1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“Were Bestigui’s roses on something like that?” asked Strike.
“On one that’s jus’ like ’em, yeah,” said Wilson. “It’s back in the lounge
now.”
“And you put it here, in the middle of the hall, with the roses on it?”
“Yeah, Bestigui wanted Macc to see ’em soon as he walked in, but there was
plenty of room to walk around ’em, you can see that. No need to knock ’em over.
But he was young, the copper,” said Wilson tolerantly.
“Where are the panic buttons you told me about?” Strike asked.
“Round here,” said Wilson, leading him out of the hall and into the bedroom.
“There’s one by the bed, and there’s another one in the sitting room.”
“Have all the flats got these?”
“Yeah.”
The relative positions of the bedrooms, sitting room, kitchen and bathroom
were identical to those of Flat 1. Many of the finishings were similar, down to the
mirrored doors in the walk-in wardrobe, which Strike went to check. While he
was opening doors and surveying the thousands of pounds’ worth of women’s
dresses and coats, Lechsinka emerged from the bedroom with a belt, two ties and
several polythene-covered dresses, fresh from the dry-cleaner’s, over her arm.
“Hi,” said Strike.
“Hello,” she said, moving to a door behind him and pulling out a tie rack.
“Excuse, please.”
He stood aside. She was short and very pretty in a pert, girlish way, with a
rather flat face, a snub nose and Slavic eyes. She hung up the ties neatly while he
watched her.
“I’m a detective,” he said. Then he remembered that Eric Wardle had
described her English as “crap.”
“Like a policeman?” he ventured.
“Ah. Police.”
“You were here, weren’t you, the day before Lula Landry died?”
It took a few tries to convey exactly what he meant. When she grasped the
point, however, she showed no objection to answering questions, as long as she
could continue putting the clothes away as she talked.