1 The Cuckoo's Calling

had bought her, shops to which Lula had taken her, restaurants and bars to which
they had gone together, places lined with celebrities. None of these, however,
seemed to have impressed Rochelle in the slightest; for every name she
mentioned there was a deprecating remark:
“ ’E wuz a dick.” “She’s plastic all over.” “They ain’t nuthing special.”
“Did you meet Evan Duffield?” Strike asked.
“ ’Im.” The monosyllable was heavy with contempt. “ ’E’s a twat.”
“Is he?”
“Yeah, ’e is. Ask Kieran.”
She gave the impression that she and Kieran stood together, sane,
dispassionate observers of the idiots populating Lula’s world.
“In what way was he a twat?”
“ ’E treated ’er like shit.”
“Like how?”
“Sold stories,” said Rochelle, reaching for the last of her fries. “One time she
tested ev’ryone. Told us all a diff’rent story to see which ones got in the papers. I
wuz the only one who kep’ their mouf shut, ev’ryone else blabbed.”
“Who’d she test?”
“Ciara Porter. ’Im, Duffield. That Guy Summy,” Rochelle pronounced his first
name to rhyme with “die,” “but then she reckoned it wasn’t ’im. Made excuses
for ’im. But ’e used ’er as much as anyone.”
“In what way?”
“He di’n’t want ’er to work for anyone else. Wanted ’er to do it all for ’is
company, get ’im all the publicity.”
“So, after she’d found out she could trust you…”
“Yeah, then she bought me the phone.”
There was a missed beat.
“So she cud get in touch wiv me whenever she wanted.”
She swept the sparkling pink Nokia suddenly off the table and stuffed it deep
into the pocket of her squashy pink coat.
“I suppose you’ve had to take over the charges yourself now?” Strike asked.