1 The Cuckoo's Calling

Duffield puffed and jiggled. “I don’t wanna be fired,” he said, glaring at Strike. “I
need this fucking job.”
“Go on,” said Strike.
“He got an email. I saw Lula’s name. I read it.”
“OK.”
“It was from his wife. It said something like, ‘I know we’re supposed to be
talking through lawyers, but unless you can do better than £1.5 million, I will tell
everyone exactly where I was when Lula Landry died, and exactly how I got
there, because I’m sick of taking shit for you. This is not an empty threat. I’m
starting to think I should tell the police anyway.’ Or something like that,” said
Duffield.
Dimly, through the curtained window, came the sound of a couple of the
paparazzi outside laughing together.
“That’s very useful information,” Strike told Duffield. “Thank you.”
“I don’t want Bestigui to know it was me who told you.”
“I don’t think your name’ll need to come into it,” said Strike, standing up
again. “Thanks for the water.”
“Hang on, sweetie, I’m coming,” said Ciara, her phone pressed to her ear.
“Kieran? We’re coming out now, Cormoran and me. Right now. Bye-bye, Evan
darling.”
She bent over and kissed him on both cheeks, while Duffield, halfway out of
his chair, looked disconcerted.
“You can crash here if you—”
“No, sweetie, I’ve got a job tomorrow afternoon; need my beauty sleep,” she
said.
More flashes blinded Strike as he stepped outside; but the paparazzi seemed
confused this time. As he helped Ciara down the steps, and followed her into the
back of the car, one of them shouted at Strike: “Who the fuck are you?”
Strike slammed the door, grinning. Kolovas-Jones was back in the driver’s
seat; they were pulling away from the curb, and this time they were not pursued.
After a block or so of silence, Kolovas-Jones looked in the rear-view mirror
and asked Ciara:
“Home?”