1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“Alison isn’t very bright,” said Bristow slowly, his hands washing themselves
in dumb show, and his knee jiggling up and down. “She must have confused the
days. She clearly misunderstood me. I never asked her to say she saw me at the
office. It’s her word against mine. Maybe she’s trying to revenge herself on me,
because we’ve split up.”
Strike laughed.
“Oh, you’re definitely dumped, John. After my assistant rang you this morning
to lure you to Rye—”
“Your assistant?”
“Yeah, of course; I didn’t want you around while I searched your mother’s
flat, did I? Alison helped us out with the name of the client. I rang her, you see,
and told her everything, including the fact that I’ve got proof that Tony’s
sleeping with Ursula May, and that you’re about to be arrested for murder. That
seemed to convince her that she ought to look for a new boyfriend and a new job.
I hope she’s gone to her mother’s place in Sussex—that’s what I told her to do.
You’ve been keeping Alison close because you thought she was your fail-safe
alibi, and because she’s a conduit to knowing what Tony, whom you fear, is
thinking. But lately, I’ve been getting worried that she might outlive her
usefulness to you, and fall off something high.”
Bristow tried for another scathing laugh, but the sound was artificial and
hollow.
“So it turns out that nobody saw you nip into your office for files that
morning,” continued Strike. “You were still hiding out in the middle flat at
number eighteen, Kentigern Gardens.”
“I wasn’t there. I was in Chelsea, at my mother’s,” said Bristow.
“I don’t think you were planning to murder Lula at that point,” Strike
continued regardless. You probably just had some idea of waylaying her again
when she came back. Nobody was expecting you at the office that day, because
you were supposed to be working from home, to keep your sick mother company.
There was a full fridge and you knew how to get in and out without setting off
the alarm. You had a clear view of the street, so if Deeby Macc and entourage
were to appear, you had plenty of time to get out of there, and walk downstairs
with some cock-and-bull story about having been waiting for your sister at her
place. The only remote risk was the possibility of deliveries into the flat; but that
massive vase of roses arrived without anyone noticing you hiding in there, didn’t
it?
“I expect the idea of the murder started to germinate then, all those hours you
were alone, in all that luxury. Did you start to imagine how wonderful it would
be if Lula, who you were sure was intestate, died? You must’ve known your sick