1 The Cuckoo's Calling

mirrored walls reflecting tables of mock-wood Formica, stained floor tiles of
dark red and white, and a tapioca-colored ceiling covered in molded wallpaper.
The squat middle-aged waitress had short straightened hair and dangling orange
plastic earrings; she moved aside to let Strike past the counter.
A heavily built West Indian man was sitting alone at one table, reading a copy
of the Sun, under a plastic clock that bore the legend Pukka Pies.
“Derrick?”
“Yeah…you Strike?”
Strike shook Wilson’s big, dry hand, and sat down. He estimated Wilson to be
almost as tall as himself when standing. Muscle as well as fat swelled the sleeves
of the security guard’s sweatshirt; his hair was close-cropped and he was cleanshaven,
with fine almond-shaped eyes. Strike ordered pie and mash off the
scrawled menu board on the back wall, pleased to reflect that he could charge the
£4.75 to expenses.
“Yeah, the pie ’n’ mash is good here,” said Wilson.
A faint Caribbean lilt lifted his London accent. His voice was deep, calm and
measured. Strike thought that he would be a reassuring presence in a security
guard’s uniform.
“Thanks for meeting me, I appreciate it. John Bristow’s not happy with the
results of the inquest on his sister. He’s hired me to take another look at the
evidence.”
“Yeah,” said Wilson, “I know.”
“How much did he give you to talk to me?” Strike asked casually.
Wilson blinked, then gave a slightly guilty, deep-throated chuckle.
“Pony,” he said. “But if it makes the man feel better, yuh know? It won’t
change nuthin’. She killed huhself. But ask your questions. I don’t mind.”
He closed the Sun. The front page bore a picture of Gordon Brown looking
baggy-eyed and exhausted.
“You’ll have gone over everything with the police,” said Strike, opening his
notebook and setting it down beside his plate, “but it would be good to hear, first
hand, what happened that night.”
“Yeah, no problem. An’ Kieran Kolovas-Jones might be comin’,” Wilson
added.
He seemed to expect Strike to know who this was.