1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“God, yeah, and there you are!” said Ciara indignantly. “They made out we
were, like, shagging or something! He had no money, and his driver had
disappeared, so he just, like, hiked across London so he could crash at mine. He
slept on the sofa. So we were together when we heard the news.”
She raised her cigarette to her full mouth and drew deeply on it, her eyes on
the floor.
“It was terrible. You can’t imagine. Terrible. Evan was…oh my God. And
then,” she said, in a voice barely louder than a whisper, “they were all saying it
was him. After Tansy Chillingham said she’d heard a row. The press just went
crazy. It was awful.”
She looked up at Strike, holding her hair off her face. The harsh overhead light
merely illuminated her perfect bone structure.
“You haven’t met Evan, have you?”
“No.”
“D’you want to? You could come with me now. He said he was going along to
Uzi tonight.”
“That’d be great.”
“Fabby. Hang on.”
She jumped up and called through the open door:
“Guy, sweetie, can I wear this tonight? Go on. To Uzi?”
Somé entered the small room. He looked exhausted behind his glasses.
“All right. Make sure you’re photographed. Wreck it and I’ll sue your skinny
white arse.”
“I’m not going to wreck it. I’m taking Cormoran to meet Evan.”
She stuffed her cigarettes away into her enormous bag, which appeared to hold
her day clothes too, and hoisted it over her shoulder. In her heels, she was within
an inch of the detective’s height. Somé looked up at Strike, his eyes narrowed.
“Make sure you give the little shit a hard time.”
“Guy!” said Ciara, pouting. “Don’t be horrible.”
“And watch yourself, Master Rokeby,” Somé added, with his usual edge of
spite. “Ciara’s a terrible slut, aren’t you, dear? And she’s like me. She likes them
big.”
“Guy!” said Ciara, in mock horror. “Come on, Cormoran. I’ve got a driver
outside.”