1 The Cuckoo's Calling

13
ERIC WARDLE CALLED STRIKE THE following day.
“I phoned Deeby,” he said curtly.
“And?” said Strike, motioning to Robin to pass him pen and paper. They had
been sitting together at her desk, enjoying tea and biscuits while discussing the
latest death threat from Brian Mathers, in which he promised, not for the first
time, to slit open Strike’s guts and piss on his entrails.
“He got sent a customized hoodie by Somé. Handgun in studs on the front and
a couple of lines of Deeby’s own lyrics on the back.”
“Just the one?”
“Yeah.”
“What else?” asked Strike.
“He remembers a belt, a beanie hat and a pair of cufflinks.”
“No gloves?”
Wardle paused, perhaps checking his notes.
“No, he didn’t mention gloves.”
“Well, that clears that up,” said Strike.
Wardle said nothing at all. Strike waited for the policeman to either hang up or
impart more information.
“The inquest is on Thursday,” said Wardle abruptly. “On Rochelle Onifade.”
“Right,” said Strike.
“You don’t sound that interested.”
“I’m not.”
“I thought you were sure it was murder?”
“I am, but the inquest won’t prove that one way or the other. Any idea when
her funeral’s going to be?”
“No,” said Wardle irritably. “What does that matter?”
“I thought I might go.”
“What for?”