The Cuckoo's Calling

Duffield was talking to a sexy brunette. Her lips were parted as she listened, almost ludicrously immersed in him. As Ciara and Strike drew nearer, Strike saw Duffield glance away from the brunette for a fraction of a second, making, Strike thought, a lightning-fast recce of the bar, taking the measure of the room’s attention, and of other possibilities it might offer.

“Ciara!” he yelled hoarsely.

The brunette looked deflated as Duffield jumped nimbly to his feet; thin and yet well muscled, he slid out from behind the table to embrace Ciara, who was eight inches taller than he in her platform shoes; she dropped Strike’s hand to return the hug. The whole bar seemed, for a few shining moments, to be watching; then they remembered themselves, and returned to their chat and their cocktails.

“Evan, this is Cormoran Strike,” said Ciara. She moved her mouth close to Duffield’s ear and Strike saw rather than heard her say, “He’s Jonny Rokeby’s son!”

“All right, mate?” asked Duffield, holding out a hand, which Strike shook.

Like other inveterate womanizers Strike had encountered, Duffield’s voice and mannerisms were slightly camp. Perhaps such men became feminized by prolonged immersion in women’s company, or perhaps it was a way of disarming their quarry. Duffield indicated with a flutter of the hand that the others should move along the bench to make room for Ciara; the brunette looked crestfallen. Strike was left to find himself a low stool, drag it alongside the table and ask Ciara what she wanted to drink.

“Oooh, get me a Boozy-Uzi,” she said, “and use my money, sweetie.”

Her cocktail smelled strongly of Pernod. Strike bought himself water, and returned to the table. Ciara and Duffield were now almost nose to nose, talking; but when Strike set down the drinks, Duffield looked around.

“So what d’you do, Cormoran? Music biz?”

“No,” said Strike. “I’m a detective.”

“No shit,” said Duffield. “Who’m I supposed to have killed this time?”

The group around him permitted themselves wry, or nervous, smiles, but Ciara said:

“Don’t joke, Evan.”

“I’m not joking, Ciara. You’ll notice when I am, because it’ll be fucking funny.”

The brunette giggled.

“I said I’m not joking,” snapped Duffield.

The brunette looked as though she had been slapped. The rest of the group seemed imperceptibly to withdraw, even in the cramped space; they began their own conversation, temporarily excluding Ciara, Strike and Duffield.

“Evan, not nice,” said Ciara, but her reproach seemed to caress rather than sting, and Strike noticed that the glance she threw the brunette held no pity.

Duffield drummed his fingers on the edge of the table.

“So, what kind of a detective are you, Cormoran?”

“A private one.”

“Evan, darling, Cormoran’s been hired by Looly’s brother…”

But Duffield had apparently spotted someone or something of interest up at the bar, for he leapt to his feet and disappeared into the crowd there.

“He’s always a bit ADHD,” said Ciara apologetically. “Plus, he’s still really, really fucked up about Looly. He is,” she insisted, half cross, half amused, as Strike raised his eyebrows and looked pointedly in the direction of the voluptuous brunette, who was now cradling an empty mojito glass and looking morose. “You’ve got something on your smart jacket,” Ciara added, and she leaned forwards to brush off what Strike thought were pizza crumbs. He caught a strong whiff of her sweet, spicy perfume. The silver material of her dress was so stiff that it gaped, like armor, away from her body, affording him an unhampered view of small white breasts and pointed shell-pink nipples.

“What’s that perfume you’re wearing?”

She thrust a wrist under his nose.

“It’s Guy’s new one,” she said. “It’s called Éprise—it’s French for ‘smitten,’ you know?”

“Yeah,” he said.

Duffield had returned, holding another drink, cleaving his way back through the crowd, whose faces revolved after him, tugged by his aura. His legs in their tight jeans were like black pipe cleaners, and with his darkly smudged eyes he looked like a Pierrot gone bad.

“Evan, babes,” said Ciara, when Duffield had reseated himself, “Cormoran’s investigating—”

“He heard you the first time,” Strike interrupted her. “There’s no need.”

He thought that the actor had heard that, too. Duffield drank his drink quickly, and tossed a few comments into the group beside them. Ciara sipped her cocktail, then nudged Duffield.

“How’s the film going, sweetie?”

“Great. Well. Suicidal drug dealer. It’s not a stretch, y’know.”

Everyone smiled, except Duffield himself. He drummed his fingers on the table, his legs jerking in time.

“Bored now,” he announced.

He was squinting towards the door, and the group was watching him, openly yearning, Strike thought, to be scooped up and taken along.

Duffield looked from Ciara to Strike.

“Wanna come back to mine?”

“Fabby,” squeaked Ciara, and with a feline glance of triumph at the brunette, she downed her drink in one.