The Cuckoo's Calling

stare into a camera, but she never signed up to anything, did she, John?”
    “Not as far as I know,” said Bristow. “Although…but that was something different,” he mumbled, turning blotchily pink again. He hesitated, then, responding to Strike’s interrogative gaze, he said:
    “Mr. Bestigui visited my mother a couple of weeks ago, out of the blue. She’s exceptionally poorly, and…well, I wouldn’t want to…”
    His glance at Tansy was uncomfortable.
    “Say what you like, I don’t care,” she said, with what seemed like genuine indifference.
    Bristow made the strange jutting and sucking movement that temporarily hid the hamsterish teeth.
    “Well, he wanted to talk to my mother about a film of Lula’s life. He, ah, framed his visit as something considerate and sensitive. Asking for her family’s blessing, official sanction, you know. Lula dead barely three months…Mum was distressed beyond measure. Unfortunately, I was not there when he called,” said Bristow, and his tone implied that he was generally to be found standing guard over his mother. “I wish, in a way, I had been. I wish I’d heard him out. I mean, if he’s got researchers working on Lula’s life story, much as I deplore the idea, he might know something, mightn’t he?”
    “What kind of thing?” asked Strike.
    “I don’t know. Something about her early life, perhaps? Before she came to us?”
    The waiter arrived to place starters in front of them all. Strike waited until he had gone, and then asked Bristow:
    “Have you tried to speak to Mr. Bestigui yourself, and find out whether he knew anything about Lula that the family didn’t?”
    “That’s just what’s so difficult,” said Bristow. “When Tony—my uncle—heard what had happened, he contacted Mr. Bestigui to protest about him badgering my mother, and from what I’ve heard, there was a very heated argument. I don’t think Mr. Bestigui would welcome further contact from the family. Of course, the situation’s further complicated by the fact that Tansy is using our firm for the divorce. I mean, there’s nothing in that—we’re one of the top family law firms, and with Ursula being married to Cyprian, naturally she would come to us…But I’m sure it won’t have made Mr. Bestigui feel any more kindly towards us.”
    Though he had kept his gaze on the lawyer all the time that Bristow was talking, Strike’s peripheral vision was excellent. Ursula had thrown another tiny smirk in her sister’s direction. He wondered what was amusing her. Doubtless her improved mood was not hindered by the fact that she was now on her fourth glass of wine.
    Strike finished his starter and turned to Tansy, who was pushing her virtually untouched food around her plate.
    “How long had you and your husband been at number eighteen before Lula moved in?”
    “About a year.”
    “Was there anyone in the middle flat when she arrived?”
    “Yah,” said Tansy. “There was an American couple there with their little boy for six months, but they went back to the States not long after she arrived. After that, the property company couldn’t get anyone interested at all. The recession, you know? They cost an arm and a leg, those flats. So it was empty until the record company rented it for Deeby Macc.”
    Both she and Ursula were distracted by the sight of a woman passing the table in what, to Strike, appeared to be a crocheted coat of lurid design.
    “That’s a Daumier-Cross coat,” said Ursula, her eyes slightly narrowed over her wineglass. “There’s a waiting list of, like, six months…”
    “It’s Pansy Marks-Dillon,” said Tansy. “Easy to be on the best-dressed list if your husband’s got fifty mill. Freddie’s the cheapest rich man in the world; I had to hide new stuff from him, or pretend it was fake. He could be such a bore sometimes.”
    “You always look wonderful,” said Bristow, pink in the face.
    “You’re sweet,” said Tansy Bestigui in a bored voice.
    The waiter arrived to clear away their plates.
    “What were you saying?” she asked Strike. “Oh, yah, the flats. Deeby Macc coming…except he didn’t. Freddie was furious he never got there, because he’d put roses in his flat. Freddie is such a cheap bastard.”
    “How well do you know Derrick Wilson?” Strike asked.
    She blinked.
    “Well—he’s the security guard; I don’t know him, do I? He seemed all right. Freddie always said he was the best of the bunch.”
    “Really? Why was