1 The Cuckoo's Calling

on her own face, but slower to get the joke: the viewer’s attention was drawn, as
in the more famous version of the picture, immediately to Lula.
She was represented elsewhere; everywhere. There on the left, among a group
of models all wearing transparent shifts in rainbow colors; further along, in
profile, with gold leaf on her lips and eyelids. Had she learned how to compose
her face into its most photogenic arrangement, to project emotion so beautifully?
Or had she simply been a pellucid surface through which her feelings naturally
shone?
“Park your arse anywhere,” said Somé, dropping into a seat behind a dark
wood and steel desk covered in sketches; Strike pulled up a chair composed of a
single length of contorted perspex. There was a T-shirt lying on the desk, which
carried a picture of Princess Diana as a garish Mexican Madonna, glittering with
bits of glass and beads, and complete with a flaming scarlet heart of shining satin,
on which an embroidered crown was perched lopsided.
“You like?” said Somé, noticing the direction of Strike’s gaze.
“Oh yeah,” lied Strike.
“Sold out nearly everywhere; bad-taste letters from Catholics; Joe Mancura
wore one on Jools Holland. I’m thinking of doing William as Christ on a longsleeve
for winter. Or Harry, do you think, with an AK47 to hide his cock?”
Strike smiled vaguely. Somé crossed his legs with a little more flourish than
was strictly necessary and said, with startling bravado:
“So, the Accountant thinks Cuckoo might’ve been killed? I always called Lula
‘Cuckoo,’ ” he added, unnecessarily.
“Yeah. John Bristow’s a lawyer, though.”
“I know he is, but Cuckoo and I always called him the Accountant. Well, I did,
and Cuckoo sometimes joined in, if she was feeling wicked. He was forever
nosing into her percentages and trying to wring every last cent out of everyone. I
suppose he’s paying you the detective equivalent of the minimum wage?”
“He’s paying me a double wage, actually.”
“Oh. Well he’s probably a bit more generous now he’s got Cuckoo’s money to
play with.”
Somé chewed on a fingernail, and Strike was reminded of Kieran Kolovas-
Jones; the designer and driver were similar in build, too, small but well
proportioned.
“All right, I’m being a bitch,” said Somé, taking his nail out of his mouth. “I
never liked John Bristow. He was always on Cuckoo’s case about something. Get