The Cuckoo's Calling (35 page)

“
Him?
She wouldn’t be calling
him,
she fucking hated him worse than her brother.”

“She called him, repeatedly, over the same period that she was calling you. Leaving more or less the same message.”

Duffield raked his unshaven chin with dirty nails, staring at Strike.

“I dunno what that was about. Her mum, maybe. Old Lady B going into hospital or something.”

“You don’t think something might have happened that morning which she thought was either relevant to or of interest to both you and her uncle?”

“There isn’t any subject that could interest me and her fucking uncle at the same time,” said Duffield. “I’ve met him. Share prices and shit are all he’d be interested in.”

“Maybe it was something about her, something personal?”

“If it was, she wouldn’t call that fucker. They didn’t like each other.”

“What makes you say that?”

“She felt about him like I feel about my fucking father. Neither of them thought we were worth shit.”

“Did she talk to you about that?”

“Oh, yeah. He thought her mental problems were just attention-seeking, bad behavior. Put on. Burden on her mother. He got a bit smarmier when she started making money, but she didn’t forget.”

“And she didn’t tell you why she’d been calling you, once she got to Uzi?”

“Nope,” said Duffield. He lit another cigarette. “She was fucked off from the moment she arrived, because Ellie was there. Didn’t like that at all. In a right fucking mood, wasn’t she?”

For the first time he appealed to Ciara, who nodded sadly.

“She didn’t really talk to me,” said Duffield. “She was mostly talking to you, wasn’t she?”

“Yes,” said Ciara. “And she didn’t tell me there was anything, like,
upsetting
her or anything.”

“A couple of people have told me her phone was hacked…” began Strike; Duffield talked over him.

“Oh yeah, they were listening in on our messages for fucking weeks. They knew everywhere we were meeting and everything. Fucking bastards. We changed our phone numbers when we found out what was going on and we were fucking careful what messages we left after that.”

“So you wouldn’t be surprised, if Lula had had something important or upsetting to tell you, that she didn’t want to be explicit over the phone?”

“Yeah, but if it was that fucking important, she woulda told me at the club.”

“But she didn’t?”

“No, like I say, she never spoke to me all night.” A muscle was jumping in Duffield’s chiseled jaw. “She kept checking the time on her fucking phone. I knew what she was doing; trying to wind me up. Showing me she couldn’t wait to get home and meet fucking Deeby Macc. She waited until Ellie went off to the bog; then got up, came over to tell me she was leaving, and said I could have my bangle back; the one I gave her when we had our commitment ceremony. She chucked it down on the table in front of me, with everyone fucking gawping. So I picked it up and said, ‘Anyone fancy this, it’s going spare?’ and she fucked off.”

He did not speak as though Lula had died three months previously, but as though it had all happened the day before, and there was still a possibility of reconciliation.

“You tried to restrain her, though, right?” asked Strike.

Duffield’s eyes narrowed.

“Restrain her?”

“You grabbed her arms, according to witnesses.”

“Did I? I can’t remember.”

“But she pulled free, and you stayed behind, is that right?”

“I waited ten minutes, because I wasn’t gonna give her the satisfaction of chasing her in front of all those people, and then I left the club and got my driver to take me to Kentigern Gardens.”

“Wearing the wolf mask,” said Strike.

“Yeah, to stop those fucking scumbags,” he nodded towards the window, “selling pictures of me looking wasted or pissed off. They hate it when you cover your face. Depriving them of making their fucking parasitic living. One of them tried to pull Wolfie off me, but I held on. I got in the car and gave ’em a few pictures of the Wolf giving them the finger, out the back window. Got to the corner of Kentigern Gardens and there were more paps everywhere. I knew she must’ve got in already.”

“Did you know the key code?”

“Nineteen sixty-six, yeah. But I knew she’d’ve told security not to let me up. I wasn’t gonna walk in in front of all of them and then get chucked out on me arse five minutes later. I tried to phone her from the car, but she wouldn’t pick up. I thought she’d probably gone downstairs to welcome Deeby fucking Macc to London. So I went off to see a man about pain relief.”

He ground out his cigarette on a loose playing card on the edge of the table and began hunting for more tobacco. Strike, who wanted to oil the flow of conversation, offered him one of his own.

