The Cuckoo's Calling (Cormoran Strike #1)(70)
Author: J.K. Rowling

“Oh, you never know. Physical passion might have overpowered her mercenary tendencies,” said Strike, watching Alison closely. “It can happen. It’s hard for another man to judge, but he’s not bad-looking, Tony, is he?”

He saw the rawness of her pain, her fury, and her voice was choked as she said:

“Tony’s right—you’re taking advantage—in it for all you can get—John’s gone funny—Lula jumped. She jumped. She was always unbalanced. John’s like his mother, he’s hysterical, he imagines things. Lula took drugs, she was one of those sort of people, out of control, always causing trouble and trying to get attention. Spoiled. Throwing money around. She could have anything she liked, anyone she wanted, but nothing was enough for her.”

“I didn’t realize you knew her.”

“I—Tony’s told me about her.”

“He really didn’t like her, did he?”

“He just saw her for what she was. She was no good. Some women,” she said, her chest heaving beneath the shapeless raincoat, “aren’t.”

A chill breeze cut through the musty air of the lounge as the door swung shut behind Rochelle’s aunt. Bristow and Robin kept smiling weakly until the door had closed completely, then exchanged looks of relief.

The barman had disappeared. Only four of them were left in the little lounge now. Strike became aware, for the first time, of the eighties ballad playing in the background: Jennifer Rush, “The Power of Love.” Bristow and Robin approached their table.

“I thought you wanted to speak to Rochelle’s aunt?” asked Bristow, looking aggrieved, as though he had been through an ordeal for nothing.

“Not enough to chase after her,” replied Strike cheerfully. “You can fill me in.”

Strike could tell, by the expressions on Robin’s and Bristow’s faces, that both thought this attitude strangely lackadaisical. Alison was fumbling for something in her bag, her own face hidden.

The rain had stopped, the pavements were slippery and the sky was gloomy, threatening a fresh downpour. The two women walked ahead in silence, while Bristow earnestly related to Strike all that he could remember of Aunt Winifred’s conversation. Strike, however, was not listening. He was watching the backs of the two women, both in black—almost, to the careless observer, alike, interchangeable. He remembered the sculptures on either side of the Queen’s Gate; not identical at all, in spite of the assumptions made by lazy eyes; one male, one female, the same species, yes, but profoundly different.

When he saw Robin and Alison come to a halt beside a BMW he assumed must be Bristow’s, he too slowed up, and cut across Bristow’s rambling recital of Rochelle’s stormy relations with her family.

“John, I need to check something with you.”

“Fire away.”

“You say you heard your uncle come into your mother’s flat on the morning before Lula died?”

“Yep, that’s right.”

“Are you absolutely sure that the man you heard was Tony?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You didn’t see him, though?”

“I…” Bristow’s rabbity face was suddenly puzzled. “…no, I—I don’t think I actually saw him. But I heard him let himself in. I heard his voice from the hall.”

“You don’t think that, perhaps, because you were expecting Tony, you assumed it was Tony?”

Another pause.

Then, in a changed voice:

“Are you saying Tony wasn’t there?”

“I just want to know how certain you are that he was.”

“Well…until this moment, I was completely certain. Nobody else has got a key to my mother’s flat. It couldn’t have been anyone except Tony.”

“So you heard someone let themselves into the flat. You heard a male voice. Was he talking to your mother, or to Lula?”

“Er…” Bristow’s large front teeth were much in evidence as he pondered the question. “I heard him come in. I think I heard him speaking to Lula…”

“And you heard him leave?”

“Yes. I heard him walk down the hall. I heard the door close.”

“When Lula said goodbye to you, did she make any mention of Tony having just been there?”

More silence. Bristow raised a hand to his mouth, thinking.

“I—she hugged me, that’s all I…Yes, I think she said she’d spoken to Tony. Or did she? Did I assume she’d spoken to him, because I thought…? But if it wasn’t my uncle, who was it?”

Strike waited. Bristow stared at the pavement, thinking.

“But it must have been him. Lula must have seen whoever it was, and not thought their presence remarkable, and who else could that have been, except Tony? Who else would have had a key?”

“How many keys are there?”

“Four. Three spares.”

“That’s a lot.”

“Well, Lula and Tony and I all had one. Mum liked us all to be able to let ourselves in and out, especially while she’s been ill.”

“And all these keys are present and accounted for, are they?”

