1 The Cuckoo's Calling

There was a pause, in which Strike put down his coffee cup with a soft chink,
and the distant cheers of the small children in the square outside floated through
the open window.
“John and Tony were very, very angry with her,” said Lady Bristow. “They
didn’t think she ought to have started trying to find her biological mother, when I
was so very ill. The tumor was already advanced when they found it. I had to go
straight on to chemotherapy. John was very good; he drove me back and forth to
the hospital, and came to stay with me during the worst bits, and even Tony
rallied round, but all Lula seemed to care about…” She sighed, and opened her
faded eyes, seeking Strike’s face. “Tony always said that she was very spoiled. I
daresay it was my fault. I had lost Charlie, you see; I couldn’t do enough for her.”
“Do you know how much Lula managed to find out about her birth family?”
“No, I don’t, I’m afraid. I think she knew how much it upset me. She didn’t
tell me a great deal. I know that she found the mother, of course, because there
was all the dreadful publicity. She was exactly what Tony had predicted. She
hadn’t ever wanted Lula. An awful, awful woman,” whispered Lady Bristow.
“But Lula kept seeing her. I was having chemotherapy all through that time. I lost
my hair…”
Her voice trailed away. Strike felt, as perhaps she meant him to, like a brute as
he pressed on:
“What about her biological father? Did she ever tell you she’d found out
anything about him?”
“No,” said Lady Bristow weakly. “I didn’t ask. I had the impression that she
had given up on the whole business once she found that horrible mother. I didn’t
want to discuss it, any of it. It was too distressing. I think she realized that.”
“She didn’t mention her biological father the last time you saw her?” Strike
pressed on.
“Oh no,” she said, in her soft voice. “No. That was not a very long visit, you
know. She told me, the moment she arrived, I remember, that she could not stay
long. She had to meet her friend Ciara Porter.”
Her sense of ill-usage wafted gently towards him like the smell of the
bedridden she exuded: a little fusty, a little overripe. Something about her
recalled Rochelle; although they were as different as two women could be, both
gave off the resentment of those who feel shortchanged and neglected.
“Can you remember what you and Lula talked about that day?”
“Well, I had been given so many painkillers, you understand. I had had a very
serious operation. I can’t remember every detail.”