The Cuckoo's Calling

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 fucking 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 fucking 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 fuck 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 fucking guts. Right back atcha, you little shit. Egging Lu on with Deeby Macc. He’d’ve got a real kick out of her fucking him. Doing me over. Hearing all the fucking details. Getting her to introduce him, get his fucking clothes photographed on a gangster. He’s no fucking 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.
    “OK, if you haven’t got anything to tell me…” said Strike, and he pushed himself up out of the armchair. To his slight surprise, and Duffield’s evident displeasure, Ciara set her empty wineglass down and began to unfold her long legs, preparatory to standing.
    “All right,” said Duffield sharply. “There’s one thing.”
    Strike sank back into his chair. Ciara thrust one of her own cigarettes at Duffield, who took it with muttered thanks, then she too sat down, watching Strike.
    “Go on,” said the latter, while Duffield fiddled with his lighter.
    “All right. I dunno whether it matters,” said the actor. “But I don’t want you to say where you got the information.”
    “I can’t guarantee that,” said Strike.
    Duffield scowled, his knees jumping up and down, smoking with his eyes on the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, Strike saw Ciara open her mouth to speak, and forestalled her, one hand in the air.
    “Well,” said Duffield, “two days ago I was having lunch with Freddie Bestigui. He left his BlackBerry on the table when he went up to the bar.” Duffield puffed and jiggled. “I don’t wanna be fired,” he said, glaring at Strike. “I need this fucking job.”
    “Go on,” said Strike.
    “He got an email. I saw Lula’s name. I read it.”
    “OK.”
    “It was from his wife. It said something like, ‘I know we’re supposed to