1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“Evan, babes,” said Ciara, when Duffield had reseated himself, “Cormoran’s
investigating—”
“He heard you the first time,” Strike interrupted her. “There’s no need.”
He thought that the actor had heard that, too. Duffield drank his drink quickly,
and tossed a few comments into the group beside them. Ciara sipped her cocktail,
then nudged Duffield.
“How’s the film going, sweetie?”
“Great. Well. Suicidal drug dealer. It’s not a stretch, y’know.”
Everyone smiled, except Duffield himself. He drummed his fingers on the
table, his legs jerking in time.
“Bored now,” he announced.
He was squinting towards the door, and the group was watching him, openly
yearning, Strike thought, to be scooped up and taken along.
Duffield looked from Ciara to Strike.
“Wanna come back to mine?”
“Fabby,” squeaked Ciara, and with a feline glance of triumph at the brunette,
she downed her drink in one.
Just outside the VIP area, two drunk girls ran at Duffield; one of them pulled
up her top and begged him to sign her breasts.
“Don’t be dirty, love,” said Duffield, pushing past her. “You gotta car, Cici?”
he yelled over his shoulder, as he plowed his way through the crowds, ignoring
shouts and pointing fingers.
“Yes, sweetie,” she shouted. “I’ll call him. Cormoran, darling, have you got
my phone?”
Strike wondered what the paparazzi outside would make of Ciara and Duffield
leaving the club together. She was shouting into her iPhone. They reached the
entrance; Ciara said, “Wait—he’s going to text when he’s right outside.”
Both she and Duffield looked slightly nervy; watchful, self-aware, like
competitors waiting to enter a stadium. Then Ciara’s phone gave a little buzz.
“OK, he’s there,” she said.
Strike stood back to let her and Duffield out first, then walked rapidly to the
front passenger seat as Duffield ran around the back of the car in the blinding
popping lights, to screams from the queue, and threw himself into the backseat