1 The Cuckoo's Calling

name, only the previous day’s scribbled date. He slid the body out smoothly on
its long-runnered tray and deposited it efficiently on to the waiting trolley. Strike
noticed Carver’s jaw working as he stepped back, giving the mortician room to
wheel the trolley clear of the freezer door. With a clunk and a slam, the
remaining corpses vanished from view.
“We won’t bother with a viewing room, seeing as we’re the only ones here,”
said the mortician briskly. “Light’s best in the middle,” he added, positioning the
trolley just beside the drain, and pulling back the sheet.
The body of Rochelle Onifade was revealed, bloated and distended, her face
forever wiped of suspicion, replaced by a kind of empty wonder. Strike had
known, from Wardle’s brief description on the telephone, whom he would see
when the sheet was revealed, but the awful vulnerability of the dead struck him
anew as he looked down on the body, far smaller than it had been when she had
sat opposite him, consuming fries and concealing information.
Strike told them her name, spelling it so that both the mortician and Wardle
could transcribe it accurately on to clipboard and notebook respectively; he also
gave the only address he had ever known for her: St. Elmo’s Hostel for the
Homeless, in Hammersmith.
“Who found her?”
“River police hooked her out late last night,” said Carver, speaking for the first
time. His voice, with its south London accent, held a definite undertone of
animosity. “Bodies usually take about three weeks to rise to the surface, eh?” he
added, directing the comment, more statement than question, at the mortician,
who gave a tiny, cautious cough.
“That’s the accepted average, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it turns out to be
less in this case. There are certain indications…”
“Yeah, well, we’ll get all that from the pathologist,” said Carver, dismissively.
“It can’t have been three weeks,” said Strike, and the mortician gave him a
tiny smile of solidarity.
“Why not?” demanded Carver.
“Because I bought her a burger and chips two weeks ago yesterday.”
“Ah,” said the mortician, nodding at Strike across the body. “I was going to
say that a lot of carbohydrates taken prior to death can affect the body’s
buoyancy. There’s a degree of bloating…”
“That’s when you gave her your card, is it?” Wardle asked Strike.
“Yeah. I’m surprised it was still legible.”