The Cuckoo's Calling

had driven since his leg had been blown off. He had tried driving Charlotte’s Lexus, but today, trying not to feel in any way emasculated, he had hired an automatic Honda Civic.
    The journey to Iver Heath took under an hour. Entrance into Pinewood Studios was effected by a combination of fast talk, intimidation and the flashing of genuine, though outdated, official documentation; the security guard, initially impassive, was rocked by Strike’s air of easy confidence, by the words “Special Investigation Branch,” by the pass bearing his photograph.
    “Have you got an appointment?” he asked Strike, feet above him in the box beside the electric barrier, his hand covering the telephone receiver.
    “No.”
    “What’s it about?”
    “Mr. Evan Duffield,” said Strike, and he saw the security guard scowl as he turned away and muttered into the receiver.
    After a minute or so, Strike was given directions and waved through. He followed a gently winding road around the outskirts of the studio building, reflecting again on the convenient uses to which some people’s reputations for chaos and self-destruction could be put.
    He parked a few rows behind a chauffeured Mercedes occupying a space with a sign in it reading: PRODUCER FREDDIE BESTIGUI, made his unhurried exit from the car while Bestigui’s driver watched him in the rearview mirror, and proceeded through a glass door that led to a nondescript, institutional set of stairs. A young man was jogging down them, looking like a slightly tidier version of Spanner.
    “Where can I find Mr. Freddie Bestigui?” Strike asked him.
    “Second floor, first office on the right.”
    He was as ugly as his pictures, bull-necked and pockmarked, sitting behind a desk on the far side of a glass partition wall, scowling at his computer monitor. The outer office was busy and cluttered, full of attractive young women at desks; film posters were tacked to pillars and photographs of pets were pinned up beside filming schedules. The pretty girl nearest the door, who was wearing a switchboard microphone in front of her mouth, looked up at Strike and said:
    “Hello, can I help you?”
    “I’m here to see Mr. Bestigui. Not to worry, I’ll see myself in.”
    He was inside Bestigui’s office before she could respond.
    Bestigui looked up, his eyes tiny between pouches of flesh, black moles sprinkled over the swarthy skin.
    “Who are you?”
    He was already pushing himself up, thick-fingered hands clutching the edge of his desk.
    “I’m Cormoran Strike. I’m a private detective, I’ve been hired…”
    “ Elena!” Bestigui knocked his coffee over; it was spreading across the polished wood, into all his papers. “Get the fuck out! Out! OUT!”
    “…by Lula Landry’s brother, John Bristow—”
    “ELENA!”
    The pretty, thin girl wearing the headset ran inside and stood fluttering beside Strike, terrified.
    “Call security, you dozy little bitch!”
    She ran outside. Bestigui, who was five feet six inches at the most, had pushed his way out from behind his desk now; as unafraid of the enormous Strike as a pit bull whose yard has been invaded by a Rottweiler. Elena had left the door open; the inhabitants of the outer office were staring in, frightened, mesmerized.
    “I’ve been trying to get hold of you for a few weeks, Mr. Bestigui…”
    “You are in a shitload of trouble, my friend,” said Bestigui, advancing with a set jaw, his thick shoulders braced.
    “…to talk about the night Lula Landry died.”
    Two men in white shirts and carrying walkie-talkies were running along the glass wall to Strike’s right; young, fit, tense-looking.
    “Get him out of here!” Bestigui roared, pointing at Strike, as the two guards bounced off each other in the doorway, then forced their way inside.
    “Specifically,” said Strike, “about the whereabouts of your wife, Tansy, when Lula fell…”
    “Get him out of here and call the fucking police! How did he get in here?”
    “…because I’ve been shown some photographs that make sense of your wife’s testimony. Get your hands off me,” Strike added to the younger of the guards now tugging his upper arm, “or I’ll knock you through that window.”
    The security guard did not let go, but looked towards Bestigui for instructions.
    The producer’s bright dark eyes were fixed intently on Strike. He clenched and relaxed his thug’s hands. After several long seconds he said:
    “You’re full of shit.”
    But he did not