1 The Cuckoo's Calling

arrogance of predators. In the inverted food chain of fame, it was the big beasts
who were stalked and hunted; they were receiving their due.
Duffield was talking to a sexy brunette. Her lips were parted as she listened,
almost ludicrously immersed in him. As Ciara and Strike drew nearer, Strike saw
Duffield glance away from the brunette for a fraction of a second, making, Strike
thought, a lightning-fast recce of the bar, taking the measure of the room’s
attention, and of other possibilities it might offer.
“Ciara!” he yelled hoarsely.
The brunette looked deflated as Duffield jumped nimbly to his feet; thin and
yet well muscled, he slid out from behind the table to embrace Ciara, who was
eight inches taller than he in her platform shoes; she dropped Strike’s hand to
return the hug. The whole bar seemed, for a few shining moments, to be
watching; then they remembered themselves, and returned to their chat and their
cocktails.
“Evan, this is Cormoran Strike,” said Ciara. She moved her mouth close to
Duffield’s ear and Strike saw rather than heard her say, “He’s Jonny Rokeby’s
son!”
“All right, mate?” asked Duffield, holding out a hand, which Strike shook.
Like other inveterate womanizers Strike had encountered, Duffield’s voice and
mannerisms were slightly camp. Perhaps such men became feminized by
prolonged immersion in women’s company, or perhaps it was a way of disarming
their quarry. Duffield indicated with a flutter of the hand that the others should
move along the bench to make room for Ciara; the brunette looked crestfallen.
Strike was left to find himself a low stool, drag it alongside the table and ask
Ciara what she wanted to drink.
“Oooh, get me a Boozy-Uzi,” she said, “and use my money, sweetie.”
Her cocktail smelled strongly of Pernod. Strike bought himself water, and
returned to the table. Ciara and Duffield were now almost nose to nose, talking;
but when Strike set down the drinks, Duffield looked around.
“So what d’you do, Cormoran? Music biz?”
“No,” said Strike. “I’m a detective.”
“No shit,” said Duffield. “Who’m I supposed to have killed this time?”
The group around him permitted themselves wry, or nervous, smiles, but Ciara
said:
“Don’t joke, Evan.”