1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“I’m out of fags. Can I have another one of yours?”
Reluctantly, because he was down to three, Strike handed it across, lit it for
him, then said:
“All right to keep talking?”
“About Lula? You can talk, if you want. I dunno what else I can tell you. I
ain’t got any more information.”
“Why did you split up? The first time, I mean; I’m clear on why she ditched
you in Uzi.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ciara make an indignant little gesture;
apparently this did not qualify as “nicer.”
“What the fuck’s that got to do with anything?”
“It’s all relevant,” said Strike. “It all gives a picture of what was going on in
her life. It all helps explain why she might’ve killed herself.”
“I thought you were looking for a murderer?”
“I’m looking for the truth. So why did you break up, the first time?”
“Fuck, how’s this fucking important?” exploded Duffield. His temper, as
Strike had expected, was violent and short-fused. “What, are you trying to make
out it’s my fault she fucking jumped off a balcony? How can us splitting up the
first time have anything to do with it, knucklehead? That was two fucking
months before she died. Fuck, I could call meself a detective and ask a lot of
fuckass questions. Bet it pays all right, dunnit, if you can find some fuckwit rich
client?”
“Evan, don’t,” said Ciara, distressed. “You said you wanted to help…”
“Yeah, I wanna help, but how’s this fucking fair?”
“No problem, if you don’t want to answer,” said Strike. “You’re under no
obligation here.”
“I ain’t got nothing to hide, it’s just fucking personal stuff, innit? We split up,”
he shouted, “because of drugs, and her family and her friends putting down
poison about me, and because she didn’t trust nobody because of the fucking
press, all right? Because of all the pressure.”
And Duffield made his hands into trembling claws and pressed them, like
earphones, over his ears, making a compressing movement.
“Pressure, fucking pressure, that’s why we split up.”