The Cuckoo's Calling (Cormoran Strike #1)(60)
Author: J.K. Rowling

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**king—yeah, well. Fucking hell.”

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

“I couldn’t f**king…I couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t f**king 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**ked me up proper,” said Duffield thickly from behind his arms. “This has f**ked me up good. I wanted to marry her. I f**king 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 her**n 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:

“I’m out of fags. Can I have another one of yours?”

Reluctantly, because he was down to three, Strike handed it across, lit it for him, then said:

“All right to keep talking?”

“About Lula? You can talk, if you want. I dunno what else I can tell you. I ain’t got any more information.”

“Why did you split up? The first time, I mean; I’m clear on why she ditched you in Uzi.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ciara make an indignant little gesture; apparently this did not qualify as “nicer.”

“What the fuck’s that got to do with anything?”

“It’s all relevant,” said Strike. “It all gives a picture of what was going on in her life. It all helps explain why she might’ve killed herself.”

“I thought you were looking for a murderer?”

“I’m looking for the truth. So why did you break up, the first time?”

“Fuck, how’s this f**king important?” exploded Duffield. His temper, as Strike had expected, was violent and short-fused. “What, are you trying to make out it’s my fault she f**king jumped off a balcony? How can us splitting up the first time have anything to do with it, knucklehead? That was two f**king months before she died. Fuck, I could call meself a detective and ask a lot of fuckass questions. Bet it pays all right, dunnit, if you can find some fuckwit rich client?”

“Evan, don’t,” said Ciara, distressed. “You said you wanted to help…”

“Yeah, I wanna help, but how’s this f**king fair?”

“No problem, if you don’t want to answer,” said Strike. “You’re under no obligation here.”

“I ain’t got nothing to hide, it’s just f**king personal stuff, innit? We split up,” he shouted, “because of drugs, and her family and her friends putting down poison about me, and because she didn’t trust nobody because of the f**king press, all right? Because of all the pressure.”

And Duffield made his hands into trembling claws and pressed them, like earphones, over his ears, making a compressing movement.

“Pressure, f**king pressure, that’s why we split up.”

“You were taking a lot of drugs at the time, were you?”

“Yeah.”

“And Lula didn’t like it?”

“Well, people round her were telling her she didn’t like it, you know?”

“Like who?”

“Like her family, like f**king Guy Somé. That little pansy twat.”

“When you say that she didn’t trust anybody because of the press, what do you mean by that?”

“Fuck, innit obvious? Don’t you know all this, from your old man?”

“I know jack shit about my father,” said Strike coolly.

“Well, they were tapping her f**king phone, man, and that gives you a weird f**king feeling; haven’t you got any imagination? She started getting paranoid about people selling stuff on her. Trying to work out what she’d said on the phone, and what she hadn’t, and who mighta given stuff to the papers and that. It f**ked with her head.”

“Was she accusing you of selling stories?”

“No,” snapped Duffield, and then, just as vehemently, “Yeah, sometimes. How did they know we were coming here, how did they know I said that to you, yadda yadda yadda…I said to her, it’s all part and f**king parcel of fame, innit, but she thought she could have her cake and eat it.”

“But you didn’t ever sell stories about her to the press?”

He heard Ciara’s hissing intake of breath.

“No I f**king didn’t,” said Duffield quietly, holding Strike’s gaze without blinking. “No I f**king did not. All right?”

“And you split up for how long?”

“Two months, give or take.”

“But you got back together, what, a week before she died?”

“Yeah. At Mo Innes’s party.”

“And you had this commitment ceremony forty-eight hours later? At Carbury’s house in the Cotswolds?”

“Yeah.”

“And who knew that was going to happen?”

“It was a spontaneous thing. I bought the bangles and we just did it. It was beautiful, man.”

“It really was,” echoed Ciara sadly.

“So, for the press to have found out so quickly, someone who was there must have told them?”

“Yeah, I s’pose so.”

“Because your phones weren’t being tapped then, were they? You’d changed your numbers.”

“I don’t f**king know if they were being tapped. Ask the shits at the rags who do it.”

“Did she talk to you at all about trying to trace her father?”

“He was dead…what, you mean the real one? Yeah, she was interested, but it was no go, wannit? Her mother didn’t know who he was.”

“She never told you whether she’d managed to find out anything about him?”

“She tried, but she didn’t get anywhere, so she decided that she was gonna to do a course in African studies. That was gonna be Daddy, the whole f**king continent of Africa. Fucking Somé was behind that, shit-stirring as usual.”

“In what way?”

“Anything that took her away from me was good. Anything that bracketed them together. He was one possessive bastard where she was concerned. He was in love with her. I know he’s a poof,” Duffield added impatiently, as Ciara began to protest, “but he’s not the first one I’ve known who’s gone funny over a girlfriend. He’ll f**k anything, man-wise, but he didn’t want to let her out of his sight. He threw hissy fits if she didn’t see him, he didn’t like her working for anyone else.

“He hates my f**king guts. Right back atcha, you little shit. Egging Lu on with Deeby Macc. He’d’ve got a real kick out of her f**king him. Doing me over. Hearing all the f**king details. Getting her to introduce him, get his f**king clothes photographed on a gangster. He’s no f**king fool, Somé. He used her for his business all the time. Tried to get her cheap and for free, and she was dumb enough to let him.”

“Did Somé give you these?” asked Strike, pointing at the black leather gloves on the coffee table. He had recognized the tiny gold GS logo on the cuff.

“You what?”

Duffield leaned over and hooked one of the gloves on to an index finger; he dangled it in front of his eyes, examining it.

“Fuck, you’re right. They’re going in the bin, then,” and he threw the glove into a corner; it hit the abandoned guitar, which let out a hollow, echoing chord. “I kept them from that shoot,” said Duffield, pointing at the black-and-white magazine cover. “Somé wouldn’t give me the steam off his piss. Have you got another fag?”

“I’m all out,” lied Strike. “Are you going to tell me why you invited me home, Evan?”

There was a long silence. Duffield glared at Strike, who intuited that the actor knew he was lying about having no cigarettes. Ciara was gazing at him too, her lips slightly parted, the epitome of beautiful bewilderment.

“What makes you think I’ve got anything to tell you?” sneered Duffield.

“I don’t think you asked me back here for the pleasure of my company.”

“I dunno,” said Duffield, with a distinct overtone of malice. “Maybe I hoped you were a laugh, like your old man?”

“Evan,” snapped Ciara.