The Cuckoo's Calling

“John, you knew before you ever came to see me that it was Jonah on that CCTV footage. Rochelle told you. She was there in Vashti when Lula called Jonah and arranged to meet him that night, and she witnessed a will leaving him everything. She came to you, told you everything and started blackmailing you. She wanted money for a flat and some expensive clothes, and in return she promised to keep her mouth shut about the fact that you weren’t Lula’s heir.

“Rochelle didn’t realize you were the killer. She thought Jonah pushed Lula out of the window. And she was bitter enough, after seeing a will in which she didn’t feature, and being dumped in that shop on the last day of Lula’s life, not to care about the killer walking free as long as she got the money.”

“This is utter rubbish. You’re out of your mind.”

“You put every obstacle you could in the way of me finding Rochelle,” Strike went on, as though he had not heard Bristow. “You pretended you didn’t know her name, or where she lived; you acted incredulous that I thought she might be useful to the inquiry and you took photos off Lula’s laptop so that I couldn’t see what she looked like. True, she could have pointed me directly to the man you were trying to frame for murder, but on the other hand, she knew that there was a will that would deprive you of your inheritance, and your number one objective was to keep that will quiet while you tried to find and destroy it. Bit of a joke, really, it being in your mother’s wardrobe all along.

“But even if you’d destroyed it, John, what then? For all you knew, Jonah himself knew that he was Lula’s heir. And there was another witness to the fact that there was a will, though you didn’t know it: Bryony Radford, the makeup artist.”

Strike saw Bristow’s tongue flick around his mouth, moistening his lips. He could feel the lawyer’s fear.

“Bryony doesn’t want to admit that she went snooping through Lula’s things, but she saw that will at Lula’s place, before Lula had time to hide it. Bryony’s dyslexic, though. She thought ‘Jonah’ said ‘John.’ She tied that in with Ciara saying that Lula was leaving her brother everything, and concluded that she needn’t tell anybody what she’d read on the sly, because you were getting the money anyway. You’ve had the luck of the devil at times, John.

“But I can see how—to a twisted mind like yours—the best solution to your predicament was to fit Jonah up for murder. If he was doing life, it wouldn’t matter whether or not the will ever surfaced—or whether he, or anyone else, knew about it—because the money would come to you in any case.”

“Ridiculous,” said Bristow breathlessly. “You ought to give up detecting and try fantasy writing, Strike. You haven’t got a shred of proof for anything you’re saying—”

“Yes I have.” Strike cut across him, and Bristow stopped talking immediately, his pallor visible through the gloom. “The CCTV footage.”

“That footage shows Jonah Agyeman running from the scene of the killing, as you’ve just acknowledged!”

“There was another man caught on camera.”

“So he had an accomplice—a lookout.”

“I wonder what defending counsel will say is wrong with you, John?” asked Strike softly. “Narcissism? Some kind of God complex? You think you’re completely untouchable, don’t you, a genius who makes the rest of us look like chimps? The second man running from the scene wasn’t Jonah’s accomplice, or his lookout, or a car thief. He wasn’t even black. He was a white man in black gloves. He was you.”

“No,” said Bristow. The one word throbbed with panic; but then, with an almost visible effort, he hitched a contemptuous smile back on to his face. “How can it be me? I was in Chelsea with my mother. She told you so. Tony saw me there. I was in Chelsea.”

“Your mother is a Valium-addicted invalid who was asleep most of that day. You didn’t get back to Chelsea until after you’d killed Lula. I think you went into your mother’s room in the small hours, reset her clock and then woke her up, pretending it was dinnertime. You think you’re a criminal genius, John, but that’s been done a million times before, though rarely with such an easy mark. Your mother hardly knows what day it is, the amount of opiates she’s got in her system.”

“I was in Chelsea all day,” repeated Bristow, his knee jiggling up and down. “All day, except for when I nipped into the office for files.”

“You took a hoodie and gloves out of the flat beneath Lula’s. You’re wearing them in the CCTV footage,” said Strike, ignoring the interruption, “and that was a big mistake. That hoodie was unique. There was only one of them in the world; it had been customized for Deeby Macc by Guy Somé. It could only have come out of the flat beneath Lula’s, so we know that’s where you’d been.”

“You have absolutely no proof,” said Bristow. “I am waiting for proof.”

“Of course you are,” said Strike, simply. “An innocent man wouldn’t be sitting here listening to me. He’d have stormed out by now. But don’t worry. I’ve got proof.”

“You can’t have,” said Bristow hoarsely.