1 The Cuckoo's Calling

4
THE WEEKEND STRETCHED AHEAD, WARM and empty. Strike sat at his open window
again, smoking and watching the hordes of shoppers passing along Denmark
Street, the case report open on his lap, the police file on the desk, making a list
for himself of points still to be clarified, and sifting the morass of information he
had collected.
For a while he contemplated a photograph of the front of number 18 as it had
been on the morning after Lula died. There was a small, but to Strike significant,
difference between the frontage as it had been then, and as it was now. From time
to time he moved to the computer; once to find out the agent who represented
Deeby Macc; then to look at the share price for Albris. His notebook lay open
beside him at a page full of truncated sentences and questions, all in his dense,
spiky handwriting. When his mobile rang, he raised it to his ear without checking
who was on the other end.
“Ah, Mr. Strike,” said Peter Gillespie’s voice. “How nice of you to pick up.”
“Oh, hello, Peter,” said Strike. “Got you working weekends now, has he?”
“Some of us have no option but to work at weekends. You haven’t returned
any of my weekday phone calls.”
“I’ve been busy. Working.”
“I see. Does that mean we can expect a repayment soon?”
“I expect so.”
“You expect so?”
“Yeah,” said Strike. “I should be in a position to give you something in the
next few weeks.”
“Mr. Strike, your attitude astounds me. You undertook to repay Mr. Rokeby
monthly, and you are now in arrears to the tune of—”
“I can’t pay you what I haven’t got. If you hold tight, I should be able to give
you all of it back. Maybe even in a oner.”
“I’m afraid that simply isn’t good enough. Unless you bring these repayments
up to date—”
“Gillespie,” said Strike, his eyes on the bright sky beyond the window, “we
both know old Jonny isn’t going to sue his one-legged war-hero son for
repayment of a loan that wouldn’t keep his butler in fucking bath salts. I’ll give
him back his money, with interest, within the next couple of months, and he can
stick it up his arse and set fire to it, if he likes. Tell him that, from me, and now
get off my fucking back.”