1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“But even if you’d destroyed it, John, what then? For all you knew, Jonah
himself knew that he was Lula’s heir. And there was another witness to the fact
that there was a will, though you didn’t know it: Bryony Radford, the makeup
artist.”
Strike saw Bristow’s tongue flick around his mouth, moistening his lips. He
could feel the lawyer’s fear.
“Bryony doesn’t want to admit that she went snooping through Lula’s things,
but she saw that will at Lula’s place, before Lula had time to hide it. Bryony’s
dyslexic, though. She thought ‘Jonah’ said ‘John.’ She tied that in with Ciara
saying that Lula was leaving her brother everything, and concluded that she
needn’t tell anybody what she’d read on the sly, because you were getting the
money anyway. You’ve had the luck of the devil at times, John.
“But I can see how—to a twisted mind like yours—the best solution to your
predicament was to fit Jonah up for murder. If he was doing life, it wouldn’t
matter whether or not the will ever surfaced—or whether he, or anyone else,
knew about it—because the money would come to you in any case.”
“Ridiculous,” said Bristow breathlessly. “You ought to give up detecting and
try fantasy writing, Strike. You haven’t got a shred of proof for anything you’re
saying—”
“Yes I have.” Strike cut across him, and Bristow stopped talking immediately,
his pallor visible through the gloom. “The CCTV footage.”
“That footage shows Jonah Agyeman running from the scene of the killing, as
you’ve just acknowledged!”
“There was another man caught on camera.”
“So he had an accomplice—a lookout.”
“I wonder what defending counsel will say is wrong with you, John?” asked
Strike softly. “Narcissism? Some kind of God complex? You think you’re
completely untouchable, don’t you, a genius who makes the rest of us look like
chimps? The second man running from the scene wasn’t Jonah’s accomplice, or
his lookout, or a car thief. He wasn’t even black. He was a white man in black
gloves. He was you.”
“No,” said Bristow. The one word throbbed with panic; but then, with an
almost visible effort, he hitched a contemptuous smile back on to his face. “How
can it be me? I was in Chelsea with my mother. She told you so. Tony saw me
there. I was in Chelsea.”
“Your mother is a Valium-addicted invalid who was asleep most of that day.
You didn’t get back to Chelsea until after you’d killed Lula. I think you went into