1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“I suppose so. Kieran, will you turn on the radio? I fancy a bit of music,” she
said. “Louder than that, sweetie. Oh, I love this.”
“Telephone” by Lady Gaga filled the car.
She turned to Strike as the orange glow of street lights swept across her
extraordinary face. Her breath smelled of alcohol, her skin of that sweet, peppery
perfume.
“Don’t you want to ask me anything else?”
“You know what?” said Strike. “I do. Why would you have a detachable lining
in a handbag?”
She stared at him for several seconds, then let out a great giggle, slumping
sideways into his shoulder, nudging him. Lithe and slight, she continued to rest
against him as she said:
“You are funny.”
“But why would you?”
“Well, it just makes the bag more, like, individual; you can customize them,
you see; you can buy a couple of linings and swap them over; you can pull them
out and use them as scarves; they’re beautiful. Silk with gorgeous patterns. The
zip edging is very rock-and-roll.”
“Interesting,” said Strike, as her upper leg moved to rest lightly along his own,
and she gave a second, deep-throated giggle.
Call all you want, but there’s no one home, sang Lady Gaga.
The music masked their conversation, but Kolovas-Jones’s eyes were moving
with unnecessary regularity from road ahead to rear-view mirror. After another
minute, Ciara said:
“Guy’s right, I do like them big. You’re very butch. And, like, stern. It’s
sexy.”
A block later she whispered:
“Where do you live?” while rubbing her silky cheek against his, like a cat.
“I sleep on a camp bed in my office.”
She giggled again. She was definitely a little drunk.
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah.”