The Cuckoo's Calling

“I see,” said Bristow hesitantly. “But…well, that sort of behavior wasn’t really out of the ordinary for Lula. I did tell you that she could be a bit…a bit selfish. It would be like her to think that a token appearance would keep the girl happy. She often had these brief enthusiasms for people, you know, and then dropped them.”

His disappointment at Strike’s chosen line of inquiry was so evident that the detective felt it might be politic to slip in a little covert justification of the immense fee his client was paying.

“The other reason I was calling was to let you know that tomorrow evening I’m meeting one of the CID officers who covered the case. Eric Wardle. I’m hoping to get hold of the police file.”

“Fantastic!” Bristow sounded impressed. “That’s quick work!”

“Yeah, well, I’ve got good contacts in the Met.”

“Then you’ll be able to get some answers about the Runner! You’ve read my notes?”

“Yeah, very useful,” said Strike.

“And I’m trying to fix up a lunch with Tansy Bestigui this week, so you can meet her and hear her testimony first hand. I’ll ring your secretary, shall I?”

“Great.”

There was this to be said for having an underworked secretary he could not afford, Strike thought, once he had rung off: it gave a professional impression.

St. Elmo’s Hostel for the Homeless turned out to be situated right behind the noisy concrete flyover. A plain, ill-proportioned and contemporaneous cousin of Lula’s Mayfair house, red brick with humbler, grubby white facings; no stone steps, no garden, no elegant neighbors, but a chipped door opening directly on to the street, peeling paint on the window ledges and a forlorn air. The utilitarian modern world had encroached until it sat huddled and miserable, out of synch with its surroundings, the flyover a mere twenty yards away, so that the upper windows looked directly out upon the concrete barriers and the endlessly passing cars. An unmistakably institutional flavor was given by the large silver buzzer and speaker beside the door, and the unapologetically ugly black camera, with its dangling wires, that hung from the lintel in a wire cage.

An emaciated young girl with a sore at the corner of her mouth stood smoking outside the front door, wearing a dirty man’s jumper that swamped her. She was leaning up against the wall, staring blankly towards the commercial center barely five minutes’ walk away, and when Strike pressed the buzzer for admission to the hostel, she gave him a look of deep calculation, apparently assessing his potentialities.

A small, fusty, grimy-floored lobby with shabby wooden paneling lay just inside the door. Two locked glass-paneled doors stood to left and right, affording him glimpses of a bare hall and a depressed-looking side room with a table full of leaflets, an old dartboard and a wall liberally peppered with holes. Straight ahead was a kiosk-like front desk, protected by another metal grille.

A gum-chewing woman behind the desk was reading a newspaper. She seemed suspicious and ill-disposed when Strike asked whether he could speak to a girl whose name was something like Rachel, and who had been a friend of Lula Landry’s.

“You a journalist?”

“No, I’m not; I’m a friend of a friend.”

“Should know her name, then, shouldn’t you?”

“Rachel? Raquelle? Something like that.”

A balding man strode into the kiosk behind the suspicious woman.

“I’m a private detective,” said Strike, raising his voice, and the bald man looked around, interested. “Here’s my card. I’ve been hired by Lula Landry’s brother, and I need to talk to—”

“Oh, you looking for Rochelle?” asked the bald man, approaching the grille. “She’s not here, pal. She left.”

His colleague, evincing some irritation at his willingness to talk to Strike, ceded her place at the counter and vanished from sight.

“When was this?”

“It’d be weeks now. Coupla months, even.”

“Any idea where she went?”

“No idea, mate. Probably sleeping rough again. She’s come and gone a good few times. She’s a difficult character. Mental health problems. Carrianne might know something though, hang on. Carrianne! Hey! Carrianne!”

The bloodless young girl with the scabbed lip came in out of the sunshine, her eyes narrowed.

“Wha’?”

“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.