The Cuckoo's Calling

and the drowned girl was consumed by fire. The silent mourners exchanged pained, awkward smiles at the back of the crematorium; hovering, trying not to add unseemly haste of departure to the other inadequacies of the service. Rochelle’s aunt, who projected an aura of eccentricity that bordered on instability, introduced herself as Winifred, then announced loudly, with an accusatory undertone:
    “Dere’s sandwiches in the pub. I thought dere would be more people.”
    She led the way outside, as if brooking no opposition, up the street to the Red Lion, the six other mourners following in her wake, heads bowed slightly against the rain.
    The promised sandwiches sat, dry and unappetizing, on a metal foil tray covered in cling film, on a small table in the corner of the dingy pub. At some point on the walk to the Red Lion Aunt Winifred had realized who John Bristow was, and she now took overpowering possession of him, pinning him up against the bar, gabbling at him without pause. Bristow responded whenever she allowed him to get a word in edgewise, but the looks he cast towards Strike, who was talking to Rochelle’s psychiatrist, became more frequent and desperate as the minutes passed.
    The psychiatrist parried all Strike’s attempts to engage him in conversation about the outpatients’ group he had run, finally countering a question about disclosures Rochelle might have made with a polite but firm reminder about patient confidentiality.
    “Were you surprised that she killed herself?”
    “No, not really. She was a very troubled girl, you know, and Lula Landry’s death was a great shock to her.”
    Shortly afterwards he issued a general farewell and left.
    Robin, who had been trying to make conversation with a monosyllabic Alison at a small table beside the window, gave up and headed for the Ladies.
    Strike ambled across the small lounge and sat down in Robin’s abandoned seat. Alison threw him an unfriendly look, then resumed her contemplation of Bristow, who was still being harangued by Rochelle’s aunt. Alison had not unbuttoned her rain-flecked coat. A small glass of what looked like port stood on the table in front of her, and a slightly scornful smile played around her mouth, as though she found her surroundings ramshackle and inadequate. Strike was still trying to think of a good opener when she said unexpectedly:
    “John was supposed to be at a meeting with Conway Oates’s executors this morning. He’s left Tony to meet them on his own. Tony’s absolutely furious.”
    Her tone implied that Strike was in some way responsible for this, and that he deserved to know what trouble he had caused. She took a sip of port. Her hair hung limply to her shoulders and her big hands dwarfed the glass. In spite of a plainness that would have made wallflowers of other women, she radiated a great sense of self-importance.
    “You don’t think it was a nice gesture for John to come to the funeral?” asked Strike.
    Alison gave a scathing little “huh,” a token laugh.
    “It’s not as though he knew this girl.”
    “Why did you come along, then?”
    “Tony wanted me to.”
    Strike noted the pleasurable self-consciousness with which she pronounced her boss’s name.
    “Why?”
    “To keep an eye on John.”
    “Tony thinks John needs watching, does he?”
    She did not answer.
    “They share you, John and Tony, don’t they?”
    “What?” she said sharply.
    He was glad to have discomposed her.
    “They share your services? As a secretary?”
    “Oh—oh, no. I work for Tony and Cyprian; I’m the senior partners’ secretary.”
    “Ah. I wonder why I thought you were John’s too?”
    “I work on a completely different level,” said Alison. “John uses the typing pool. I have nothing to do with him at work.”
    “Yet romance blossomed across secretarial rank and floors?”
    She met his facetiousness with more disdainful silence. She seemed to see Strike as intrinsically offensive, somebody undeserving of manners, beyond the pale.
    The hostel worker stood alone in a corner, helping himself to sandwiches, palpably killing time until he could decently leave. Robin emerged from the Ladies, and was instantly suborned by Bristow, who seemed eager for assistance in coping with Aunt Winifred.
    “So, how long have you and John been together?” asked Strike.
    “A few months.”
    “You got together before Lula died, did you?”
    “He asked me out not long afterwards,” she said.
    “He must have been in a