1 The Cuckoo's Calling

was all getting too much. She wanted to be away from it all, to feel secure. I told
her to move in with me, but instead she went and bought that fucking
mausoleum.
“She took it because it felt like a fortress with the round-the-clock security.
She thought she’d be safe from everyone, that nobody would be able to get at her.
“But she hated it from the word go. I knew she would. She was cut off from
everything she liked. Cuckoo loved color and noise. She liked being on the street,
she liked walking, being free.
“One of the reasons the police said it wasn’t murder was the open windows.
She’d opened them herself; it was only her prints on the handles. But I know why
she opened them. She always opened the windows, even when it was freezing
cold, because she couldn’t stand the silence. She liked being able to hear
London.”
Somé’s voice had lost all its slyness and sarcasm. He cleared his throat and
went on:
“She was trying to connect with something real; we used to talk about it all the
time. It was our big thing. That’s what made her get involved with bloody
Rochelle. It was a case of ‘there but for the grace of God.’ Cuckoo thought that’s
what she’d have been, if she hadn’t been beautiful; if the Bristows hadn’t taken
her in as a little plaything for Yvette.”
“Tell me about this stalker.”
“Mental case. He thought they were married or something. He was given a
restraining order and compulsory psychiatric treatment.”
“Any idea where he is now?”
“I think he was deported back to Liverpool,” said Somé. “But the police
checked him out; they told me he was in a secure ward up there the night she
died.”
“Do you know the Bestiguis?”
“Only what Lula told me, that he was sleazy and she’s a walking waxwork. I
don’t need to know her. I know her type. Rich girls spending their ugly
husbands’ money. They come to my shows. They want to be my friend. Gimme
an honest hooker any day.”
“Freddie Bestigui was at the same country-house weekend as Lula, a week
before she died.”