1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“No,” said Somé, with a ghost of his malicious smile, “you don’t look it. You
want to speak to Ciara and Bryony?”
“It’d help.”
“They’re both doing a shoot for me on Wednesday: 1 Arlington Terrace in
Islington. If you come along fivish, they’d be free to talk to you.”
“That’s good of you, thanks.”
“It isn’t good of me,” said Somé quietly. “I want to know what happened.
When are you speaking to Duffield?”
“As soon as I can get hold of him.”
“He thinks he’s got away with it, the little shit. She must’ve changed because
she knew he was coming, mustn’t she? Even though they’d rowed, she knew he’d
follow her. But he’ll never talk to you.”
“He’ll talk to me,” said Strike easily, as he put away his notebook and checked
his watch. “I’ve taken up a lot of your time. Thanks again.”
As Somé led Strike back down the spiral stairs and along the white-walled
corridor, some of his swagger returned to him. By the time they shook hands in
the cool tiled lobby, no trace of distress remained on show.
“Lose some weight,” he told Strike, as a parting shot, “and I’ll send you
something XXL.”
As the warehouse door swung closed behind Strike, he heard Somé call to the
tomato-haired girl at the desk: “I know what you’re thinking, Trudie. You’re
imagining him taking you roughly from behind, aren’t you? Aren’t you, darling?
Big rough soldier boy,” and Trudie’s squeal of shocked laughter.