The Cuckoo's Calling(59)

“I heard you talking,” Jack said. He closed the door just as carefully as his uncle had done.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in the garden, Jack?”

“I’ve been for a pee,” said his nephew. “Uncle Cormoran, did you bring me a present?”

Strike, who had not relinquished the wrapped parcel since arriving, handed it over and watched as Robin’s careful handiwork was destroyed by small, eager fingers.

“Cool,” said Jack happily. “A soldier.”

“That’s right,” said Strike.

“He’s got a gun an’ dev’rything.”

“Yeah, he has.”

“Did you have a gun when you were a soldier?” asked Jack, turning over the box to look at the picture of its contents.

“I had two,” said Strike.

“Have you still got them?”

“No, I had to give them back.”

“Shame,” said Jack, matter-of-factly.

“Aren’t you supposed to be playing?” asked Strike, as renewed shrieks erupted from the garden.

“I don’t wanna,” said Jack. “Can I take him out?”

“Yeah, all right,” said Strike.

While Jack ripped feverishly at the box, Strike slipped Wardle’s DVD out of the player and pocketed it. Then he helped Jack to free the plastic paratrooper from the restraints holding him to the cardboard insert, and to fix his gun into his hand.

Lucy found them both sitting there ten minutes later. Jack was making his soldier fire around the back of the sofa and Strike was pretending to have taken a bullet to the stomach.

“For God’s sake, Corm, it’s his party, he’s supposed to be playing with the others! Jack, I told you you weren’t allowed to open any presents yet—pick it up—no, it’ll have to stay in here—no, Jack, you can play with it later—it’s nearly time for tea anyway…”

Flustered and irritable, Lucy ushered her reluctant son back out of the room with a dark backwards look at her brother. When Lucy’s lips were pursed she bore a strong resemblance to their Aunt Joan, who was no blood relation to either of them.

The fleeting similarity engendered in Strike an uncharacteristic spirit of cooperation. He behaved, in Lucy’s terms, well throughout the rest of the party, devoting himself in the main to defusing brewing arguments between various overexcited children, then barricading himself behind a trestle table covered in jelly and ice cream, thus avoiding the intrusive interest of the prowling mothers.





3



STRIKE WAS WOKEN EARLY ON Sunday morning by the ringing of his mobile, which was recharging on the floor beside his camp bed. The caller was Bristow. He sounded strained.

“I got your message yesterday, but Mum’s in a bad way and we haven’t got a nurse for this afternoon. Alison’s going to come over and keep me company. I could meet you tomorrow, in my lunch hour, if you’re free? Have there been any developments?” he added hopefully.

“Some,” said Strike cautiously. “Listen, where’s your sister’s laptop?”

“It’s here in Mum’s flat. Why?”

“How would you feel about me having a look at it?”

“Fine,” said Bristow. “I’ll bring it along tomorrow, shall I?”

Strike agreed that this would be a good idea. When Bristow had given him the name and address of his favorite place to eat near his office, and hung up, Strike reached for his cigarettes, and lay for a while smoking and contemplating the pattern made on the ceiling by the sun through the blind slats, savoring the silence and the solitude, the absence of children screaming, of Lucy’s attempts to question him over the raucous yells of her youngest. Feeling almost kindly towards his peaceful office, he stubbed out the cigarette, got up and prepared to take his usual shower at ULU.

He finally reached Derrick Wilson, after several more attempts, late on Sunday evening.

“You can’t come this week,” said Wilson. “Mister Bestigui’s round a lot at the moment. I gotta think about mi job, you understand me. I’ll call you if there’s a good time, all right?”

Strike heard a distant buzzer.

“Are you at work now?” called Strike, before Wilson could hang up.

He heard the security guard say, away from the receiver:

“(Just sign the book, mate.) What?” he added loudly, to Strike.

“If you’re there now, could you check the logbook for the name of a friend who used to visit Lula sometimes?”

“What friend?” asked Wilson. “(Yeah, see yuh.)”

“The girl Kieran talked about; the friend from rehab. Rochelle. I want her surname.”

“Oh, her, yeah,” said Wilson. “Yeah, I’ll take a look an’ I’ll buzz y—”

“Could you have a quick look now?”

He heard Wilson sigh.

“Yeah, all right. Wait there.”

Indistinct sounds of movement, clunks and scrapings, then the flick of turning pages. While Strike waited, he contemplated various items of clothing designed by Guy Somé, which were arrayed on his computer screen.

“Yeah, she’s here,” said Wilson’s voice in his ear. “Her name’s Rochelle…I can’ read…looks like Onifade.”