1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“She probably left it in her squat, or wherever the fuck she lived,” said Carver.
“Suicides don’t usually pack a bag to jump.”
“I don’t think she jumped,” said Strike.
“Oh don’t you, now?”
“I wanted to see her hands. She hated water over her face, she told me so.
When people have struggled in the water, the position of their hands—”
“Well, it’s nice to get your expert opinion,” said Carver, with sledgehammer
irony. “I know who you are, Mr. Strike.”
He leaned back in his chair, placing his hands behind his head, revealing dried
patches of sweat on the underarms of his shirt. The sharp, sour, oniony smell of
BO wafted across the desk.
“He’s ex-SIB,” threw in Wardle, from beside the filing cabinet.
“I know that,” barked Carver, raising wiry eyebrows flecked with scurf. “I’ve
heard from Anstis all about the fucking leg and the life-saving medal. Quite the
colorful CV.”
Carver removed his hands from behind his head, leaned forwards and laced his
fingers together on the desk instead. His corned-beef complexion and the purple
bags under his hard eyes were not flattered by the strip lighting.
“I know who your old man is and all.”
Strike scratched his unshaven chin, waiting.
“Like to be as rich and famous as Daddy, would you? Is that what all this is
about?”
Carver had the bright blue, bloodshot eyes that Strike had always (since
meeting a major in the Paras with just such eyes, who was subsequently
cashiered for serious bodily harm) associated with a choleric, violent nature.
“Rochelle didn’t jump. Nor did Lula Landry.”
“Bollocks,” shouted Carver. “You’re speaking to the two men who proved
Landry jumped. We went through every bit of fucking evidence with a finetoothed
fucking comb. I know what you’re up to. You’re milking that poor sod
Bristow for all you can get. Why are you fucking smiling at me?”
“I’m thinking what a tit you’re going to look when this interview gets reported
in the press.”
“Don’t you dare fucking threaten me with the press, dickhead.”