1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“How do you know that?” asked Bristow sharply. “Did Ursula tell you?”
“She mentioned something.”
“Christ almighty. No discretion. None.”
“Your uncle found it hard to believe that Mrs. May could have been
indiscreet.”
“I’ll bet he did,” said Bristow, with a scornful laugh. “It’s—well, I’m sure I
can trust you. It’s the kind of thing a firm like ours is touchy about, because with
the kind of clients we attract—high net worth—any hint of financial impropriety
is death. Conway Oates held a sizable client account with us. All the money’s
present and correct; but his heirs are a greedy bunch and they’re claiming it was
mismanaged. Considering how volatile the market’s been, and how incoherent
Conway’s instructions became towards the end, they should be grateful there’s
anything left. Tony’s irritable about the whole business and…well, he’s a man
who likes to spread the blame around. There have been scenes. I’ve copped my
share of criticism. I usually do, with Tony.”
Strike could tell, by the almost perceptible heaviness that seemed to be
descending upon Bristow as he walked, that they were approaching his offices.
“I’m having difficulty contacting a couple of useful witnesses, John. Is there
any chance you’d be able to put me in touch with Guy Somé? His people don’t
seem keen on letting anyone near him.”
“I can try. I’ll call him this afternoon. He adored Lula; he ought to want to
help.”
“And there’s Lula’s birth mother, too.”
“Oh yes,” sighed Bristow. “I’ve got her details somewhere. She’s a dreadful
woman.”
“Have you met her?”
“No, I’m going on what Lula told me, and everything that was in the papers.
Lula was determined to find out where she came from, and I think Duffield was
encouraging her—I strongly suspect him of leaking the story to the press, though
she always denied that…Anyway, she managed to track her down, this Higson
woman, who told her that her father was an African student. I don’t know
whether that was true or not. It was certainly what Lula wanted to hear. Her
imagination ran wild: I think she had visions of herself being the long-lost
daughter of a high-ranking politician, or a tribal princess.”
“But she never traced her father?”
“I don’t know, but,” said Bristow, displaying his usual enthusiasm for any line
of inquiry that might explain the black man caught on film near her flat, “I’d have
been the last person she’d have told if she did.”