Free The Cuckoo's Calling by Robert Galbraith Page A

applying his eyeliner.
    “Look at those flowers!”
    Duffield slid up into the top of the screen and vanished: Robin had paused on the photograph of an enormous wreath in the shape of what Strike took, initially, to be a heart, before realizing it represented two curved angel wings, composed of white roses. An inset photograph showed a close-up of the attached card.
    “ ‘Rest in peace, Angel Lula. Deeby Macc,’ ” Robin read aloud.
    “Deeby Macc? The rapper? So they knew each other, did they?”
    “No, I don’t think so; but there was that whole thing about him renting a flat in her building; she’d been mentioned in a couple of his songs, hadn’t she? The press were all excited about him staying there…”
    “You’re well informed on the subject.”
    “Oh, you know, just magazines,” said Robin vaguely, scrolling back through the funeral photographs.
    “What kind of name is ‘Deeby’?” Strike wondered aloud.
    “It comes from his initials. It’s ‘D. B.’ really,” she enunciated clearly. “His real name’s Daryl Brandon Macdonald.”
    “A rap fan, are you?”
    “No,” said Robin, still intent on the screen. “I just remember things like that.”
    She clicked off the images she was perusing and began tapping away on the keyboard again. Strike returned to his photographs. The next showed Mr. Geoffrey Hook kissing his ginger-haired companion, hand palpating one large, canvas-covered buttock, outside Ealing Broadway Tube station.
    “Here’s a bit of film on YouTube, look,” said Robin. “Deeby Macc talking about Lula after she died.”
    “Let’s see it,” said Strike, rolling his chair forwards a couple of feet and then, on second thought, back one.
    The grainy little video, three inches by four, jerked into life. A large black man wearing some kind of hooded top with a fist picked out in studs on the chest sat in a black leather chair, facing an unseen interviewer. His hair was closely shaven and he wore sunglasses.
    “…Lula Landry’s suicide?” said the interviewer, who was English.
    “That was fucked-up, man, that was fucked-up,” replied Deeby, running his hand over his smooth head. His voice was soft, deep and hoarse, with the very faintest trace of a lisp. “That’s what they do to success: they hunt you down, they tear you down. That’s what envy does, my friend. The motherfuckin’ press chased her out that window. Let her rest in peace, I say. She’s getting peace right now.”
    “Pretty shocking welcome to London for you,” said the interviewer, “with her, y’know, like, falling past your window?”
    Deeby Macc did not answer at once. He sat very still, staring at the interviewer through his opaque lenses. Then he said:
    “I wasn’t there, or you got someone who says I was?”
    The interviewer’s yelp of nervous, hastily stifled laughter jarred.
    “God, no, not at all—not…”
    Deeby turned his head and addressed someone standing off-camera.
    “Think I oughta’ve brought my lawyers?”
    The interviewer brayed with sycophantic laughter. Deeby looked back at him, still unsmiling.
    “Deeby Macc,” said the breathless interviewer, “thank you very much for your time.”
    An outstretched white hand slid forwards on to the screen; Deeby raised his own in a fist. The white hand reconstituted itself, and they bumped knuckles. Somebody off-screen laughed derisively. The video ended.
    “ ‘The motherfuckin’ press chased her out that window,’ ” Strike repeated, rolling his chair back to its original position. “Interesting point of view.”
    He felt his mobile phone vibrate in his trouser pocket, and drew it out. The sight of Charlotte’s name attached to a new text caused a surge of adrenalin through his body, as though he had just sighted a crouching beast of prey.
I will be out on Friday morning between 9 and 12 if you want to collect your things.
    “What?” He had the impression that Robin had just spoken.
    “I said, there’s a horrible piece here