The Cuckoo's Calling

“Yeah, we sign everyone in and out, ’cept residents. There’s a book at the desk.”

“Can you remember who went in and out that day?”

Wilson hesitated.

“John Bristow came to see his sister early that morning, didn’t he?” prompted Strike. “But she’d told you not to let him up?”

“He’s told you that, has he?” asked Wilson, looking faintly relieved. “Yeah, she did. But I felt sorry for the man, y’know? He had a contrac’ to give back to her; he was worried about it, so I let him go up.”

“Had anyone else come into the building that you know of?”

“Yeah, Lechsinka was already there. She’s one of the cleaners. She always arrives at seven; she was mopping the stairwell when I got in. Nobody else came until the guy from the security comp’ny, to service the alarms. We get it done every six months. He musta come around nine forty; something like that.”

“Was this someone you knew, the man from the security firm?”

“No, he was a new guy. Very young. They always send someone diff’rent. Missus Bestigui and Lula were still at home, so I let him into the middle flat, and showed him where the control panel was an’ got him started. Lula went out while I was still in there, showin’ the guy the fuse box an’ the panic buttons.”

“You saw her go out, did you?”

“Yeah, she passed the open door.”

“Did she say hello?”

“No.”

“You said she usually did?”

“I don’t think she noticed me. She looked like she was in a hurry. She was going to see her sick mother.”

“How d’you know, if she didn’t speak to you?”

“Inquest,” said Wilson succinctly. “After I’d shown the security guy where everything was, I went back downstairs, an’ after Missus Bestigui went out, I let him into their flat to check that system too. He didn’t need me tuh stay with him there; the positions of the fuse boxes and panic buttons are the same in all the flats.”

“Where was Mr. Bestigui?”

“He’d already left for work. Eight he leaves, every day.”

Three men in hard hats and fluorescent yellow jackets entered the café and sat at a neighboring table, newspapers under their arms, work boots clogged with filth.

“How long would you say you were away from the desk each time you were with the security guy?”

“Mebbe five minutes in the middle flat,” said Wilson. “A minute each for the others.”

“When did the security guy leave?”

“Late morning. I can’t remember exactly.”

“But you’re sure he left?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Anyone else visit?”

“There was a few deliveries, but it was quiet compared to how the rest of the week had been.”

“Earlier in the week had been busy, had it?”

“Yeah, we’d had a lot of coming and going, because of Deeby Macc arriving from LA. People from the production company were in and out of Flat Two, checking the place was set up for him, filling up the fridge and that.”

“Can you remember what deliveries there were that day?”

“Packages for Macc an’ Lula. An’ roses—I helped the guy up with them, because they come in a massive,” Wilson placed his large hands apart to show the size, “a huh-uge vase, and we set ’em up on a table in the hallway of Flat Two. That’s the roses that got smashed.”

“You said that caused trouble; what did you mean?”

“Mister Bestigui had sent them to Deeby Macc an’ when he heard they’d been ruined he was pissed off. Shoutin’ like a maniac.”

“When was this?”

“While the police were there. When they were trying to interview his wife.”

“A woman had just fallen to her death past his front windows, and he was upset that someone had wrecked his flowers?”

“Yeah,” said Wilson, with a slight shrug. “He’s like that.”

“Does he know Deeby Macc?”

Wilson shrugged again.

“Did this rapper ever come to the flat?”

Wilson shook his head.

“After we had all this trouble, he went to a hotel.”

“How long were you away from the desk when you helped put the roses in Flat Two?”

“Mebbe five minutes; ten at most. After that, I was on the desk all day.”

“You mentioned packages for Macc and Lula.”

“Yeah, from some designer, but I gave them to Lechsinka to put in the flats. It was clothes for him an’ handbags for her.”

“And as far as you’re aware, everyone who went in that day went out again?”

“Oh yeah,” said Wilson. “All logged in the book at the front desk.”

“How often is the code on the external keypad changed?”

“It’s been changed since she died, because half the Met knew it by the time they were finished,” said Wilson. “But it din change the three months Lula lived there.”

“D’you mind telling me what it was?”

“Nineteen sixty-six,” said Wilson.

“ ‘They think it’s all over’?”

“Yeah,” said Wilson. “McLeod was always bellyaching about it. Wanted it changed.”

“How many people d’you think knew the door code before Lula died?”

“Not that many.”

“Delivery men? Postmen? Bloke who reads the gas meter?”

“People like that are always buzzed in by us, from the desk. The residents don’t normally use the keypad, because we can see them on camera, so we open the door for them. The keypad’s only there in case there’s no one on the desk; sometimes we’d be in the back room, or helping with something upstairs.”

“And the flats all have individual keys?”