1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“Yeah. In the police pictures of the body—”
But Somé threw up his arm in an involuntary gesture of refutation, of selfprotection,
then got to his feet, breathing hard, and walked to the photograph
wall, where Lula stared out of several pictures, smiling, wistful or serene. When
the designer turned to face Strike again, the strange bulging eyes were wet.
“Fucking hell,” he said, in a low voice. “Don’t talk about her like that. ‘The
body.’ Fucking hell. You’re a cold-blooded bastard, aren’t you? No fucking
wonder old Jonny’s not keen on you.”
“I wasn’t trying to upset you,” said Strike calmly. “I only want to know
whether you can think of any reason she’d have changed her clothes when she
got home. When she fell, she was wearing trousers and a sequined top.”
“How the fuck should I know why she changed?” asked Somé, wildly.
“Maybe she was cold. Maybe she was—This is fucking ridiculous. How could I
know that?”
“I’m only asking,” said Strike. “I read somewhere that you’d told the press she
died in one of your dresses.”
“That wasn’t me, I never announced it. Some tabloid bitch rang the office and
asked for the name of that dress. One of the seamstresses told her, and they called
her my spokesman. Making out I’d tried to get publicity out of it, the cunts.
Fucking hell.”
“D’you think you could put me in touch with Ciara Porter and Bryony
Radford?”
Somé seemed off-balance, confused.
“What? Yeah…”
But he had begun to cry in earnest; not like Bristow, with wild gulps and sobs,
but silently, with tears sliding down his smooth dark cheeks and on to his T-shirt.
He swallowed and closed his eyes, turned his back on Strike, rested his forehead
against the wall and trembled.
Strike waited in silence until Somé had wiped his face several times and
turned again towards him. He made no mention of his tears, but walked back to
his chair, sat down and lit a cigarette. After two or three deep drags, he said in a
practical and unemotional voice:
“If she changed her clothes, it was because she was expecting someone.
Cuckoo always dressed the part. She must’ve been waiting for someone.”
“Well that’s what I thought,” said Strike. “But I’m no expert on women and
their clothes.”