The Cuckoo's Calling(31)

“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?”

“Yeah, and individual alarm systems.”

“Was Lula’s set?”

“No.”

“What about the pool and the gym? Are they alarmed?”

“Jus’ keys. Everyone who lives in the building gets a set of pool and gym keys along with their flat keys. And one key to the door leading to the underground car park. That door’s got an alarm on it.”

“Was it set?”

“Dunno, I wasn’t there when they checked that one. It shoulda been. The guy from the security firm had checked all the alarms that morning.”

“Were all these doors locked that night?”

Wilson hesitated.

“Not all of them. The door to the pool was open.”

“Had anyone used it that day, do you know?”

“I can’t remember anyone using it.”

“So how long had it been open?”

“I dunno. Colin was on the previous night. He shoulda checked it.”

“OK,” said Strike. “You said you thought the man Mrs. Bestigui had heard was Duffield, because you’d heard them arguing previously. When was that?”

“Not long before they split, ’bout two months before she died. She’d thrown him out of her flat and he was hammerin’ on the door and kicking it, trying to break it down, calling her filthy names. I went upstairs to get him out.”

“Did you use force?”

“Didn’t need to. When he saw me coming he picked up his stuff—she’d thrown his jacket and his shoes out after him—and just walked out past me. He was stoned,” said Wilson. “Glassy eyes, y’know. Sweating. Filthy T-shirt with crap all down it. I never knew what the f*ck she saw in him.

“And here’s Kieran,” he added, his tone lightening. “Lula’s driver.”





7



A MAN IN HIS MID-TWENTIES was edging his way into the tiny café. He was short, slight and extravagantly good-looking.

“Hey, Derrick,” he said, and the driver and security guard exchanged a dap greeting, gripping each other’s hands and bumping knuckles, before Kolovas-Jones took his seat beside Wilson.

A masterpiece produced by an indecipherable cocktail of races, Kolovas-Jones’s skin was an olive-bronze, his cheekbones chiseled, his nose slightly aquiline, his black-lashed eyes a dark hazel, his straight hair slicked back off his face. His startling looks were thrown into relief by the conservative shirt and tie he wore, and his smile was consciously modest, as though he sought to disarm other men, and preempt their resentment.

“Where’sa car?” asked Derrick.

“Electric Lane.” Kolovas-Jones pointed with his thumb over his shoulder. “I got maybe twenty minutes. Gotta be back at the West End by four. Howya doing?” he added, holding out his hand to Strike, who shook it. “Kieran Kolovas-Jones. You’re…?”