“Oh, cheers. Cheers. Yeah. Well, I got the driver to drop me off and I went to visit my friend, who has since given the police a full statement
to that effect,
as Uncle Tony might say. Then I wandered around a bit, and there’s camera footage in that station to prove that, and then about, I dunno…threeish? Fourish?”

“Half past four,” said Ciara.

“Yeah, I went to crash at Ciara’s.”

Duffield sucked on the cigarette, watching the tip burn, then, exhaling, said cheerfully:

“So my arse is covered, is it not?”

Strike did not find his satisfaction likeable.

“And when did you find out that Lula was dead?”

Duffield drew his legs up to his chest again.

“Ciara woke me up and told me. I couldn’t—I was fucking—yeah, well. Fucking hell.”

He put his arms over the top of his head and stared at the ceiling.

“I couldn’t fucking…I couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t fucking believe it.”

And as Strike watched, he thought he saw realization wash over Duffield that the girl of whom he spoke so flippantly, and who he had, by his own account, provoked, taunted and loved, was really and definitely never coming back; that she had been smashed into pulp on snow-covered asphalt, and that she and their relationship were now beyond the possibility of repair. For a moment, staring at the blank white ceiling, Duffield’s face became grotesque as he appeared to grin from ear to ear; it was a grimace of pain, of the exertion necessary to beat back tears. His arms slipped down, and he buried his face in them, his forehead on his knees.

“Oh,
sweetie,”
said Ciara, putting her wine down on the table with a clunk, and reaching forward to place a hand on his bony knee.

“This has fucked me up proper,” said Duffield thickly from behind his arms. “This has fucked me up good. I wanted to marry her. I fucking loved her, I did. Fuck, I don’t wanna talk about it anymore.”

He jumped up and left the room, sniffing ostentatiously and wiping his nose on his sleeve.

“Didn’t I
tell
you?” Ciara whispered to Strike. “He’s a
mess.
”

“Oh, I don’t know. He seems to have cleaned up his act. Off heroin for a month.”

“I
know,
and I don’t want him to fall off the wagon.”

“This is a lot gentler than he would have had from the police. This is polite.”

“You’ve got an awful look on your face, though. Really, like,
stern
and as if you don’t believe a word he’s saying.”

“D’you think he’s going to come back?”

“Yes, of course he is.
Please
be a bit nicer…”

She sat quickly back in her seat as Duffield walked back in; he was grim-faced and his camp strut was very slightly subdued. He flung himself into the chair he had previously occupied and said to Strike:

“I’m out of fags. Can I have another one of yours?”

Reluctantly, because he was down to three, Strike handed it across, lit it for him, then said:

“All right to keep talking?”

“About Lula? You can talk, if you want. I dunno what else I can tell you. I ain’t got any more information.”

“Why did you split up? The first time, I mean; I’m clear on why she ditched you in Uzi.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ciara make an indignant little gesture; apparently this did not qualify as “nicer.”

“What the fuck’s that got to do with anything?”

“It’s all relevant,” said Strike. “It all gives a picture of what was going on in her life. It all helps explain why she might’ve killed herself.”

“I thought you were looking for a murderer?”

“I’m looking for the truth. So why
did
you break up, the first time?”

“Fuck, how’s this fucking important?” exploded Duffield. His temper, as Strike had expected, was violent and short-fused. “What, are you trying to make out it’s my fault she fucking jumped off a balcony? How can us splitting up the first time have anything to do with it, knucklehead? That was two fucking months before she died. Fuck, I could call meself a detective and ask a lot of fuckass questions. Bet it pays all right, dunnit, if you can find some fuckwit rich client?”

“Evan, don’t,” said Ciara, distressed. “You said you wanted to help…”

“Yeah, I wanna help, but how’s this fucking fair?”

“No problem, if you don’t want to answer,” said Strike. “You’re under no obligation here.”

“I ain’t got nothing to hide, it’s just fucking personal stuff, innit? We split up,” he shouted, “because of drugs, and her family and her friends putting down poison about me, and because she didn’t trust nobody because of the fucking press, all right? Because of all the
pressure.”

And Duffield made his hands into trembling claws and pressed them, like earphones, over his ears, making a compressing movement.

