1 The Cuckoo's Calling

14
THE FOLLOWING MORNING WAS FRESH and bright. Strike took the underground to
genteel and leafy Chelsea. This was a part of London that he barely knew, for
Leda had never, even in her most spendthrift phases, managed to secure a toehold
in the vicinity of the Royal Chelsea Hospital, pale and gracious in the spring sun.
Franklin Row was an attractive street of more red brick; here were plane trees,
and a great grassy space bordered with railings, in which a throng of primary
school children were playing games in pale blue Aertex tops and navy blue
shorts, watched by tracksuited teachers. Their happy cries punctuated the sedate
quiet otherwise disturbed only by birdsong; no cars passed as Strike strolled
down the pavement towards the house of Lady Yvette Bristow, his hands in his
pockets.
The wall beside the partly glass door, set at the top of four white stone steps,
bore an old-fashioned Bakelite panel of doorbells. Strike checked to see that
Lady Yvette Bristow’s name was clearly marked beside Flat E, then retreated to
the pavement and stood waiting in the gentle warmth of the day, looking up and
down the street.
Ten thirty arrived, but John Bristow did not. The square remained deserted,
but for the twenty small children running between hoops and colored cones
beyond the railings.
At ten forty-five, Strike’s mobile vibrated in his pocket. The text was from
Robin:
Alison has just called to say that JB is unavoidably detained. He does
not want you to speak to his mother without him present.
Strike immediately texted Bristow:
How long are you likely to be detained? Any chance of doing this later
today?
He had barely sent the message when the phone began to ring.
“Yeah, hello?” said Strike.
“Oggy?” came Graham Hardacre’s tinny voice, all the way from Germany.
“I’ve got the stuff on Agyeman.”
“Your timing’s uncanny.” Strike pulled out his notebook. “Go on.”