The Cuckoo's Calling - Страница 57

“Did she ask you about her father?”

“Yeah, an’ I told ’er ev’rything I knew. ’E was an African student. Lived upstairs from me, jus’ along the road ’ere, Barking Road, wiv two others. There’s the bookie’s downstairs now. Very good-looking boy. ’Elped me with me shopping a couple of times.”

To hear Marlene Higson tell it, the courtship had proceeded with an almost Victorian respectability; she and the African student seemed barely to have progressed past handshakes during the first months of their acquaintance.

“And then, ’cos ’e’d ’elped me all them times, one day I asked ’im in, y’know, jus’ as a thank-you, really. I’m not a prejudiced person. Ev’ryone’s the same to me. Fancy a cuppa, I sez, that were all. And then,” said Marlene, harsh reality clanging down amidst the vague impressions of teacups and doilies, “I finds out I’m expecting.”

“Did you tell him?”

“Oh yeah, an’ ’e was full of ’ow ’e was gonna ’elp, an’ shoulder ’is respons’bilities, an’ make sure I wuz all right. An’ then it was the college ’olidays. ’E said ’e was coming back,” said Marlene, contemptuously. “Then ’e ran a mile. Don’t they all? And what was I gonna do, run off to Africa to find ’im?

“It was no skin off my nose, anyway. I wasn’t breaking me ’eart; I was seeing Dez by then. ’E didn’t mind the baby. I moved in with Dez not long after Joe left.”

“Joe?”

“That was his name. Joe.”

She said it with conviction, but perhaps, thought Strike, that was because she had repeated the lie so often that the story had become easy, automatic.

“What was his surname?”

“I can’ fuckin’ remember. You’re like her. It was twenny-odd years ago. Mumumba,” said Marlene Higson, unabashed. “Or something like that.”

“Could it have been Agyeman?”

“No.”

“Owusu?”

“I toldya,” she said aggressively, “it were Mumumba or something.”

“Not Macdonald? Or Wilson?”

“You takin’ the piss? Macdonald? Wilson? From Africa?”

Strike concluded that her relationship with the African had never progressed to the exchange of surnames.

“And he was a student, you said? Where was he studying?”

“College,” said Marlene.

“Which one, can you remember?”

“I don’t bloody know. All right if I cadge a ciggie?” she added, in a slightly more conciliatory tone.

“Yeah, help yourself.”

She lit her cigarette with her own plastic lighter, puffed enthusiastically, then said, mellowed by the free tobacco:

“It mighta bin somethin’ to do with a museum. Attached, like.”

“Attached to a museum?”

“Yeah, ’cause I remember ’im sayin’, ‘Ay sometimes visit the museum in my free ahrs.’ ” Her imitation made the African student sound like an upper-class Englishman. She was smirking, as though this choice of recreation was absurd, ludicrous.

“Can you remember which museum it was that he visited?”

“The—the Museum of England or summit,” she said; and then, irritably, “You’re like her. How the fuck am I s’posedta remember after all this time?”

“And you never saw him again after he went home?”

“Nope,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting to.” She drank lager. “He’s probably dead,” she said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Africa, innit?” she said. “He coulda bin shot, couldn’t ’e? Or starved. Anythin’. Y’know what it’s like out there.”

Strike did know. He remembered the teeming streets of Nairobi; the aerial view of Angola’s rainforest, mist hanging over the treetops, and the sudden breathtaking beauty, as the chopper turned, of a waterfall in the lush green mountainside; and the Masai woman, baby at her breast, sitting on a box while Strike questioned her painstakingly about alleged rape, and Tracey manned the video camera beside him.

“D’you know whether Lula tried to find her father?”

“Yeah, she tried,” said Marlene dismissively.

“How?”

“She looked up college records,” said Marlene.

“But if you couldn’t remember where he went…”

“I dunno, she thought she’d found the place or summit, but she couldn’t find ’im, no. Mebbe I wasn’ remembrin’ his name right, I dunno. She used to go on an’ fuckin’ on; what did ’e look like, where was ’e studyin’. I said to ’er, he was tall an’ skinny an’ you wanna be grateful you got my ears, not ’is, ’cause there wouldna bin no fuckin’ modelin’ career if you’d got them fucking elephant lugs.”

“Did Lula ever talk to you about her friends?”

“Oh, yeah. There was that little black bitch, Raquelle, or whatever she called ’erself. Leechin’ all she could outta Lula. Oh, she did herself all right. Fuckin’ clothes an’ jew’lry an’ I-dunno-what-the-fuck else. I sez to Lula once, ‘I wouldn’ mind a new coat.’ But I wasn’ pushy, see. That Raquelle din’ mind askin’.”

