1 The Cuckoo's Calling

He was inside Bestigui’s office before she could respond.
Bestigui looked up, his eyes tiny between pouches of flesh, black moles
sprinkled over the swarthy skin.
“Who are you?”
He was already pushing himself up, thick-fingered hands clutching the edge of
his desk.
“I’m Cormoran Strike. I’m a private detective, I’ve been hired…”
“Elena!” Bestigui knocked his coffee over; it was spreading across the
polished wood, into all his papers. “Get the fuck out! Out! OUT!”
“…by Lula Landry’s brother, John Bristow—”
“ELENA!”
The pretty, thin girl wearing the headset ran inside and stood fluttering beside
Strike, terrified.
“Call security, you dozy little bitch!”
She ran outside. Bestigui, who was five feet six inches at the most, had pushed
his way out from behind his desk now; as unafraid of the enormous Strike as a pit
bull whose yard has been invaded by a Rottweiler. Elena had left the door open;
the inhabitants of the outer office were staring in, frightened, mesmerized.
“I’ve been trying to get hold of you for a few weeks, Mr. Bestigui…”
“You are in a shitload of trouble, my friend,” said Bestigui, advancing with a
set jaw, his thick shoulders braced.
“…to talk about the night Lula Landry died.”
Two men in white shirts and carrying walkie-talkies were running along the
glass wall to Strike’s right; young, fit, tense-looking.
“Get him out of here!” Bestigui roared, pointing at Strike, as the two guards
bounced off each other in the doorway, then forced their way inside.
“Specifically,” said Strike, “about the whereabouts of your wife, Tansy, when
Lula fell…”
“Get him out of here and call the fucking police! How did he get in here?”
“…because I’ve been shown some photographs that make sense of your wife’s
testimony. Get your hands off me,” Strike added to the younger of the guards
now tugging his upper arm, “or I’ll knock you through that window.”