1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“Oh, her, yeah,” said Wilson. “Yeah, I’ll take a look an’ I’ll buzz y—”
“Could you have a quick look now?”
He heard Wilson sigh.
“Yeah, all right. Wait there.”
Indistinct sounds of movement, clunks and scrapings, then the flick of turning
pages. While Strike waited, he contemplated various items of clothing designed
by Guy Somé, which were arrayed on his computer screen.
“Yeah, she’s here,” said Wilson’s voice in his ear. “Her name’s Rochelle…I
can’ read…looks like Onifade.”
“Can you spell it?”
Wilson did so, and Strike wrote it down.
“When’s the last time she was there, Derrick?”
“Back in early November,” said Wilson. “(Yeah, good evenin’.) I gotta go
now.”
He put the receiver down on Strike’s thanks, and the detective returned to his
can of Tennent’s and his contemplation of modern day-wear, as envisaged by
Guy Somé, in particular a hooded zip-up jacket with a stylized GS in gold on the
upper left-hand side. The logo was much in evidence on all the ready-to-wear
clothing in the menswear section of the designer’s website. Strike was not
entirely clear on the definition of “ready-to-wear”; it seemed a statement of the
obvious, though whatever else the phrase might connote, it meant “cheaper.” The
second section of the site, named simply “Guy Somé,” contained clothing that
routinely ran into thousands of pounds. Despite Robin’s best endeavors, the
designer of these maroon suits, these narrow knitted ties, these minidresses
embroidered with mirror fragments, these leather fedoras, was continuing to turn
a corporate deaf ear to all requests for an interview concerning the death of his
favorite model.