“Yes—well, I think so. I assume Lula’s came back to my mother with all her other things. Tony’s still got his, I’ve got mine, and my mother’s…I expect it’s somewhere in the flat.”

“So you aren’t aware of any key that’s been lost?”

“No.”

“And none of you has ever lent your key to anyone?”

“My God, why would we do that?”

“I keep remembering how that file of photographs was removed from Lula’s laptop while it was in your mother’s flat. If there’s another key floating around…”

“There can’t be,” said Bristow. “This is…I…why are you saying Tony wasn’t there? He must have been. He says he saw me through the door.”

“You went into the office on the way back from Lula’s, right?”

“Yes.”

“To get files?”

“Yes. I just ran in and grabbed them. I was quick.”

“So you were back at your mother’s house…?”

“It can’t have been later than ten.”

“And the man who came in, when did he arrive?”

“Maybe…maybe half an hour afterwards? I can’t honestly remember. I wasn’t watching the clock. But why would Tony say he was there if he wasn’t?”

“Well, if he knew you’d been working at home, he could easily say that he came in, and didn’t want to disturb you, and just walked down the hall to speak to your mother. She, presumably, confirmed his presence to the police?”

“I suppose so. Yes, I think so.”

“But you’re not sure?”

“I don’t think we’ve ever discussed it. Mum was groggy and in pain; she slept a lot that day. And then the next morning we had the news about Lula…”

“But you’ve never thought it was strange that Tony didn’t come into the study and speak to you?”

“It wasn’t strange at all,” said Bristow. “He was in a foul temper about the Conway Oates business. I’d have been more surprised if he had been chatty.”

“John, I don’t want to alarm you, but I think that both you and your mother could be in danger.”

Bristow’s little bleat of nervous laughter sounded thin and unconvincing. Strike could see Alison standing fifty yards away, her arms folded, ignoring Robin, watching the two men.

“You—you can’t be serious?” said Bristow.

“I’m very serious.”

“But…does…Cormoran, are you saying you know who killed Lula?”

“Yeah, I think I do—but I still need to speak to your mother before we wrap this up.”

Bristow looked as though he wished he could drink the contents of Strike’s mind. His myopic eyes scanned every inch of Strike’s face, his expression half afraid, half imploring.

“I must be there,” he said. “She’s very weak.”

“Of course. How about tomorrow morning?”

“Tony will be livid if I take off any more time during work hours.”

Strike waited.

“All right,” said Bristow. “All right. Ten thirty tomorrow.”

14

THE FOLLOWING MORNING WAS FRESH and bright. Strike took the underground to genteel and leafy Chelsea. This was a part of London that he barely knew, for Leda had never, even in her most spendthrift phases, managed to secure a toehold in the vicinity of the Royal Chelsea Hospital, pale and gracious in the spring sun.

Franklin Row was an attractive street of more red brick; here were plane trees, and a great grassy space bordered with railings, in which a throng of primary school children were playing games in pale blue Aertex tops and navy blue shorts, watched by tracksuited teachers. Their happy cries punctuated the sedate quiet otherwise disturbed only by birdsong; no cars passed as Strike strolled down the pavement towards the house of Lady Yvette Bristow, his hands in his pockets.

The wall beside the partly glass door, set at the top of four white stone steps, bore an old-fashioned Bakelite panel of doorbells. Strike checked to see that Lady Yvette Bristow’s name was clearly marked beside Flat E, then retreated to the pavement and stood waiting in the gentle warmth of the day, looking up and down the street.

Ten thirty arrived, but John Bristow did not. The square remained deserted, but for the twenty small children running between hoops and colored cones beyond the railings.

At ten forty-five, Strike’s mobile vibrated in his pocket. The text was from Robin:

Alison has just called to say that JB is unavoidably detained. He does not want you to speak to his mother without him present.

Strike immediately texted Bristow:

How long are you likely to be detained? Any chance of doing this later today?

He had barely sent the message when the phone began to ring.

“Yeah, hello?” said Strike.

“Oggy?” came Graham Hardacre’s tinny voice, all the way from Germany. “I’ve got the stuff on Agyeman.”

“Your timing’s uncanny.” Strike pulled out his notebook. “Go on.”

“He’s Lieutenant Jonah Francis Agyeman, Royal Engineers. Aged twenty-one, unmarried, last tour of duty started eleventh of January. He’s back in June. Next of kin, a mother. No siblings, no kids.”

Strike scribbled it all down in his notebook, with the mobile phone held between jaw and shoulder.