1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“The last time Sandra was here, Lula Landry was in your café. Sandra said she
was gorgeous in the flesh. Even better than in pictures.”
“Oh yeah, she was,” agreed the pink-haired girl, who was clutching to her
chest the gold jacket she had fetched. “She used to be in here all the time, we
used to see her every week. Do you want to try this?”
“She was in here the day before she died,” said the cotton candy–haired girl,
helping Robin to wriggle into the gold jacket. “In this changing room, actually in
this one.”
“Really?” said Robin.
“It’s not going to close over the bust, but it looks great open,” said the
redhead.
“No, that’s no good, Sandra’s a bit bigger than me, if anything,” said Robin,
ruthlessly sacrificing her fictional sister-in-law’s figure. “I’ll try that black dress.
Did you say Lula Landry was here actually the day before she died?”
“Oh yeah,” said the girl with pink hair. “It was so sad, really so sad. You heard
her, didn’t you, Mel?”
The tattooed redhead, who was holding up a black dress with lace inserts,
made an indeterminate noise. Watching her in the mirror, Robin saw no
eagerness to talk about what she had, whether deliberately or accidentally,
overheard.
“She was speaking to Duffield, wasn’t she, Mel?” prompted the chatty pinkhaired
girl.
Robin saw Mel frown. Tattoos notwithstanding, Robin had the impression that
Mel might well be the other two girls’ senior. She seemed to feel that discretion
about what took place in these cream silk tents was part of her job, whereas the
other two bubbled with the desire to recount gossip, particularly to a woman who
seemed so eager to spend her rich brother’s money.
“It must be impossible not to hear what goes on in these—these tent things,”
Robin commented, a little breathlessly, as she was inched into the lacy black
dress by the combined efforts of the three assistants.
Mel unbent slightly.
“Yeah, it is. And people just come in here and start mouthing off about
whatever they fancy. You can’t help overhearing stuff through this,” she said,
pointing towards the stiff curtain of raw silk.
Now heavily constricted in a lace-and-leather straitjacket, Robin gasped: