1 The Cuckoo's Calling

She looked out of the window. A sudden shower of rain had caught passersby
unawares. Transparent ellipses peppered the glass beside them.
“At first?” said Strike. “Did you talk less as time went on?”
“I’m gonna have to go soon,” said Rochelle, grandly. “I got things to do.”
“People like Lula,” said Strike, feeling his way, “can be spoiled. Treat people
badly. They’re used to getting their own—”
“I ain’t no one’s servant,” said Rochelle fiercely.
“Maybe that’s why she liked you? Maybe she saw you as someone more
equal—not a hanger-on?”
“Yeah, igzactly,” said Rochelle, mollified. “I weren’t impressed by her.”
“You can see why she’d want you as a friend, someone more down-toearth…”
“Yeah.”
“…and you had your illness in common, didn’t you? So you understood her on
a level most people wouldn’t.”
“And I’m black,” said Rochelle, “and she wuz wanting to feel proper black.”
“Did she talk to you about that?”
“Yeah, ’course,” said Rochelle. “She wuz wanting to find out where she come
from, where she belong.”
“Did she talk to you about trying to find the black side of her family?”
“Yeah, of course. And she…yeah.”
She had braked almost visibly.
“Did she ever find anyone? Her father?”
“No. She never found ’im. No fuckin’ chance.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
She began eating fast. Strike was afraid that she would leave the moment she
had finished.
“Was Lula depressed when you met her at Vashti, the day before she died?”
“Yeah, she wuz.”