1 The Cuckoo's Calling

He saw the rawness of her pain, her fury, and her voice was choked as she
said:
“Tony’s right—you’re taking advantage—in it for all you can get—John’s
gone funny—Lula jumped. She jumped. She was always unbalanced. John’s like
his mother, he’s hysterical, he imagines things. Lula took drugs, she was one of
those sort of people, out of control, always causing trouble and trying to get
attention. Spoiled. Throwing money around. She could have anything she liked,
anyone she wanted, but nothing was enough for her.”
“I didn’t realize you knew her.”
“I—Tony’s told me about her.”
“He really didn’t like her, did he?”
“He just saw her for what she was. She was no good. Some women,” she said,
her chest heaving beneath the shapeless raincoat, “aren’t.”
A chill breeze cut through the musty air of the lounge as the door swung shut
behind Rochelle’s aunt. Bristow and Robin kept smiling weakly until the door
had closed completely, then exchanged looks of relief.
The barman had disappeared. Only four of them were left in the little lounge
now. Strike became aware, for the first time, of the eighties ballad playing in the
background: Jennifer Rush, “The Power of Love.” Bristow and Robin
approached their table.
“I thought you wanted to speak to Rochelle’s aunt?” asked Bristow, looking
aggrieved, as though he had been through an ordeal for nothing.
“Not enough to chase after her,” replied Strike cheerfully. “You can fill me
in.”
Strike could tell, by the expressions on Robin’s and Bristow’s faces, that both
thought this attitude strangely lackadaisical. Alison was fumbling for something
in her bag, her own face hidden.
The rain had stopped, the pavements were slippery and the sky was gloomy,
threatening a fresh downpour. The two women walked ahead in silence, while
Bristow earnestly related to Strike all that he could remember of Aunt Winifred’s
conversation. Strike, however, was not listening. He was watching the backs of
the two women, both in black—almost, to the careless observer, alike,
interchangeable. He remembered the sculptures on either side of the Queen’s
Gate; not identical at all, in spite of the assumptions made by lazy eyes; one
male, one female, the same species, yes, but profoundly different.