1 The Cuckoo's Calling

of millions of pounds’ worth of Ferrari, Audi, Bentley, Jaguar and BMW. At
twenty-foot intervals along the back wall were doors like the one through which
they had just come: inner entrances to each of the houses of Kentigern Gardens.
The electric garage doors leading from Serf’s Way were close by number 18,
outlined by silvery daylight.
Robin wondered what the silent men beside her were thinking. Was Wilson
used to the extraordinary lives of the people who lived here; used to underground
car parks and swimming pools and Ferraris? And was Strike thinking (as she
was) that this long row of doors represented possibilities she had not once
considered: chances of secret, hidden scurrying between neighbors, and of hiding
and departing in as many ways as there were houses in the street? But then she
noticed the numerous black snouts pointing from regular spots on the shadowy
upper walls, feeding footage back to countless monitors. Was it possible that
none of them had been watched that night?
“OK,” said Strike, and Wilson led them back onto the marble staircase, and
locked up the car park door behind them.
Down another short flight of stairs, the smell of chlorine became stronger with
every step, until Wilson opened a door at the bottom and they were assailed by a
wave of warm, damp, chemically laden air.
“This is the door that wasn’t locked that night?” Strike asked Wilson, who
nodded as he pressed another switch, and light blazed.
They had walked on to the broad marble rim of the pool, which was shielded
by a thick plastic cover. The opposite wall was, again, mirrored; Robin saw the
three of them standing there, incongruous in full dress against a mural of tropical
plants and fluttering butterflies that extended up over the ceiling. The pool was
around fifteen meters long, and at the far end was a hexagonal jacuzzi, beyond
which were three changing cubicles, fronted by lockable doors.
“No cameras here?” asked Strike, looking around, and Wilson shook his head.
Robin could feel sweat prickling on the back of her neck and under her arms.
It was oppressive in the pool area, and she was pleased to climb the stairs ahead
of the two men, back to the lobby, which in comparison was pleasant and airy. A
petite young blonde had appeared in their absence, wearing a pink overall, jeans
and a T-shirt, and carrying a plastic bucket full of cleaning implements.
“Derrick,” she said in heavily accented English, when the security guard
emerged from downstairs. “I neet key for two.”
“This is Lechsinka,” said Wilson. “The cleaner.”
She favored Robin and Strike with a small, sweet smile. Wilson moved around
behind the mahogany desk and handed her a key from beneath it, and Lechsinka