1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“Did she tell you why?”
“There don’t ’ave to be a reason why. It’s uh nillness.”
“But she told you she was feeling bad, did she?”
“Yeah,” she said, after a fractional hesitation.
“You were supposed to be having lunch together, weren’t you?” he asked.
“Kieran told me that he drove her to meet you. You know Kieran, right? Kieran
Kolovas-Jones?”
Her expression softened; the corners of her mouth lifted.
“Yeah, I know Kieran. Yeah, she come to meet me at Vashti.”
“But she didn’t stop for lunch?”
“No. She wuz in a hurry,” said Rochelle.
She bowed her head to drink more coffee, concealing her face.
“Why didn’t she just ring you? You’ve got a phone, have you?”
“Yeah, I gotta phone,” she snapped, bristling, and drew from the fur jacket a
basic-looking Nokia, stuck all over with gaudy pink crystals.
“So why d’you think she didn’t call to say she couldn’t see you?”
Rochelle glowered at him.
“Because she didn’t like using the phone, because of them listenin’ in.”
“Journalists?”
“Yeah.”
She had almost finished her cookie.
“Journalists wouldn’t have been very interested in her saying that she wasn’t
coming to Vashti, though, would they?”
“I dunno.”
“Didn’t you think it was odd, at the time, that she drove all the way to tell you
she couldn’t stay for lunch?”
“Yeah. No,” said Rochelle. And then, with a sudden burst of fluency:
“When ya gotta driver it don’t matter, does it? You jus’ go wherever you want,
don’t cost you nothing extra, you just get them to take you, don’t ya? She was