The Cuckoo's Calling(118)

“Yeah, but if it was that f*cking important, she woulda told me at the club.”

“But she didn’t?”

“No, like I say, she never spoke to me all night.” A muscle was jumping in Duffield’s chiseled jaw. “She kept checking the time on her f*cking phone. I knew what she was doing; trying to wind me up. Showing me she couldn’t wait to get home and meet f*cking Deeby Macc. She waited until Ellie went off to the bog; then got up, came over to tell me she was leaving, and said I could have my bangle back; the one I gave her when we had our commitment ceremony. She chucked it down on the table in front of me, with everyone f*cking gawping. So I picked it up and said, ‘Anyone fancy this, it’s going spare?’ and she f*cked off.”

He did not speak as though Lula had died three months previously, but as though it had all happened the day before, and there was still a possibility of reconciliation.

“You tried to restrain her, though, right?” asked Strike.

Duffield’s eyes narrowed.

“Restrain her?”

“You grabbed her arms, according to witnesses.”

“Did I? I can’t remember.”

“But she pulled free, and you stayed behind, is that right?”

“I waited ten minutes, because I wasn’t gonna give her the satisfaction of chasing her in front of all those people, and then I left the club and got my driver to take me to Kentigern Gardens.”

“Wearing the wolf mask,” said Strike.

“Yeah, to stop those f*cking scumbags,” he nodded towards the window, “selling pictures of me looking wasted or pissed off. They hate it when you cover your face. Depriving them of making their f*cking parasitic living. One of them tried to pull Wolfie off me, but I held on. I got in the car and gave ’em a few pictures of the Wolf giving them the finger, out the back window. Got to the corner of Kentigern Gardens and there were more paps everywhere. I knew she must’ve got in already.”

“Did you know the key code?”

“Nineteen sixty-six, yeah. But I knew she’d’ve told security not to let me up. I wasn’t gonna walk in in front of all of them and then get chucked out on me arse five minutes later. I tried to phone her from the car, but she wouldn’t pick up. I thought she’d probably gone downstairs to welcome Deeby f*cking Macc to London. So I went off to see a man about pain relief.”

He ground out his cigarette on a loose playing card on the edge of the table and began hunting for more tobacco. Strike, who wanted to oil the flow of conversation, offered him one of his own.

“Oh, cheers. Cheers. Yeah. Well, I got the driver to drop me off and I went to visit my friend, who has since given the police a full statement to that effect, as Uncle Tony might say. Then I wandered around a bit, and there’s camera footage in that station to prove that, and then about, I dunno…threeish? Fourish?”

“Half past four,” said Ciara.

“Yeah, I went to crash at Ciara’s.”

Duffield sucked on the cigarette, watching the tip burn, then, exhaling, said cheerfully:

“So my arse is covered, is it not?”

Strike did not find his satisfaction likeable.

“And when did you find out that Lula was dead?”

Duffield drew his legs up to his chest again.

“Ciara woke me up and told me. I couldn’t—I was f*cking—yeah, well. Fucking hell.”

He put his arms over the top of his head and stared at the ceiling.

“I couldn’t f*cking…I couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t f*cking believe it.”

And as Strike watched, he thought he saw realization wash over Duffield that the girl of whom he spoke so flippantly, and who he had, by his own account, provoked, taunted and loved, was really and definitely never coming back; that she had been smashed into pulp on snow-covered asphalt, and that she and their relationship were now beyond the possibility of repair. For a moment, staring at the blank white ceiling, Duffield’s face became grotesque as he appeared to grin from ear to ear; it was a grimace of pain, of the exertion necessary to beat back tears. His arms slipped down, and he buried his face in them, his forehead on his knees.

“Oh, sweetie,” said Ciara, putting her wine down on the table with a clunk, and reaching forward to place a hand on his bony knee.

“This has f*cked me up proper,” said Duffield thickly from behind his arms. “This has f*cked me up good. I wanted to marry her. I f*cking loved her, I did. Fuck, I don’t wanna talk about it anymore.”

He jumped up and left the room, sniffing ostentatiously and wiping his nose on his sleeve.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Ciara whispered to Strike. “He’s a mess.”

“Oh, I don’t know. He seems to have cleaned up his act. Off heroin for a month.”

“I know, and I don’t want him to fall off the wagon.”

“This is a lot gentler than he would have had from the police. This is polite.”

“You’ve got an awful look on your face, though. Really, like, stern and as if you don’t believe a word he’s saying.”

“D’you think he’s going to come back?”

“Yes, of course he is. Please be a bit nicer…”

She sat quickly back in her seat as Duffield walked back in; he was grim-faced and his camp strut was very slightly subdued. He flung himself into the chair he had previously occupied and said to Strike: