1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“Rochelle, have you seen her?”
“Why would I wanna see that fuckin’ bitch?”
“So you haven’t seen her?” asked the bald man.
“No. Gorra fag?”
Strike gave her one; she put it behind her ear.
“She’s still round ’ere somewhere. Janine said she seen ’er,” said Carrianne.
“Rochelle reckoned she’d gorra flat or some’t. Lying fuckin’ bitch. An’ Lula
Landry left her ev’rything. Not. Whadd’ya want Rochelle for?” she asked Strike,
and it was clear that she was wondering whether there was money in it, and
whether she might do instead.
“Just to ask some questions.”
“Warrabout?”
“Lula Landry.”
“Oh,” said Carrianne, and her card-counting eyes flickered. “They weren’t
such big fuckin’ mates. You don’t wanna believe everything Rochelle says, the
lying bitch.”
“What did she lie about?” asked Strike.
“Fuckin’ everything. I reckon she stole half the stuff she pretended Landry
bought ’er.”
“Come on, Carrianne,” said the bald man gently. “They were friends,” he told
Strike. “Landry used to come and pick her up in her car. It caused,” he said, with
a glance at Carrianne, “a bit of tension.”
“Not from me it fuckin’ didn’t,” snapped Carrianne. “I thought Landry was a
fuckin’ jumped-up bitch. She weren’t even that good-lookin’.”
“Rochelle told me she’s got an aunt in Kilburn,” said the bald man.
“She dun gerron with ’er, though,” said the girl.
“Have you got a name or an address for the aunt?” asked Strike, but both
shook their heads. “What’s Rochelle’s surname?”
“I don’t know; do you, Carrianne? We often know people just by their
Christian names,” he told Strike.
There was little more to be gleaned from them. Rochelle had last stayed at the
hostel more than two months previously. The bald man knew that she had
attended an outpatients’ clinic at St. Thomas’s for a while, though he had no idea
whether she still went.