1 The Cuckoo's Calling

fireplace. The displaced onlookers, all of them in their twenties, were gathered in
here; talking quietly, picking in desultory fashion at the half-empty platters of
mozzarella and Parma ham and talking into, or playing with, their phones.
Several of them subjected Strike to appraising looks as he followed Bryony into a
small back room which had been turned into a makeshift makeup station.
Two tables with big portable mirrors stood in front of the large single window,
which looked out on to a spruce garden. The black plastic boxes standing around
reminded Strike of those his Uncle Ted had taken fly-fishing, except that
Bryony’s drawers were crammed with colored powders and paints; tubes and
brushes lay lined up on towels spread across the table tops.
“Hi,” she said, in a normal voice. “God. Talk about cutting the tension with a
knife, eh? Guy’s always a perfectionist, but this is his first proper shoot since
Lula died, so he’s, you know, seriously uptight.”
She had dark, choppy hair; her skin was sallow, her features, though large,
were attractive. She was wearing tight jeans on long, slightly bandy legs, a black
vest, several fine gold chains around her neck, rings on her fingers and thumbs,
and also what looked like black leather ballet shoes. This kind of footwear
always had a slightly anaphrodisiac effect on Strike, because it reminded him of
the fold-up slippers his Aunt Joan used to carry in her handbag, and therefore of
bunions and corns.
Strike began to explain what he wanted from her, but she cut him off.
“Guy’s told me everything. Want a ciggie? We can smoke in here if we open
this.”
So saying, she wrenched open the door that led directly on to a paved area of
the garden.
She made a small space on one of the cluttered makeup tables and perched
herself on it; Strike took one of the vacated chairs and drew out his notebook.
“OK, fire away,” she said, and then, without giving him time to speak, “I’ve
been thinking about that afternoon nonstop ever since, actually. So, so sad.”
“Did you know Lula well?” asked Strike.
“Yeah, pretty well. I’d done her makeup for a couple of shoots, made her up
for the Rainforest Benefit. When I told her I can thread eyebrows…”
“You can what?”
“Thread eyebrows. It’s like plucking, but with threads?”
Strike could not imagine how this worked.