The Cuckoo's Calling - Страница 63

And suddenly, tears were sparkling in Ciara’s kohled eyes, and she squashed them out of sight with the flat palms of her pretty white hands.

“…crazy in love. She was so fucking happy, I’d never seen her happier.”

“You met Freddie Bestigui again, didn’t you, on the evening before Lula died? Didn’t the two of you pass him in the lobby, on your way out?”

“Yeah,” said Ciara, still dabbing at her eyes. “How did you know that?”

“Wilson, the security guard. He thought Bestigui said something to Lula that she didn’t like.”

“Yeah. He’s right. I’d forgotten about that. Freddie said something about Deeby Macc, about Looly being excited about him coming, how he really wanted to get them on film together. I can’t remember exactly what it was, but he made it sound dirty, you know?”

“Did Lula know that Bestigui and her adoptive father had been friends?”

“She told me it was the first she’d ever heard of it. She always stayed out of Freddie’s way at the flats. She didn’t like Tansy.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, Looly wasn’t interested in that whole, like, whose husband’s got the biggest fucking yacht crap, she didn’t want to get into their crowd. She was so much better than that. So not like the Chillingham girls.”

“OK,” said Strike, “can you talk me through the afternoon and evening you were with her?”

Ciara dropped her second fag end into the Coke can, with another little spitting fizz, and immediately lit another.

“Yeah. OK, let me think. Well, I met her at her place in the afternoon. Bryony came over to do her eyebrows and ended up giving us both manicures. We just had, like, a girlie afternoon together.”

“How did she seem?”

“She was…” Ciara hesitated. “Well, she wasn’t quite as happy as she’d been that week. But not suicidal, I mean, no way.”

“Her driver, Kieran, thought she seemed strange when she left her mother’s house in Chelsea.”

“Oh God, yeah, well why wouldn’t she be? Her mum had cancer, didn’t she?”

“Did Lula discuss her mother, when she saw you?”

“No, not really. I mean, she said she’d just been sitting with her, because she was a bit, you know, pulled down after her op, but nobody thought then that Lady Bristow was going to die. The op was supposed to cure her, wasn’t it?”

“Did Lula mention any other reason that she was feeling less happy than she had been?”

“No,” said Ciara, slowly shaking her head, the white-blonde hair tumbling around her face. She raked it back again and took a deep drag on her cigarette. “She did seem a bit down, a bit distracted, but I just put it down to having seen her mum. They had a weird relationship. Lady Bristow was, like, really overprotective and possessive. Looly found it, you know, a bit claustrophobic.”

“Did you notice Lula telephoning anyone while she was with you?”

“No,” said Ciara, after a thoughtful pause. “I remember her checking her phone a lot, but she didn’t speak to anyone, as far as I can remember. If she was phoning anyone, she was doing it on the quiet. She was in and out of the room a bit. I don’t know.”

“Bryony thought she seemed excited about Deeby Macc.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Ciara impatiently. “It was everyone else who was excited about Deeby Macc—Guy and Bryony and—well, even I was, a bit,” she said, with endearing honesty. “But Looly wasn’t that fussed. She was in love with Evan. You can’t believe everything Bryony says.”

“Did Lula have a piece of paper with her, that you can remember? A bit of blue paper, which she’d written on?”

“No,” said Ciara again. “Why? What was it?”

“I don’t know yet,” said Strike, and Ciara looked suddenly thunderstruck.

“God—you’re not telling me she left a note? Oh my God. How fucking mad would that be? But—no! That would mean she’d have, like, already decided she was going to do it.”

“Maybe it was something else,” said Strike. “You mentioned at the inquest that Lula expressed an intention to leave everything to her brother, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” said Ciara earnestly, nodding. “Yeah, what happened was, Guy had sent Looly these fabby handbags from the new range. I knew he wouldn’t have sent me any, even though I was in the advert too. Anyway, I unwrapped the white one, Cashile, you know, and it was just, like, beautiful; he does these detachable silk linings and he’d had it custom-printed for her with this amazing African print. So I said, ‘Looly, will you leave me this one?’ just as a joke. And she said, like, really seriously, ‘I’m leaving everything to my brother, but I’m sure he’d let you have anything you want.’ ”

Strike was watching and listening for any sign that she was lying or exaggerating, but the words came easily and, to all appearances, frankly.

