1 The Cuckoo's Calling

Strike tweaked a tourist leaflet from a wooden display on the wall, and copied
down Wardle’s number in the space beside a picture of the Horse Guards.
“When’re you coming over?” Anstis asked. “Bring Charlotte one night.”
“Yeah, that’d be great. I’ll give you a ring; got a lot on just now.”
After hanging up, Strike sat in deep thought for a while, then called an
acquaintance much older than Anstis, whose life path had run in a roughly
opposite direction.
“Calling in a favor, mate,” said Strike. “Need some information.”
“On what?”
“You tell me. I need something I can use for leverage with a copper.”
The conversation ran to twenty-five minutes, and involved many pauses,
which grew longer and more pregnant until finally Strike was given an
approximate address and two names, which he also copied down beside the
Horse Guards, and a warning, which he did not write down, but took in the spirit
in which he knew it was intended. The conversation ended on a friendly note, and
Strike, now yawning widely, dialed Wardle’s number, which was answered
almost immediately by a loud, curt voice.
“Wardle.”
“Yeah, hello. My name’s Cormoran Strike, and—”
“You’re what?”
“Cormoran Strike,” said Strike, “is my name.”
“Oh yeah,” said Wardle. “Anstis just rang. You’re the private dick? Anstis
said you were interested in talking about Lula Landry?”
“Yeah, I am,” said Strike again, suppressing another yawn as he examined the
painted panels on the ceiling; bacchanalian revels that became, as he looked, a
feast of fairies: Midsummer Night’s Dream, a man with a donkey’s head. “But
what I’d really like is the file.”
Wardle laughed.
“You didn’t save my fucking life, mate.”
“Got some information you might be interested in. Thought we could do an
exchange.”
There was a short pause.
“I take it you don’t want to do this exchange over the phone?”