The Cuckoo's Calling(19)
Last in this top row of photographs was Guy Somé, fashion designer. He was a thin black man who was wearing a midnight-blue frock coat of exaggerated cut. His face was bowed and his expression indiscernible, due to the way the light fell on his dark head, though three large diamond earrings in the lobe facing the camera had caught the flashes and glittered like stars. Like Porter, he appeared to have arrived unaccompanied, although a small group of mourners, unworthy of their own legends, had been captured within the frame of his picture.
Strike drew his chair nearer to the screen, though still keeping more than an arm’s length between himself and Robin. One of the unidentified faces, half severed by the edge of the picture, was John Bristow, recognizable by the short upper lip and the hamsterish teeth. He had his arm around a stricken-looking older woman with white hair; her face was gaunt and ghastly, the nakedness of her grief touching. Behind this pair was a tall, haughty-looking man who gave the impression of deploring the surroundings in which he found himself.
“I can’t see anyone who might be this ordinary girl,” said Robin, moving the screen down to scrutinize more pictures of famous and beautiful people looking sad and serious. “Oh, look…Evan Duffield.”
He was dressed in a black T-shirt, black jeans and a military-style black overcoat. His hair, too, was black; his face all sharp planes and hollows; icy blue eyes stared directly into the camera lens. Though taller than both of them, he looked fragile compared to the companions flanking him: a large man in a suit and an anxious-looking older woman, whose mouth was open and who was making a gesture as though to clear a path ahead of them. The threesome reminded Strike of parents steering a sick child away from a party. Strike noticed that, in spite of Duffield’s air of disorientation and distress, he had made a good job of applying his eyeliner.
“Look at those flowers!”
Duffield slid up into the top of the screen and vanished: Robin had paused on the photograph of an enormous wreath in the shape of what Strike took, initially, to be a heart, before realizing it represented two curved angel wings, composed of white roses. An inset photograph showed a close-up of the attached card.
“ ‘Rest in peace, Angel Lula. Deeby Macc,’ ” Robin read aloud.
“Deeby Macc? The rapper? So they knew each other, did they?”
“No, I don’t think so; but there was that whole thing about him renting a flat in her building; she’d been mentioned in a couple of his songs, hadn’t she? The press were all excited about him staying there…”
“You’re well informed on the subject.”
“Oh, you know, just magazines,” said Robin vaguely, scrolling back through the funeral photographs.
“What kind of name is ‘Deeby’?” Strike wondered aloud.
“It comes from his initials. It’s ‘D. B.’ really,” she enunciated clearly. “His real name’s Daryl Brandon Macdonald.”
“A rap fan, are you?”
“No,” said Robin, still intent on the screen. “I just remember things like that.”
She clicked off the images she was perusing and began tapping away on the keyboard again. Strike returned to his photographs. The next showed Mr. Geoffrey Hook kissing his ginger-haired companion, hand palpating one large, canvas-covered buttock, outside Ealing Broadway Tube station.
“Here’s a bit of film on YouTube, look,” said Robin. “Deeby Macc talking about Lula after she died.”
“Let’s see it,” said Strike, rolling his chair forwards a couple of feet and then, on second thought, back one.
The grainy little video, three inches by four, jerked into life. A large black man wearing some kind of hooded top with a fist picked out in studs on the chest sat in a black leather chair, facing an unseen interviewer. His hair was closely shaven and he wore sunglasses.
“…Lula Landry’s suicide?” said the interviewer, who was English.
“That was f*cked-up, man, that was f*cked-up,” replied Deeby, running his hand over his smooth head. His voice was soft, deep and hoarse, with the very faintest trace of a lisp. “That’s what they do to success: they hunt you down, they tear you down. That’s what envy does, my friend. The motherf*ckin’ press chased her out that window. Let her rest in peace, I say. She’s getting peace right now.”
“Pretty shocking welcome to London for you,” said the interviewer, “with her, y’know, like, falling past your window?”
Deeby Macc did not answer at once. He sat very still, staring at the interviewer through his opaque lenses. Then he said:
“I wasn’t there, or you got someone who says I was?”
The interviewer’s yelp of nervous, hastily stifled laughter jarred.
“God, no, not at all—not…”
Deeby turned his head and addressed someone standing off-camera.
“Think I oughta’ve brought my lawyers?”
The interviewer brayed with sycophantic laughter. Deeby looked back at him, still unsmiling.
“Deeby Macc,” said the breathless interviewer, “thank you very much for your time.”
An outstretched white hand slid forwards on to the screen; Deeby raised his own in a fist. The white hand reconstituted itself, and they bumped knuckles. Somebody off-screen laughed derisively. The video ended.
“ ‘The motherf*ckin’ press chased her out that window,’ ” Strike repeated, rolling his chair back to its original position. “Interesting point of view.”