She sniffed, and drained her glass.

“Did you ever meet Rochelle?”

“That was ’er name, was it? Yeah, once. She come along in a fuckin’ car with a driver to pick Lula up from seein’ me. Like Lady Muck out the back window, sneerin’ at me. She’ll be missin’ all of that now, I ’spect. In it for all she could get.

“An’ there was that Ciara Porter,” Marlene plowed on, with, if possible, even greater spite, “sleepin’ with Lula’s boyfriend the night she fuckin’ died. Nasty fuckin’ bitch.”

“Do you know Ciara Porter?”

“I seen it in the fuckin’ papers. ’E wen’ off to ’er place, di’n’t ’e, Evan? After he rowed with Lula. Went to Ciara. Fuckin’ bitch.”

It became clear, as Marlene talked on, that Lula had kept her natural mother firmly segregated from her friends, and that, with the exception of a brief glimpse of Rochelle, Marlene’s opinions and deductions about Lula’s social set were based entirely on the press reports she had greedily consumed.

Strike fetched more drinks, and listened to Marlene describe the horror and shock she had experienced on hearing (from the neighbor who had run in with the news, early in the morning of the 8th) that her daughter had fallen to her death from her balcony. Careful questioning revealed that Lula had not seen Marlene for two months before she died. Strike then listened to a diatribe about the treatment she had received from Lula’s adoptive family, following the model’s death.

“They di’n’t want me around, ’specially that fuckin’ uncle. ’Ave ya met ’im, ’ave ya? Fuckin’ Tony Landry? I contacted ’im abou’ the funeral an’ all I got was threats. Oh yeah. Fuckin’ threats. I said to ’im, ‘I’m ’er mother. I gotta right to be there.’ An’ he tole me I wasn’t ’er mother, that mad bitch was ’er mother, Lady Bristow. Funny, I says, ’cause I remember pushing ’er outta my fanny. Sorry for my crudity, but there you are. An’ he said I was causing distress, talkin’ to the press. They come an’ found me,” she told Strike furiously, and she jabbed her finger at the block of flats overlooking them. “Press come an’ foun’ me. ’Course I tole my side o’ the fuckin’ story. ’Course I did.

“Well, I didn’t wanna scene, not at a funeral, I didn’t wanna ruin things, but I wasn’t gonna be kept away. I went an’ sat in the back. I seen fuckin’ Rochelle there, givin’ me looks like I wuz dirt. But nobody stopped me in the end.

“They got what they wanted, that fuckin’ family. I di’n’ get nothin’. Nothin’. Tha’s not what Lula woulda wanted, I know that for a fact. She woulda wanted me to ’ave something. Not,” said Marlene, with an assumption of dignity, “that I cared abou’ the money. It weren’ about the money for me. Nuthin’ was gonna replace my daughter, not ten, not twenny mill.

“Mind you, she’d of bin livid if she’d known I didn’t get nuthin’,” she went on. “All that money goin’ begging; people can’t believe it when I tell ’em that I got nuthin’. Struggling to make the rent, and me own daughter lef’ millions. But there you are. That’s how the rich stay rich, ain’t it? They didn’ need it, but they didn’ mind a bit more. I dunno how that Landry sleeps at night, but that’s ’is business.”

“Did Lula ever tell you she was going to leave you anything? Did she mention having made a will?”

Marlene seemed suddenly alert to a whiff of hope.

“Oh yeah, she said she’d look aft’r me, yeah. Yeah, she tole me she’d see me all right. D’you think I shoulda tole someone that? Mentioned it, like?”

“I don’t think it would have made any difference, unless she made a will and left you something in it,” said Strike.

Her face fell back into its sullen expression.

“They prob’ly fuckin’ destroyed it, them bastards. They coulda done. That’s the sort of people they are. I wouldn’t put nuthin’ past that uncle.”

5

“I’M SO SORRY HE HASN’T got back to you,” Robin told the caller, seven miles away in the office. “Mr. Strike’s incredibly busy at the moment. Let me take your name and number, and I’ll make sure he phones you this afternoon.”

“Oh, there’s no need for that,” said the woman. She had a pleasant, cultivated voice with a faint suspicion of hoarseness, as though her laugh would be sexy and bold. “I don’t really need to speak to him. Could you just give him a message for me? I wanted to warn him, that’s all. God, this is…it’s a bit embarrassing; it isn’t the way I’d have chosen…Well, anyway. Could you please just tell him that Charlotte Campbell called, and that I’m engaged to Jago Ross? I didn’t want him to hear about it from anyone else, or read about it. Jago’s parents have gone and put it in the bloody Times. Mortifying.”