1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“Yeah. Lurching around, off his face. No fucking respect. I was full of tranks
myself or I’d’ve told him what I thought of him. Pretending to be devastated,
hypocritical little shit.”
“You never thought it was suicide?”
Somé’s strange, bulging eyes bored into Strike.
“Never. Duffield says he was at his dealer’s, disguised as a wolf. What kind of
fucking alibi is that? I hope you’re checking him out. I hope you’re not dazzled
by his fucking celebrity, like the police.”
Strike remembered Wardle’s comments on Duffield.
“I don’t think they found Duffield dazzling.”
“They’ve got more taste than I credited them with, then,” said Somé.
“Why are you so sure it wasn’t suicide? Lula had had mental health problems,
hadn’t she?”
“Yeah, but we had a pact, like Marilyn Monroe and Montgomery Clift. We’d
sworn that if either of us was thinking seriously of killing themselves, we’d call
the other. She would’ve called me.”
“When did you last hear from her?”
“She phoned me on the Wednesday, while I was still in Tokyo,” said Somé.
“Silly cow always forgot it was eight hours ahead; I had my phone on mute at
two in the morning, so I didn’t pick up; but she left a message, and she was not
suicidal. Listen to this.”
He reached into his desk drawer again, pressed several buttons, then held the
mobile out to Strike.
And Lula Landry spoke close and real, slightly raw and throaty, in Strike’s ear,
in deliberately affected mockney.
“Aw wight, darlin’? Got something to tell you, I’m not sure whether you’re
going to like it but it’s a biggie, and I’m so fucking happy I’ve gotta tell
someone, so ring me when you can, OK, can’t wait, mwah mwah.”
Strike handed back the phone.
“Did you call her back? Did you find out what the big news was?”
“No.” Somé ground out his cigarette and reached immediately for another one.
“The Japs had me in back-to-back meetings; every time I thought of calling her,
the time difference was in the way. Anyway…to tell you the truth, I thought I