1 The Cuckoo's Calling

mother would be a much softer touch, especially once you were her only
remaining child. And that in itself must have felt great, John, didn’t it? The idea
of being the only child, at long last? And never losing out again to a betterlooking,
more lovable sibling?”
Even in the thickening gloom, he could see Bristow’s jutting teeth, and the
intense stare of the weak eyes.
“No matter how much you’ve fawned over your mother, and played the
devoted son, you’ve never come first with her, have you? She always loved
Charlie most, didn’t she? Everyone did, even Uncle Tony. And the moment
Charlie had gone, when you might have expected to be the center of attention at
last, what happens? Lula arrives, and everyone starts worrying about Lula,
looking after Lula, adoring Lula. Your mother hasn’t even got a picture of you by
her deathbed. Just Charlie and Lula. Just the two she loved.”
“Fuck you,” snarled Bristow. “Fuck you, Strike. What do you know about
anything, with your whore of a mother? What was it she died of, the clap?”
“Nice,” said Strike, appreciatively. “I was going to ask you whether you
looked into my personal life when you were trying to find some patsy to
manipulate. I bet you thought I’d be particularly sympathetic to poor bereaved
John Bristow, didn’t you, what with my own mother having died young, in
suspicious circumstances? You thought you’d be able to play me like a fucking
violin…
“But never mind, John. If your defense team can’t find a personality disorder
for you, I expect they’ll argue that your upbringing’s to blame. Unloved.
Neglected. Overshadowed. Always felt hard done by, haven’t you? I noticed it
the first day I met you, when you burst into those moving tears at the memory of
Lula being carried up the drive into your home, into your life. Your parents
hadn’t even taken you with them to get her, had they? They left you at home like
a pet dog, the son who wasn’t enough for them once Charlie had died; the son
who was about to come a poor second all over again.”
“I don’t have to listen to this,” whispered Bristow.
“You’re free to leave,” said Strike, watching the place where he could no
longer make out eyes in the deepening shadows behind Bristow’s glasses. “Why
not leave?”
But the lawyer merely sat there, one knee still jiggling up and down, his hands
sliding over each other, waiting to hear Strike’s proof.
“Was it easier the second time?” the detective asked quietly. “Was it easier
killing Lula than killing Charlie?”