1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“In what way?”
“Just one of those spoiled rich women—well,” said Bryony, with a twist to her
mouth, “she isn’t nearly as rich as she’d like to be. Both those Chillingham
sisters went for old men with bags of money; wealth-seeking missiles, the pair of
them. Ursula thought she’d hit the jackpot when she married Cyprian May, but he
hasn’t got nearly enough for her. She’s knocking forty now; the opportunities
aren’t there the way they used to be. I suppose that’s why she hasn’t been able to
trade up.”
Then, evidently feeling that her tone needed some explanation, she continued:
“I’m sorry, but she accused me of listening to her bloody voicemail
messages.” The makeup artist folded her arms across her chest, glaring at Strike.
“I mean, please. She chucked me her mobile and told me to call her a cab,
without so much as a bloody please or thank you. I’m dyslexic. I hit the wrong
button and the next thing I know, she’s screaming her bloody head off at me.”
“Why do you think she was so upset?”
“Because I heard a man she wasn’t married to telling her he was lying in a
hotel room fantasizing about going down on her, I expect,” said Bryony, coolly.
“So she might be trading up after all?” asked Strike.
“That’s not up,” said Bryony; but then she added hastily, “I mean, pretty tacky
message. Anyway, listen, I’ve got to get back out there, or Guy will be going
ballistic.”
He let her go. After she had left, he made two more pages of notes. Bryony
Radford had shown herself a highly unreliable witness, suggestible and
mendacious, but she had told him much more than she knew.