The Cuckoo's Calling

willingly.
    “When you visited Lula at her flat that morning, to return her contract with Somé, did you happen to see anyone who looked like they might have been from a security firm? There to check the alarms?”
    “Like a repairman?”
    “Or an electrician. Maybe in overalls?”
    When Bristow screwed up his face in thought, his rabbity teeth protruded more than ever.
    “I can’t remember…let me think…As I passed the flat on the second floor, yes…there was a man in there fiddling with something on the wall…Would that have been him?”
    “Probably. What did he look like?”
    “Well, he had his back to me. I couldn’t see.”
    “Was Wilson with him?”
    Bristow came to a halt on the pavement, looking a little bewildered. Three suited men and women bustled past, some carrying files.
    “I think,” he said haltingly, “I think both of them were there, with their backs to me, when I walked back downstairs. Why do you ask? How can that matter?”
    “It might not,” said Strike. “But can you remember anything at all? Hair or skin color, maybe?”
    Looking even more perplexed, Bristow said:
    “I’m afraid I didn’t really register. I suppose…” He screwed up his face again in concentration. “I remember he was wearing blue. I mean, if pressed, I’d say he was white. But I couldn’t swear to it.”
    “I doubt you’ll have to,” said Strike, “but that’s still a help.”
    He pulled out his notebook to remind himself of the questions he had wanted to put to Bristow.
    “Oh, yeah. According to her witness statement to the police, Ciara Porter said that Lula had told her she wanted to leave everything to you.”
    “Oh,” said Bristow unenthusiastically. “That.”
    He began to amble along again, and Strike moved with him.
    “One of the detectives in charge of the case told me that Ciara had said that. A Detective Inspector Carver. He was convinced from the first that it was suicide and he appeared to think that this supposed talk with Ciara demonstrated Lula’s intent to take her own life. It seemed a strange line of reasoning to me. Do suicides bother with wills?”
    “You think Ciara Porter’s inventing, then?”
    “Not inventing,” said Bristow. “Exaggerating, maybe. I think it’s much more likely that Lula said something nice about me, because we’d just made up after our row, and Ciara, in hindsight, assuming that Lula was already contemplating suicide, turned whatever it was into a bequest. She’s quite a—a fluffy sort of girl.”
    “A search was made for a will, wasn’t it?”
    “Oh yeah, the police looked very thoroughly. We—the family—didn’t think Lula had ever made one; her lawyers didn’t know of one, but naturally a search was made. Nothing was found, and they looked everywhere.”
    “Just supposing for a moment that Ciara Porter isn’t misremembering what your sister said, though…”
    “But Lula would never have left everything solely to me. Never.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because that would have explicitly cut out our mother, which would have been immensely hurtful,” said Bristow earnestly. “It isn’t the money—Dad left Mum very well off—it’s more the message that Lula would have been sending, cutting her out like that. Wills can cause all kinds of hurt. I’ve seen it happen countless times.”
    “Has your mother made a will?” Strike asked.
    Bristow looked startled.
    “I—yes, I believe so.”
    “May I ask who her legatees are?”
    “I haven’t seen it,” said Bristow, a little stiffly. “How is this…?”
    “It’s all relevant, John. Ten million quid is a hell of a lot of money.”
    Bristow seemed to be trying to decide whether or not Strike was being insensitive, or offensive. Finally he said:
    “Given that there is no other family, I would imagine that Tony and I are the main beneficiaries. Possibly one or two charities will be remembered; my mother has always been generous to charities. However, as I’m sure you’ll understand,” pink blotches were rising again up Bristow’s thin neck, “I am in no hurry to find out my mother’s last wishes, given what must happen before they are acted upon.”
    “Of course not,” said Strike.
    They had reached Bristow’s office, an austere eight-story building entered by a dark archway. Bristow stopped beside the entrance and faced Strike.
    “Do you still think I’m deluded?” he asked, as a pair of dark-suited women swept up past them.
    “No,” said Strike, honestly