1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“Restrain her?”
“You grabbed her arms, according to witnesses.”
“Did I? I can’t remember.”
“But she pulled free, and you stayed behind, is that right?”
“I waited ten minutes, because I wasn’t gonna give her the satisfaction of
chasing her in front of all those people, and then I left the club and got my driver
to take me to Kentigern Gardens.”
“Wearing the wolf mask,” said Strike.
“Yeah, to stop those fucking scumbags,” he nodded towards the window,
“selling pictures of me looking wasted or pissed off. They hate it when you cover
your face. Depriving them of making their fucking parasitic living. One of them
tried to pull Wolfie off me, but I held on. I got in the car and gave ’em a few
pictures of the Wolf giving them the finger, out the back window. Got to the
corner of Kentigern Gardens and there were more paps everywhere. I knew she
must’ve got in already.”
“Did you know the key code?”
“Nineteen sixty-six, yeah. But I knew she’d’ve told security not to let me up. I
wasn’t gonna walk in in front of all of them and then get chucked out on me arse
five minutes later. I tried to phone her from the car, but she wouldn’t pick up. I
thought she’d probably gone downstairs to welcome Deeby fucking Macc to
London. So I went off to see a man about pain relief.”
He ground out his cigarette on a loose playing card on the edge of the table
and began hunting for more tobacco. Strike, who wanted to oil the flow of
conversation, offered him one of his own.
“Oh, cheers. Cheers. Yeah. Well, I got the driver to drop me off and I went to
visit my friend, who has since given the police a full statement to that effect, as
Uncle Tony might say. Then I wandered around a bit, and there’s camera footage
in that station to prove that, and then about, I dunno…threeish? Fourish?”
“Half past four,” said Ciara.
“Yeah, I went to crash at Ciara’s.”
Duffield sucked on the cigarette, watching the tip burn, then, exhaling, said
cheerfully:
“So my arse is covered, is it not?”
Strike did not find his satisfaction likeable.