1 The Cuckoo's Calling

Her voice was thin and cracked, her words slightly slurred. Strike, who had
wondered whether Bristow had told her the truth about his profession, was glad
that she knew.
“Yes, I’m Cormoran Strike.”
“Where’s John?”
“He’s been held up at the office.”
“Again,” she murmured, and then: “Tony works him very hard. It isn’t fair.”
She peered at him, blurrily, and indicated a small painted chair with one slightly
raised finger. “Do sit down.”
There were chalky white lines around her faded irises. As he sat, Strike
noticed two more silver-framed photographs standing on the bedside table. With
something akin to an electric shock, he found himself looking into the eyes of
ten-year-old Charlie Bristow, chubby-faced, with his slightly mullety haircut:
frozen forever in the eighties, his school shirt with its long pointed collar, and the
huge knot in his tie. He looked just as he had when he had waved goodbye to his
best friend, Cormoran Strike, expecting to meet each other again after Easter.
Beside Charlie’s photograph was a smaller one, of an exquisite little girl with
long black ringlets and big brown eyes, in a navy blue school uniform: Lula
Landry, aged no more than six.
“Mary,” said Lady Bristow, without raising her voice, and the nurse bustled
over. “Could you get Mr. Strike…coffee? Tea?” she asked him, and he was
transported back two and a half decades, to Charlie Bristow’s sunlit garden, and
the gracious blonde mother, and the iced lemonade.
“A coffee would be great, thank you very much.”
“I do apologize for not making it myself,” said Lady Bristow, as the nurse
departed, with heavy footfalls, “but as you can see, I am entirely dependent, now,
on the kindness of strangers. Like poor Blanche Dubois.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, as though to concentrate better on some
internal pain. He wondered how heavily medicated she was. Beneath the gracious
manner, he divined the faintest whiff of something bitter in her words, much as
the lime blossom failed to cover the smell of decay, and he wondered at it,
considering that Bristow spent most of his time dancing attendance on her.
“Why isn’t John here?” asked Lady Bristow again, with her eyes still shut.
“He’s been held up at the office,” repeated Strike.
“Oh, yes. Yes, you said.”