1 The Cuckoo's Calling

watching my father carrying her up the drive. She was wearing a little red knitted
hat. My mother’s still got it.”
And suddenly, shockingly, John Bristow burst into tears. He sobbed into his
hands, hunch-shouldered, quaking, while tears and snot slid through the cracks in
his fingers. Every time he seemed to have himself under some kind of control,
more sobs burst forth.
“I’m sorry—sorry—Jesus…”
Panting and hiccoughing, he dabbed beneath his glasses with a wadded
handkerchief, trying to regain control.
The office door opened and Robin backed in, carrying a tray. Bristow turned
his face away, his shoulders heaving and shaking. Through the open door Strike
caught another glimpse of the besuited woman in the outer office; she was now
scowling at him from over the top of a copy of the Daily Express.
Robin laid out two cups, a milk jug, a sugar bowl and a plate of chocolate
biscuits, none of which Strike had ever seen before, smiled in perfunctory fashion
at his thanks and made to leave.
“Hang on a moment, Sandra,” said Strike. “Could you…?”
He took a piece of paper from his desk and slid it on to his knee. While
Bristow made soft gulping noises, Strike wrote, very swiftly and as legibly as he
could manage:
Please google Lula Landry and find out whether she was adopted, and if so,
by whom. Do not discuss what you are doing with the woman outside (what is
she doing here?). Write down the answers to questions above and bring them
to me here, without saying what you’ve found.
He handed the piece of paper to Robin, who took it wordlessly and left the room.
“Sorry—I’m so sorry,” Bristow gasped, when the door had closed. “This is—
I’m not usually—I’ve been back at work, seeing clients…” He took several deep
breaths. With his pink eyes the resemblance to an albino rabbit was heightened.
His right knee was still jiggling up and down.
“It’s just been a dreadful time,” he whispered, taking deep breaths. “Lula…and
my mother’s dying…”
Strike’s mouth was watering at the sight of the chocolate biscuits, because he
had eaten nothing for what felt like days; but he felt it would strike an
unsympathetic note to start snacking while Bristow jiggled and sniffed and
mopped his eyes. The pneumatic drill was still hammering like a machine gun
down in the street.