1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“John…I’m going to be honest with you. I don’t think it would be right to take
your money.”
Red blotches blossomed on Bristow’s pale neck, and on the undistinguished
face, as he continued to hold out the envelope.
“What do you mean, it wouldn’t be right?”
“Your sister’s death was probably as thoroughly investigated as anything can
be. Millions of people, and media from all over the world, were following the
police’s every move. They would have been twice as thorough as usual. Suicide
is a difficult thing to have to accept—”
“I don’t accept it. I’ll never accept it. She didn’t kill herself. Someone pushed
her over that balcony.”
The drill outside stopped suddenly, so that Bristow’s voice rang loudly
through the room; and his hair-trigger fury was that of a meek man pushed to his
absolute limit.
“I see. I get it. You’re another one, are you? Another fucking armchair
psychologist? Charlie’s dead, my father’s dead, Lula’s dead and my mother’s
dying—I’ve lost everyone, and I need a bereavement counselor, not a detective.
D’you think I haven’t heard it about a hundred fucking times before?”
Bristow stood up, impressive for all his rabbity teeth and blotchy skin.
“I’m a pretty rich man, Strike. Sorry to be crass about it, but there you are. My
father left me a sizeable trust fund. I’ve looked into the going rate for this kind of
thing, and I would have been happy to pay you double.”
A double fee. Strike’s conscience, once firm and inelastic, had been weakened
by repeated blows of fate; this was the knockout punch. His baser self was
already gamboling off into the realms of happy speculation: a month’s work
would give him enough to pay off the temp and some of the rent arrears; two
months, the more pressing debts…three months, a chunk of the overdraft
gone…four months…
But John Bristow was speaking over his shoulder as he moved towards the
door, clutching and crumpling the envelope that Strike had refused to take.
“I wanted it to be you because of Charlie, but I found out a bit about you, I’m
not a complete bloody idiot. Special investigation branch, military police, wasn’t
it? Decorated as well. I can’t say I was impressed by your offices,” Bristow was
almost shouting now, and Strike was aware that the muffled female voices in the
outer office had fallen silent, “but apparently I was wrong, and you can afford to
turn down work. Fine! Bloody forget it. I’m sure I’ll find somebody else to do the
job. Sorry to have troubled you!”