The Cuckoo's Calling

that?”
    She shrugged.
    “I don’t know, you’d have to ask Freddie. And good luck with that,” she added, with a little laugh. “Freddie’ll talk to you when hell freezes over.”
    “Tansy,” said Bristow, leaning in a little, “why don’t you just tell Cormoran what you actually heard that night?”
    Strike would have preferred Bristow not to intervene.
    “Well,” said Tansy. “It was getting on for two in the morning, and I wanted a drink of water.”
    Her tone was flat and expressionless. Strike noticed that, even in this small beginning, she had altered the story she had told the police.
    “So I went to the bathroom to get one, and as I was heading back across the sitting room, towards the bedroom, I heard shouting. She—Lula—was saying, ‘It’s too late, I’ve already done it,’ and then a man said, ‘You’re a lying fucking bitch,’ and then—and then he threw her over. I actually saw her fall.”
    And Tansy made a tiny jerky movement with her hands that Strike understood to indicate flailing.
    Bristow set down his glass, looking nauseated. Their main courses arrived. Ursula drank more wine. Neither Tansy nor Bristow touched their food. Strike picked up his fork and began to eat, trying not to look as though he was enjoying his puntarelle with anchovies.
    “I screamed,” whispered Tansy. “I couldn’t stop screaming. I ran out of the flat, past Freddie, and downstairs. I just wanted to tell security that there was a man up there, so they could get him.
    “Wilson came dashing out of the room behind the desk. I told him what had happened and he went straight out on to the street to see her, instead of running upstairs. Bloody fool. If only he’d gone upstairs first, he might have caught him! Then Freddie came down after me, and started trying to make me go back to our flat, because I wasn’t dressed.
    “Then Wilson came back, and told us she was dead, and told Freddie to call the police. Freddie virtually dragged me back upstairs—I was completely hysterical—and he dialed 999 from our sitting room. And then the police came. And nobody believed a single word I said.”
    She sipped her wine again, set down the glass and said quietly:
    “If Freddie knew I was talking to you, he’d go ape.”
    “But you’re quite sure, aren’t you, Tansy,” Bristow interjected, “that you heard a man up there?”
    “Yah, of course I am,” said Tansy. “I’ve just said, haven’t I? There was definitely someone there.”
    Bristow’s mobile rang.
    “Excuse me,” he muttered. “Alison…yes?” he said, picking up.
    Strike could hear the secretary’s deep voice, without being able to make out the words.
    “Excuse me just a moment,” Bristow said, looking harried, and he left the table.
    A look of malicious amusement appeared on both sisters’ smooth, polished faces. They glanced at each other again; then, somewhat to his surprise, Ursula asked Strike:
    “Have you met Alison?”
    “Briefly.”
    “You know they’re together?”
    “Yes.”
    “It’s a bit pathetic, actually,” said Tansy. “She’s with John, but she’s actually obsessed with Tony. Have you met Tony?”
    “No,” said Strike.
    “He’s one of the senior partners. John’s uncle, you know?”
    “Yes.”
    “Very attractive. He wouldn’t go for Alison in a million years. I suppose she’s settled for John as consolation prize.”
    The thought of Alison’s doomed infatuation seemed to afford the sisters great satisfaction.
    “This is all common gossip at the office, is it?” asked Strike.
    “Oh, yah,” said Ursula, with relish. “Cyprian says she’s absolutely embarrassing. Like a puppy dog around Tony.”
    Her antipathy towards Strike seemed to have evaporated. He was not surprised; he had met the phenomenon many times. People liked to talk; there were very few exceptions; the question was how you made them do it. Some, and Ursula was evidently one of them, were amenable to alcohol; others liked a spotlight; and then there were those who merely needed proximity to another conscious human being. A subsection of humanity would become loquacious only on one favorite subject: it might be their own innocence, or somebody else’s guilt; it might be their collection of pre-war biscuit tins; or it might, as in the case of Ursula May, be the hopeless passion of a plain secretary.
    Ursula was watching Bristow through the window; he was standing on the pavement, talking hard into his mobile as he paced up and