1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“And the man who came in, when did he arrive?”
“Maybe…maybe half an hour afterwards? I can’t honestly remember. I wasn’t
watching the clock. But why would Tony say he was there if he wasn’t?”
“Well, if he knew you’d been working at home, he could easily say that he
came in, and didn’t want to disturb you, and just walked down the hall to speak
to your mother. She, presumably, confirmed his presence to the police?”
“I suppose so. Yes, I think so.”
“But you’re not sure?”
“I don’t think we’ve ever discussed it. Mum was groggy and in pain; she slept
a lot that day. And then the next morning we had the news about Lula…”
“But you’ve never thought it was strange that Tony didn’t come into the study
and speak to you?”
“It wasn’t strange at all,” said Bristow. “He was in a foul temper about the
Conway Oates business. I’d have been more surprised if he had been chatty.”
“John, I don’t want to alarm you, but I think that both you and your mother
could be in danger.”
Bristow’s little bleat of nervous laughter sounded thin and unconvincing.
Strike could see Alison standing fifty yards away, her arms folded, ignoring
Robin, watching the two men.
“You—you can’t be serious?” said Bristow.
“I’m very serious.”
“But…does…Cormoran, are you saying you know who killed Lula?”
“Yeah, I think I do—but I still need to speak to your mother before we wrap
this up.”
Bristow looked as though he wished he could drink the contents of Strike’s
mind. His myopic eyes scanned every inch of Strike’s face, his expression half
afraid, half imploring.
“I must be there,” he said. “She’s very weak.”
“Of course. How about tomorrow morning?”
“Tony will be livid if I take off any more time during work hours.”
Strike waited.
“All right,” said Bristow. “All right. Ten thirty tomorrow.”