1 The Cuckoo's Calling

show of conscience might keep her out of the nick; when I add in the public
sympathy she’s bound to get as the victim of domestic abuse, and the amount of
money she’s likely to be offered for exclusive rights to her story; when she
realizes she’s going to get her say in court, and that she’ll be believed, and that
she’ll be able to bring about the conviction of the man she heard murdering her
neighbor—Mr. Bestigui, I don’t think even you’ve got enough money to keep her
quiet.”
The coarse skin around Bestigui’s mouth flickered. He picked up his packet of
cigarillos but did not extract one. There was a long silence during which he
turned the packet between his fingers, round and round.
At last he said:
“I’m admitting nothing. Get out.”
Strike did not move.
“I know you’re keen to phone your lawyer,” he said, “but I think you’re
overlooking the silver lining here.”
“I’ve had enough of you. I said, get out.”
“However unpleasant it’s going to be, having to admit to what happened that
night, it’s still preferable to becoming the prime suspect in a murder case. It’s
going to be about the lesser of evils from here on in. If you cough to what really
happened, you’re putting yourself in the clear for the actual murder.”
He had Bestigui’s attention now.
“You couldn’t have done it,” said Strike, “because if you’d been the one who
threw Landry off the balcony two floors above, you wouldn’t have been able to
let Tansy back inside within seconds of the body falling. I think you shut your
wife outside, headed off into the bedroom, got into bed, got comfy—the police
said the bed looked disarranged and slept in—and kept an eye on the clock. I
don’t think you wanted to fall asleep. If you’d left her too long on that balcony,
you’d have been up for manslaughter. No wonder Wilson said she was shaking
like a whippet. Probably in the early stages of hypothermia.”
Another silence, except for Bestigui’s fat fingers drumming lightly on the edge
of the desk. Strike took out his notebook.
“Are you ready to answer a few questions now?”
“Fuck you!”
The producer was suddenly consumed by the rage he had so far suppressed,
his jaw jutting and his shoulders hunched, level with his ears. Strike could