The Cuckoo's Calling

attempts to question him over the raucous yells of her youngest. Feeling almost kindly towards his peaceful office, he stubbed out the cigarette, got up and prepared to take his usual shower at ULU.
    He finally reached Derrick Wilson, after several more attempts, late on Sunday evening.
    “You can’t come this week,” said Wilson. “Mister Bestigui’s round a lot at the moment. I gotta think about mi job, you understand me. I’ll call you if there’s a good time, all right?”
    Strike heard a distant buzzer.
    “Are you at work now?” called Strike, before Wilson could hang up.
    He heard the security guard say, away from the receiver:
    “(Just sign the book, mate.) What?” he added loudly, to Strike.
    “If you’re there now, could you check the logbook for the name of a friend who used to visit Lula sometimes?”
    “What friend?” asked Wilson. “(Yeah, see yuh.)”
    “The girl Kieran talked about; the friend from rehab. Rochelle. I want her surname.”
    “Oh, her, yeah,” said Wilson. “Yeah, I’ll take a look an’ I’ll buzz y—”
    “Could you have a quick look now?”
    He heard Wilson sigh.
    “Yeah, all right. Wait there.”
    Indistinct sounds of movement, clunks and scrapings, then the flick of turning pages. While Strike waited, he contemplated various items of clothing designed by Guy Somé, which were arrayed on his computer screen.
    “Yeah, she’s here,” said Wilson’s voice in his ear. “Her name’s Rochelle…I can’ read…looks like Onifade.”
    “Can you spell it?”
    Wilson did so, and Strike wrote it down.
    “When’s the last time she was there, Derrick?”
    “Back in early November,” said Wilson. “(Yeah, good evenin’.) I gotta go now.”
    He put the receiver down on Strike’s thanks, and the detective returned to his can of Tennent’s and his contemplation of modern day-wear, as envisaged by Guy Somé, in particular a hooded zip-up jacket with a stylized GS in gold on the upper left-hand side. The logo was much in evidence on all the ready-to-wear clothing in the menswear section of the designer’s website. Strike was not entirely clear on the definition of “ready-to-wear”; it seemed a statement of the obvious, though whatever else the phrase might connote, it meant “cheaper.” The second section of the site, named simply “Guy Somé,” contained clothing that routinely ran into thousands of pounds. Despite Robin’s best endeavors, the designer of these maroon suits, these narrow knitted ties, these minidresses embroidered with mirror fragments, these leather fedoras, was continuing to turn a corporate deaf ear to all requests for an interview concerning the death of his favorite model.

4
You think i wont fucking hurt you but your wrong you cunt I am comming for you I fucking trusted you and you did this to me. I am going to pull your fucking dick off and stuff it down you throat They will find you chocking on your own dick when ive finish with you your own mother wont no you i am going to fucking kill you Strike you peice of shit
    “It’s a nice day out there.”
    “Will you please read this? Please?”
    It was Monday morning, and Strike had just returned from a smoke in the sunny street and a chat with the girl from the record shop opposite. Robin’s hair was loose again; she obviously had no more interviews today. This deduction, and the effects of sunlight after rain, combined to lift Strike’s spirits. Robin, however, looked strained, standing behind her desk and holding out a pink piece of paper embellished with the usual kittens.
    “Still at it, is he?”
    Strike took the letter and read it through, grinning.
    “I don’t understand why you aren’t going to the police,” said Robin. “The things he’s saying he wants to do to you…”
    “Just file it,” said Strike dismissively, tossing the letter down and rifling through the rest of the paltry pile of mail.
    “Yes, well, that’s not all,” said Robin, clearly annoyed by his attitude. “Temporary Solutions have just called.”
    “Yeah? What did they want?”
    “They asked for me,” said Robin. “They obviously suspect I’m still here.”
    “And what did you say?”
    “I pretended to be somebody else.”
    “Quick thinking. Who?”
    “I said my name was Annabel.”
    “When asked to come up with a fake name on the spot, people usually choose one beginning with ‘A,’ did you know that?”
    “But what if they send somebody to check?”
    “Well?”
    “It’s