“Pressure, fucking
pressure,
that’s why we split up.”

“You were taking a lot of drugs at the time, were you?”

“Yeah.”

“And Lula didn’t like it?”

“Well, people round her were telling her she didn’t like it, you know?”

“Like who?”

“Like her family, like fucking Guy Somé. That little pansy
twat.”

“When you say that she didn’t trust anybody because of the press, what do you mean by that?”

“Fuck, innit obvious? Don’t you know all this, from your old man?”

“I know jack shit about my father,” said Strike coolly.

“Well, they were tapping her fucking
phone,
man, and that gives you a weird fucking
feeling
; haven’t you got any imagination? She started getting paranoid about people selling stuff on her. Trying to work out what she’d said on the phone, and what she hadn’t, and who mighta given stuff to the papers and that. It fucked with her head.”

“Was she accusing
you
of selling stories?”

“No,” snapped Duffield, and then, just as vehemently, “Yeah, sometimes.
How did they know we were coming here, how did they know I said that to you, yadda yadda yadda
…I said to her, it’s all part and fucking parcel of fame, innit, but she thought she could have her cake and eat it.”

“But you didn’t ever sell stories about her to the press?”

He heard Ciara’s hissing intake of breath.

“No I fucking didn’t,” said Duffield quietly, holding Strike’s gaze without blinking. “No I fucking did not. All right?”

“And you split up for how long?”

“Two months, give or take.”

“But you got back together, what, a week before she died?”

“Yeah. At Mo Innes’s party.”

“And you had this commitment ceremony forty-eight hours later? At Carbury’s house in the Cotswolds?”

“Yeah.”

“And who knew that was going to happen?”

“It was a spontaneous thing. I bought the bangles and we just did it. It was beautiful, man.”

“It really was,” echoed Ciara sadly.

“So, for the press to have found out so quickly, someone who was there must have told them?”

“Yeah, I s’pose so.”

“Because your phones weren’t being tapped then, were they? You’d changed your numbers.”

“I don’t fucking know if they were being tapped. Ask the shits at the rags who do it.”

“Did she talk to you at all about trying to trace her father?”

“He was dead…what, you mean the real one? Yeah, she was interested, but it was no go, wannit? Her mother didn’t know who he was.”

“She never told you whether she’d managed to find out anything about him?”

“She tried, but she didn’t get anywhere, so she decided that she was gonna to do a course in African studies. That was gonna be Daddy, the whole fucking continent of Africa. Fucking Somé was behind that, shit-stirring as usual.”

“In what way?”

“Anything that took her away from me was good. Anything that bracketed them together. He was one possessive bastard where she was concerned. He was in love with her. I know he’s a poof,” Duffield added impatiently, as Ciara began to protest, “but he’s not the first one I’ve known who’s gone funny over a girlfriend. He’ll fuck anything, man-wise, but he didn’t want to let her out of his sight. He threw hissy fits if she didn’t see him, he didn’t like her working for anyone else.

“He hates my fucking guts. Right back atcha, you little shit. Egging Lu on with Deeby Macc. He’d’ve got a real kick out of her fucking him. Doing me over. Hearing all the fucking details. Getting her to introduce him, get his fucking clothes photographed on a gangster. He’s no fucking fool, Somé. He used her for his business all the time. Tried to get her cheap and for free, and she was dumb enough to let him.”

“Did Somé give you these?” asked Strike, pointing at the black leather gloves on the coffee table. He had recognized the tiny gold GS logo on the cuff.

“You what?”

Duffield leaned over and hooked one of the gloves on to an index finger; he dangled it in front of his eyes, examining it.

“Fuck, you’re right. They’re going in the bin, then,” and he threw the glove into a corner; it hit the abandoned guitar, which let out a hollow, echoing chord. “I kept them from that shoot,” said Duffield, pointing at the black-and-white magazine cover. “Somé wouldn’t give me the steam off his piss. Have you got another fag?”

“I’m all out,” lied Strike. “Are you going to tell me why you invited me home, Evan?”

There was a long silence. Duffield glared at Strike, who intuited that the actor knew he was lying about having no cigarettes. Ciara was gazing at him too, her lips slightly parted, the epitome of beautiful bewilderment.