1 The Cuckoo's Calling

Strike thought might turn out to be the psychiatrist who had run Rochelle’s
outpatient group.
Strike, in his old navy suit, and Robin, in the black skirt and jacket she wore to
interviews, sat at the very back. Across the aisle were Bristow, miserable and
pale, and Alison, whose damp double-breasted black raincoat glistened a little in
the cold light.
Cheap red curtains opened, the coffin slid out of sight, and the drowned girl
was consumed by fire. The silent mourners exchanged pained, awkward smiles at
the back of the crematorium; hovering, trying not to add unseemly haste of
departure to the other inadequacies of the service. Rochelle’s aunt, who projected
an aura of eccentricity that bordered on instability, introduced herself as
Winifred, then announced loudly, with an accusatory undertone:
“Dere’s sandwiches in the pub. I thought dere would be more people.”
She led the way outside, as if brooking no opposition, up the street to the Red
Lion, the six other mourners following in her wake, heads bowed slightly against
the rain.
The promised sandwiches sat, dry and unappetizing, on a metal foil tray
covered in cling film, on a small table in the corner of the dingy pub. At some
point on the walk to the Red Lion Aunt Winifred had realized who John Bristow
was, and she now took overpowering possession of him, pinning him up against
the bar, gabbling at him without pause. Bristow responded whenever she allowed
him to get a word in edgewise, but the looks he cast towards Strike, who was
talking to Rochelle’s psychiatrist, became more frequent and desperate as the
minutes passed.
The psychiatrist parried all Strike’s attempts to engage him in conversation
about the outpatients’ group he had run, finally countering a question about
disclosures Rochelle might have made with a polite but firm reminder about
patient confidentiality.
“Were you surprised that she killed herself?”
“No, not really. She was a very troubled girl, you know, and Lula Landry’s
death was a great shock to her.”
Shortly afterwards he issued a general farewell and left.
Robin, who had been trying to make conversation with a monosyllabic Alison
at a small table beside the window, gave up and headed for the Ladies.
Strike ambled across the small lounge and sat down in Robin’s abandoned
seat. Alison threw him an unfriendly look, then resumed her contemplation of
Bristow, who was still being harangued by Rochelle’s aunt. Alison had not