1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“I’m gonna be late.”
Wilson raised his hand in farewell. Kolovas-Jones slammed the car door,
revved the engine and reversed out of the parking space, scowling.
“He’s a bit of a star-fucker,” said Wilson, as the car pulled away. It was a kind
of apology for the younger man. “He loved drivin’ her. He tries to drive all the
famous ones. He’s been hoping Bestigui’ll cast him in something for two years.
He was well pissed off when he didn’t get that part.”
“What was it?”
“Drug dealer. Some film.”
They walked off together in the direction of Brixton underground station, past
a gaggle of black schoolgirls in uniforms with blue plaid skirts. One girl’s long
beaded hair made Strike think, again, of his sister, Lucy.
“Bestigui’s still living at number eighteen, is he?” asked Strike.
“Oh yeah,” said Wilson.
“What about the other two flats?”
“There’s a Ukrainian commodities broker and his wife renting Flat Two now.
Got a Russian interested in Three, but he hasn’t made an offer yet.”
“Is there any chance,” asked Strike, as they were momentarily impeded by a
tiny hooded, bearded man like an Old Testament prophet, who stopped in front of
them and slowly stuck out his tongue, “that I could come and have a look inside
sometime?”
“Yeah, all right,” said Wilson after a pause in which his gaze slid furtively
over Strike’s lower legs. “Buzz mi. But it’ll have to be when Bestigui’s out,
y’understand. He’s one quarrelsome man, and I need my job.”