1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“Oh, it was, like—you know that great quote about Ossie Clark dresses, how
men liked them because they could just, like, open them up really easily and fuck
the girls? That’s, like, your mum’s whole era.”
She shook her hair out of her eyes again and gazed at him, not with the
chilling and offensive appraisal of Tansy Bestigui, but in what seemed to be
frank and open wonder. It was difficult for him to decide whether she was
sincere, or performing her own character; her beauty got in the way, like a thick
cobweb through which it was difficult to see her clearly.
“So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you about Lula.”
“God, yeah. Yeah. No, I really want to help. When I heard someone was
investigating it, I was, like, well, good. At last.”
“Really?”
“God, yeah. The whole thing was so fucking shocking. I just couldn’t believe
it. She’s still on my phone, look at this.”
She rummaged in an enormous handbag, finally retrieving a white iPhone.
Scrolling down the contact list, she leaned into him, showing him the name
“Looly.” Her perfume was sweet and peppery.
“I keep expecting her to call me,” said Ciara, momentarily subdued, slipping
the phone back into her bag. “I can’t delete her; I keep going to do it, and then
just, like, bottling it, you know?”
She raised herself restlessly, twisted one of the long legs underneath her, sat
back down and smoked in silence for a few seconds.
“You were with her most of her last day, weren’t you?” Strike asked.
“Don’t fucking remind me,” said Ciara, closing her eyes. “I’ve only been over
it, like, a million times. Trying to get my head around how you can go from, like,
completely bloody happy to dead in, like, hours.”
“She was completely happy?”
“God, happier than I’d ever seen her, that last week. We got back from a job in
Antigua for Vogue, and she and Evan got back together and they had the
commitment ceremony; it was all fantastic for her, she was on cloud nine.”
“You were at this commitment ceremony?”
“Oh yeah,” said Ciara, dropping her cigarette end into a can of Coke, where it
was extinguished with a small hiss. “God, it was beyond romantic. Evan just,
like, sprang it on her at Dickie Carbury’s house. You know Dickie Carbury, the
restaurateur? He’s got this fabulous place in the Cotswolds, and we were all there
for the weekend, and Evan had bought them both matching bangles from Fergus
Keane, gorgeous, oxidized silver. He forced us all down to the lake after dinner