1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“…over the edge, yeah,” said Strike. “People keep saying that. Very poor
fucking taste, in the circumstances. What about Tansy Bestigui’s evidence?”
“How many times, Strike? We proved she couldn’t have heard it,” Wardle
said. “We proved it beyond doubt.”
“No you didn’t,” said Strike—finally, when he least expected it, losing his
temper. “You based your whole case on one almighty fuck-up. If you’d taken
Tansy Bestigui seriously, if you’d broken her down and got her to tell you the
whole fucking truth, Rochelle Onifade would still be alive.”
Pulsating with rage, Carver kept Strike there for another hour. His last act of
contempt was to tell Wardle to make sure he saw “Rokeby Junior” firmly off the
premises.
Wardle walked Strike to the front door, not speaking.
“I need you to do something,” said Strike, halting at the exit, beyond which
they could see the darkening sky.
“You’ve had enough from me already, mate,” said Wardle, with a wry smile.
“I’m gonna be dealing with that,” he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, towards
Carver and his temper, “for days because of you. I told you it was suicide.”
“Wardle, unless someone brings the fucker in, there are two more people in
danger of being knocked off.”
“Strike…”
“What if I bring you proof that Tansy Bestigui wasn’t in her flat at all when
Lula fell? That she was somewhere she could have heard everything?”
Wardle looked up towards the ceiling, and closed his eyes momentarily.
“If you’ve got proof…”
“I haven’t, but I will have in the next couple of days.”
Two men walked past them, talking, laughing. Wardle shook his head, looking
exasperated, and yet he did not turn away.
“If you want something from the police, call Anstis. He’s the one who owes
you.”
“Anstis can’t do this for me. I need you to call Deeby Macc.”
“What the fuck?”
“You heard me. He’s not going to take my calls, is he? But he’ll speak to you;
you’ve got the authority, and it sounds as though he liked you.”