1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“Here’s a bit of film on YouTube, look,” said Robin. “Deeby Macc talking
about Lula after she died.”
“Let’s see it,” said Strike, rolling his chair forwards a couple of feet and then,
on second thought, back one.
The grainy little video, three inches by four, jerked into life. A large black man
wearing some kind of hooded top with a fist picked out in studs on the chest sat
in a black leather chair, facing an unseen interviewer. His hair was closely shaven
and he wore sunglasses.
“…Lula Landry’s suicide?” said the interviewer, who was English.
“That was fucked-up, man, that was fucked-up,” replied Deeby, running his
hand over his smooth head. His voice was soft, deep and hoarse, with the very
faintest trace of a lisp. “That’s what they do to success: they hunt you down, they
tear you down. That’s what envy does, my friend. The motherfuckin’ press
chased her out that window. Let her rest in peace, I say. She’s getting peace right
now.”
“Pretty shocking welcome to London for you,” said the interviewer, “with her,
y’know, like, falling past your window?”
Deeby Macc did not answer at once. He sat very still, staring at the interviewer
through his opaque lenses. Then he said:
“I wasn’t there, or you got someone who says I was?”
The interviewer’s yelp of nervous, hastily stifled laughter jarred.
“God, no, not at all—not…”
Deeby turned his head and addressed someone standing off-camera.
“Think I oughta’ve brought my lawyers?”
The interviewer brayed with sycophantic laughter. Deeby looked back at him,
still unsmiling.
“Deeby Macc,” said the breathless interviewer, “thank you very much for your
time.”
An outstretched white hand slid forwards on to the screen; Deeby raised his
own in a fist. The white hand reconstituted itself, and they bumped knuckles.
Somebody off-screen laughed derisively. The video ended.
“ ‘The motherfuckin’ press chased her out that window,’ ” Strike repeated,
rolling his chair back to its original position. “Interesting point of view.”