1 The Cuckoo's Calling

12
IT WAS ONLY THE SECOND car he had driven since his leg had been blown off. He
had tried driving Charlotte’s Lexus, but today, trying not to feel in any way
emasculated, he had hired an automatic Honda Civic.
The journey to Iver Heath took under an hour. Entrance into Pinewood Studios
was effected by a combination of fast talk, intimidation and the flashing of
genuine, though outdated, official documentation; the security guard, initially
impassive, was rocked by Strike’s air of easy confidence, by the words “Special
Investigation Branch,” by the pass bearing his photograph.
“Have you got an appointment?” he asked Strike, feet above him in the box
beside the electric barrier, his hand covering the telephone receiver.
“No.”
“What’s it about?”
“Mr. Evan Duffield,” said Strike, and he saw the security guard scowl as he
turned away and muttered into the receiver.
After a minute or so, Strike was given directions and waved through. He
followed a gently winding road around the outskirts of the studio building,
reflecting again on the convenient uses to which some people’s reputations for
chaos and self-destruction could be put.
He parked a few rows behind a chauffeured Mercedes occupying a space with
a sign in it reading: PRODUCER FREDDIE BESTIGUI, made his unhurried exit
from the car while Bestigui’s driver watched him in the rearview mirror, and
proceeded through a glass door that led to a nondescript, institutional set of stairs.
A young man was jogging down them, looking like a slightly tidier version of
Spanner.
“Where can I find Mr. Freddie Bestigui?” Strike asked him.
“Second floor, first office on the right.”
He was as ugly as his pictures, bull-necked and pockmarked, sitting behind a
desk on the far side of a glass partition wall, scowling at his computer monitor.
The outer office was busy and cluttered, full of attractive young women at desks;
film posters were tacked to pillars and photographs of pets were pinned up beside
filming schedules. The pretty girl nearest the door, who was wearing a
switchboard microphone in front of her mouth, looked up at Strike and said:
“Hello, can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Mr. Bestigui. Not to worry, I’ll see myself in.”