1 The Cuckoo's Calling

Duffield raised his eyebrows and sniggered. He seemed nervous, shooting
Strike darting looks, drumming his fingers on the glass table. When Ciara asked
him whether he had visited Lady Bristow again, he seemed relieved to be offered
a subject.
“Fuck, no. Once was enough. It was fucking horrible. Poor bitch. On her
fucking deathbed.”
“It was beyond nice of you to go, though, Evan.”
Strike knew that she was trying to show Duffield off in his best light.
“Do you know Lula’s mother well?” he asked Duffield.
“No. I only met her once before Lu died. She didn’t approve of me. None of
Lu’s family approved of me. I dunno,” he fidgeted, “I just wanted to talk to
someone who really gives a shit that she’s dead.”
“Evan!” Ciara pouted. “I care she’s dead, excuse me!”
“Yeah, well…”
With one of his oddly feminine, fluid movements, Duffield curled up in the
chair so that he was almost fetal, and sucked hard on his cigarette. On a table
behind his head, illuminated by a cone of lamplight, was a large, stagey
photograph of him with Lula Landry, clearly taken from a fashion shoot. They
were mock-wrestling against a backdrop of fake trees; she was wearing a floorlength
red dress, and he was in a slim black suit, with a hairy wolf’s mask pushed
up on top of his forehead.
“I wonder what my mum would say if I carked it? My parents’ve got an
injunction out against me,” Duffield informed Strike. “Well, it was mainly my
fucking father. Because I nicked their telly a couple of years ago. D’you know
what?” he added, craning his neck to look at Ciara, “I’ve been clean five weeks,
two days.”
“That’s so fabulous, baby! That’s fantastic!”
“Yeah,” he said. He swiveled upright again. “Aren’t you gonna ask me any
questions?” he demanded of Strike. “I thought you were investigating Lu’s
murder?”
The bravado was undermined by the tremor in his fingers. His knees began
bouncing up and down, just like John Bristow’s.
“D’you think it was murder?” Strike asked.
“No.” Duffield dragged on his cigarette. “Yeah. Maybe. I dunno. Murder
makes more sense than fucking suicide, anyway. Because she wouldn’ta gone