1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“See yuh.”
She waddled out of the restaurant without a backward glance.
Strike watched her walk past the window, her head down, her brows knitted,
until she passed out of sight. It had stopped raining. Idly he pulled her tray
towards him and finished her last few fries.
Then he stood up so abruptly that the baseball-capped girl who had been
approaching his table to clear and wipe it jumped back a step with a little cry of
surprise. Strike hurried out of the McDonald’s and off up Grantley Road.
Rochelle was standing on the corner, clearly visible in her furry magenta coat,
part of a knot of people waiting for the lights to change at a pedestrian crossing.
She was gabbling into the pink jeweled Nokia. Strike caught up with her,
insinuating himself into the group behind her, making of his bulk a weapon, so
that people moved aside to avoid him.
“…wanted to know who she was arrangin’ to meet that night…yeah, an’—”
Rochelle turned her head, watching traffic, and realized that Strike was right
behind her. Removing the mobile from her ear, she jabbed at a button, cutting the
call.
“What?” she asked him aggressively.
“Who were you calling then?”
“Mind yer own fuckin’ business!” she said furiously. The waiting pedestrians
stared. “Are you followin’ me?”
“Yeah,” said Strike. “Listen.”
The lights changed; they were the only two not to start off over the road, and
were jostled by the passing walkers.
“Will you give me your mobile number?”
The implacable bull’s eyes looked back at him, unreadable, bland, secretive.
“Wha’ for?”
“Kieran asked me to get it,” he lied. “I forgot. He thinks you left a pair of
sunglasses in his car.”
He did not think she was convinced, but after a moment she dictated a number,
which he wrote down on the back of one of his own cards.