1 The Cuckoo's Calling

3
STRIKE WAS WOKEN EARLY ON Sunday morning by the ringing of his mobile, which
was recharging on the floor beside his camp bed. The caller was Bristow. He
sounded strained.
“I got your message yesterday, but Mum’s in a bad way and we haven’t got a
nurse for this afternoon. Alison’s going to come over and keep me company. I
could meet you tomorrow, in my lunch hour, if you’re free? Have there been any
developments?” he added hopefully.
“Some,” said Strike cautiously. “Listen, where’s your sister’s laptop?”
“It’s here in Mum’s flat. Why?”
“How would you feel about me having a look at it?”
“Fine,” said Bristow. “I’ll bring it along tomorrow, shall I?”
Strike agreed that this would be a good idea. When Bristow had given him the
name and address of his favorite place to eat near his office, and hung up, Strike
reached for his cigarettes, and lay for a while smoking and contemplating the
pattern made on the ceiling by the sun through the blind slats, savoring the
silence and the solitude, the absence of children screaming, of Lucy’s attempts to
question him over the raucous yells of her youngest. Feeling almost kindly
towards his peaceful office, he stubbed out the cigarette, got up and prepared to
take his usual shower at ULU.
He finally reached Derrick Wilson, after several more attempts, late on Sunday
evening.
“You can’t come this week,” said Wilson. “Mister Bestigui’s round a lot at the
moment. I gotta think about mi job, you understand me. I’ll call you if there’s a
good time, all right?”
Strike heard a distant buzzer.
“Are you at work now?” called Strike, before Wilson could hang up.
He heard the security guard say, away from the receiver:
“(Just sign the book, mate.) What?” he added loudly, to Strike.
“If you’re there now, could you check the logbook for the name of a friend
who used to visit Lula sometimes?”
“What friend?” asked Wilson. “(Yeah, see yuh.)”
“The girl Kieran talked about; the friend from rehab. Rochelle. I want her
surname.”