1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“How did you get on with Lula Landry?” Strike asked, pen poised. “Did you
see a lot of her?”
“Just in and out past the desk. She always said hullo and please and thank you,
which is more’n a whole lotta these rich fuckers manage,” said Wilson
laconically. “Longest chat we ever had was about Jamaica. She was thinking of
doing a job over there; asking me where tuh stay, what’s it like. And I got her
autograph for mi nephew, Jason, for his birthday. Got her to sign a card, sent it
outta Afghanistan. Just three weeks before she died. She asked after Jason by
name every time I saw her after that, and I liked the girl for that, y’know? I been
knocking around the security game forra long time. There’s people who’d expect
you to take a bullet for them and they don’t bother rememb’ring yuh name. Yeah,
she was all right.”
Strike’s pie and mash arrived, steaming hot. The two men accorded it a
moment’s respectful silence as they contemplated the heaped plate. Mouth
watering, Strike picked up his knife and fork and said:
“Can you talk me through what happened the night Lula died? She went out,
what time?”
The security guard scratched his forearm thoughtfully, pushing up the sleeve
of his sweatshirt; Strike saw tattoos there, crosses and initials.
“Musta bin just gone seven that evening. She was with her friend Ciara Porter.
I remember, as they were going out the door, Mr. Bestigui come in. I remember
that, because he said something to Lula. I didn’t hear what it was. She didn’t like
it, though. I could tell by the look on her face.”
“What kind of look?”
“Offended,” said Wilson, the answer ready. “So then I seen the two of them on
the monitor, Lula and Porter, getting in their car. We gotta camera over the door,
see. It’s linked to a monitor on the desk, so we can see who’s buzzing to get in.”
“Does it record footage? Can I see a tape?”
Wilson shook his head.
“Mr. Bestigui didn’t want nothing like that on the door. No recording devices.
He was the first to buy a flat, before they were all finished, so he had input into
the arrangements.”
“The camera’s just a high-tech peephole, then?”
Wilson nodded. There was a fine scar running from just beneath his left eye to
the middle of his cheekbone.