diminished his plausibility as a killer. This was assuming that the two
were, indeed, friends. Strike had to concede that the fact that they had been
caught on film together, in such weather, and at such an hour, acting in an almost
identical fashion, suggested complicity.
Allowing the footage to run on, he watched as it cut, in almost startling
fashion, to the interior of a bus. A girl got on; filmed from a position above the
driver, her face was foreshortened and heavily shadowed, though her blonde
ponytail was distinctive. The man who followed her on to the bus bore, as far as
it was possible to see, a strong resemblance to the one who had later walked up
Bellamy Street towards Kentigern Gardens. He was tall and hooded, with a white
scarf over his face, the upper part lost in shadow. All that was clear was the logo
on his chest, a stylized GS.
The film jerked to show Theobalds Road. If the individual walking fast along
it was the same person who had got on the bus, he had removed his white scarf,
although his build and walk were strongly reminiscent. This time, Strike thought
that the man was making a conscious effort to keep his head bowed.
The film ended in a blank black screen. Strike sat looking at it, deep in
thought. When he recalled himself to his surroundings, it was a slight surprise to
find them multicolored and sunlit.
He took his mobile out of his pocket and called John Bristow, but reached only
voicemail. He left a message telling Bristow that he had now viewed the CCTV
footage and read the police file; that there were a few more things he would like
to ask, and would it be possible to meet Bristow sometime during the following
week.
He then called Derrick Wilson, whose telephone likewise went to voicemail,
to which he reiterated his request to come and view the interior of 18 Kentigern
Gardens.
Strike had just hung up when the sitting-room door opened, and his middle
nephew, Jack, sidled in. He looked flushed and overwrought.
“I heard you talking,” Jack said. He closed the door just as carefully as his
uncle had done.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in the garden, Jack?”
“I’ve been for a pee,” said his nephew. “Uncle Cormoran, did you bring me a
present?”