The Cuckoo's Calling

For a moment, God forbid…but it’s not him. Wrong name. Dreadful, this war, isn’t it? And is it worth this loss of life?”
    Strike shifted the weight off his prosthesis—the trudge across the park had not helped the soreness in his leg—and made a noncommittal noise.
    “Let’s walk back,” said Bristow, when they had finished eating. “I fancy some fresh air.”
    Bristow chose the most direct route, which involved navigating stretches of lawn that Strike would not have chosen to walk, on his own, because it demanded much more energy than tarmac. As they passed the memorial fountain to Diana, Princess of Wales, whispering, tinkling and gushing along its long channel of Cornish granite, Bristow suddenly announced, as though Strike had asked:
    “Tony’s never liked me much. He preferred Charlie. People said that Charlie looked like Tony did, when he was a boy.”
    “I can’t say he spoke about Charlie with much fondness before you arrived, and he doesn’t seem to have had much time for Lula, either.”
    “Didn’t he give you his views on heredity?”
    “By implication.”
    “No, well, he’s not usually shy about them. It made an extra bond between Lula and me, the fact that Uncle Tony considered us a pair of sow’s ears. It was worse for Lula; at least my biological parents must have been white. Tony’s not what you’d call unprejudiced. We had a Pakistani trainee last year; she was one of the best we’ve ever had, but Tony drove her out.”
    “What made you go and work with him?”
    “They made me a good offer. It’s the family firm; my grandfather started it, not that that was an inducement. No one wants to be accused of nepotism. But it’s one of the top family law firms in London, and it made my mother happy to think I was following in her father’s footsteps. Did he have a go at my father?”
    “Not really. He hinted that Sir Alec might have greased some palms to get Lula.”
    “Really?” Bristow sounded surprised. “I don’t think that’s true. Lula was in care. I’m sure the usual procedures were followed.”
    There was a short silence, after which Bristow said, a little timidly:
    “You, ah, don’t look very much like your father.”
    It was the first time that he had acknowledged openly that he might have been sidetracked on to Wikipedia while researching private detectives.
    “No,” agreed Strike. “I’m the spitting image of my Uncle Ted.”
    “I gather that you and your father aren’t—ah—I mean, you don’t use his name?”
    Strike did not resent the curiosity from a man whose family background was almost as unconventional and casualty-strewn as his own.
    “I’ve never used it,” he said. “I’m the extramarital accident that cost Jonny a wife and several million pounds in alimony. We’re not close.”
    “I admire you,” said Bristow, “for making your own way. For not relying on him.” And when Strike did not answer, he added anxiously, “I hope you didn’t mind me telling Tansy who your father is? It—it helped get her to talk to you. She’s impressed by famous people.”
    “All’s fair in securing a witness statement,” said Strike. “You say that Lula didn’t like Tony, and yet she took his name professionally?”
    “Oh no, she chose Landry because it was Mum’s maiden name; nothing to do with Tony. Mum was thrilled. I think there was another model called Bristow. Lula liked to stand out.”
    They wove their way through passing cyclists, bench-picnickers, dog walkers and roller skaters, Strike trying to disguise the increasing unevenness in his step.
    “I don’t think Tony’s ever really loved anyone in his life, you know,” said Bristow suddenly, as they stood aside to allow a helmeted child, wobbling along on a skateboard, to pass. “Whereas my mother’s a very loving person. She loved all three of her children very much, and I sometimes think Tony didn’t like it. I don’t know why. It’s something in his nature.
    “There was a breach between him and my parents after Charlie died. I wasn’t supposed to know what was said, but I heard enough. He as good as told Mum that Charlie’s accident was her fault, that Charlie had been out of control. My father threw Tony out of the house. Mum and Tony were only really reconciled after Dad died.”
    To Strike’s relief, they had reached Exhibition Road, and his limp became less perceptible.
    “Do you think there was ever anything between Lula and Kieran Kolovas-Jones?” he