1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“You heard her say,” he repeated clearly, “on the phone, that she didn’t want
to lie anymore?”
Lechsinka nodded again, her face blank, innocent.
“Then she see me and she shout ‘Go away, go away!’ ”
“Really?”
Lechsinka nodded and continued to put away clothes.
“Where was Mr. Bestigui?”
“Not there.”
“Do you know who she was speaking to? On the phone?”
“No.” But then, a little slyly, she said, “Woman.”
“A woman? How do you know?”
“Shouting, shouting on telephone. I can hear woman.”
“It was a row? An argument? They were yelling at each other? Loud, yeah?”
Strike could hear himself lapsing into the absurd, overdeliberate language of
the linguistically challenged Englishman. Lechsinka nodded again as she pulled
open drawers in search of the place for the belt, the only item now remaining in
her arms. When at last she had coiled it up and put it away, she straightened and
walked away from him, into the bedroom. He followed.
While she made the bed and neatened the bedside tables, he established that
she had cleaned Lula Landry’s flat last that day, after the model had left to visit
her mother. She had noticed nothing out of the ordinary, nor had she spotted any
blue writing paper, whether written on or blank. Guy Somé’s handbags, and the
various items for Deeby Macc, had been delivered to the security desk by the
time she had finished, and the last thing she had done at work that day had been
to take the designer’s gifts up to Lula’s and Macc’s respective flats.
“And you set the alarms again after putting the things in there?”
“I put alarms, yes.”
“Lula’s?”
“Yes.”
“And one nine six six in Flat Two?”
“Yes.”