1 The Cuckoo's Calling

The security guard did not let go, but looked towards Bestigui for instructions.
The producer’s bright dark eyes were fixed intently on Strike. He clenched and
relaxed his thug’s hands. After several long seconds he said:
“You’re full of shit.”
But he did not instruct the waiting guards to drag Strike from his room.
“The photographer was standing on the pavement opposite your house in the
early hours of the eighth of January. The guy who took the pictures doesn’t
realize what he’s got. If you don’t want to discuss it, fine; police or press, I don’t
care. It’ll come to the same thing in the end.”
Strike took a few steps towards the door; the guards, each of whom was still
holding him by the arm, were caught by surprise, and momentarily forced into
the absurd position of holding him back.
“Get out,” Bestigui said abruptly to his minions. “I’ll let you know if I need
you. Close the door behind you.”
They left. When the door had closed, Bestigui said:
“All right, whatever your fucking name is, you can have five minutes.”
Strike sat down, uninvited, in one of the black leather chairs facing Bestigui’s
desk, while the producer returned to his seat behind it, subjecting Strike to a hard,
cold glare that was quite unlike the one Strike had received from Bestigui’s
estranged wife; this was the intense scrutiny of a professional gambler. Bestigui
reached for a packet of cigarillos, pulled a black glass ashtray towards himself
and lit up with a gold lighter.
“All right, let’s hear what these alleged photographs show,” he said, squinting
through clouds of pungent smoke, the picture of a film mafioso.
“The silhouette,” said Strike, “of a woman crouching on the balcony outside
your sitting-room windows. She looks naked, but as you and I know, she was in
her underwear.”
Bestigui puffed hard for a few seconds, then removed the cigarillo and said:
“Bullshit. You couldn’t see that from the street. Solid stone bottom of the
balcony; from that angle you wouldn’t see anything. You’re taking a punt.”
“The lights were on in your sitting room. You can see her outline through the
gaps in the stone. There was room then, of course, because the shrubs weren’t
there, were they? People can’t resist fiddling with the scene afterwards, even
when they’ve got away with it,” Strike added, conversationally. “You were trying
to pretend that there was never any room for anyone to squat on that balcony,