1 The Cuckoo's Calling

imagine him looking thus as he bore down on his emaciated, coked-up wife,
hands outstretched.
“You’re in the shit here,” said Strike calmly, “but it’s entirely up to you how
deep you sink. You can deny everything, battle it out with your wife in the court
and the papers, end up in jail for perjury and obstructing the police. Or you can
start cooperating, right now, and earn Lula’s family’s gratitude and good will.
That’d go a long way to demonstrating remorse, and it’ll help when it comes to
pleas for clemency. If your information helps catch Lula’s killer, I can’t see you
getting much worse than a reprimand from the bench. It’s going to be the police
who’ll get the real going-over from the public and the press.”
Bestigui was breathing noisily, but seemed to be pondering Strike’s words. At
last he snarled:
“There wasn’t any fucking killer. Wilson never found anyone up there. Landry
jumped,” he said, with a small, dismissive jerk of his head. “She was a fucked-up
little druggie, like my fucking wife.”
“There was a killer,” said Strike simply, “and you helped him get away with
it.”
Something in Strike’s expression stifled Bestigui’s clear urge to jeer. His eyes
were slits of onyx as he mulled over what Strike had said.
“I’ve heard you were keen to put Lula in a film?”
Bestigui seemed disconcerted by the change of subject.
“It was just an idea,” he muttered. “She was a flake but she was fucking
gorgeous.”
“You fancied getting her and Deeby Macc into a film together?”
“License to print money, those two together.”
“What about this film you’ve been thinking of making since she died—what
do they call it, a biopic? I hear Tony Landry wasn’t happy about it?”
To Strike’s surprise, a satyr’s grin impressed itself on Bestigui’s pouchy face.
“Who told you that?”
“Isn’t it true?”
For the first time, Bestigui seemed to feel he had the upper hand in the
conversation.
“No, it’s not true. Anthony Landry has given me a pretty broad hint that once
Lady Bristow’s dead, he’ll be happy to talk about it.”