“That was a strange thing to say, wasn’t it?” he asked.

“Yeah, I s’pose,” said Ciara, shaking the hair back off her face again. “But Looly was like that; she could go a bit dark and dramatic sometimes. Guy used to say, ‘Less of the cuckoo, Cuckoo.’ Anyway,” Ciara sighed, “she didn’t take the hint about the Cashile bag. I was hoping she’d just give it to me; I mean, she had four.”

“Would you say you were close to Lula?”

“Oh God, yeah, super-close, she told me everything.”

“A couple of people have mentioned that she didn’t trust too easily. That she was scared of confidences turning up in the press. I’ve been told that she tested people to see whether she could trust them.”

“Oh yeah, she did get a bit, like, paranoid after her real mum started selling stories about her. She actually asked me,” said Ciara, with an airy wave of her cigarette, “whether I’d told anyone she was back with Evan. I mean, come on. There was no way she was going to keep that quiet. Everyone was talking about it. I said to her, ‘Looly, the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about.’ That’s Oscar Wilde,” she added, kindly. “But Looly didn’t like that side of being famous.”

“Guy Somé thinks that Lula wouldn’t have got back with Duffield if he hadn’t been out of the country.”

Ciara glanced towards the door, and dropped her voice.

“Guy would say that. He was just, like, super-protective of Looly. He adored her; he really loved her. He thought Evan was bad for her, but honestly, he doesn’t know the real Evan. Evan’s, like, totally fucked up, but he’s a good person. He went to see Lady Bristow not long ago, and I said to him, ‘Why, Evan, what on earth did you put yourself through that for?’ Because, you know, her family hated him. And d’you know what he said? ‘I just wanna speak to somebody who cares as much as I do that she’s gone.’ I mean, how sad is that?”

Strike cleared his throat.

“The press have totally got it in for Evan, it’s just so unfair, he can’t do anything right.”

“Duffield came to your place, didn’t he, the night she died?”

“God, yeah, and there you are!” said Ciara indignantly. “They made out we were, like, shagging or something! He had no money, and his driver had disappeared, so he just, like, hiked across London so he could crash at mine. He slept on the sofa. So we were together when we heard the news.”

She raised her cigarette to her full mouth and drew deeply on it, her eyes on the floor.

“It was terrible. You can’t imagine. Terrible. Evan was…oh my God. And then,” she said, in a voice barely louder than a whisper, “they were all saying it was him. After Tansy Chillingham said she’d heard a row. The press just went crazy. It was awful.”

She looked up at Strike, holding her hair off her face. The harsh overhead light merely illuminated her perfect bone structure.

“You haven’t met Evan, have you?”

“No.”

“D’you want to? You could come with me now. He said he was going along to Uzi tonight.”

“That’d be great.”

“Fabby. Hang on.”

She jumped up and called through the open door:

“Guy, sweetie, can I wear this tonight? Go on. To Uzi?”

Somé entered the small room. He looked exhausted behind his glasses.

“All right. Make sure you’re photographed. Wreck it and I’ll sue your skinny white arse.”

“I’m not going to wreck it. I’m taking Cormoran to meet Evan.”

She stuffed her cigarettes away into her enormous bag, which appeared to hold her day clothes too, and hoisted it over her shoulder. In her heels, she was within an inch of the detective’s height. Somé looked up at Strike, his eyes narrowed.

“Make sure you give the little shit a hard time.”

“Guy!” said Ciara, pouting. “Don’t be horrible.”

“And watch yourself, Master Rokeby,” Somé added, with his usual edge of spite. “Ciara’s a terrible slut, aren’t you, dear? And she’s like me. She likes them big.”

“Guy!” said Ciara, in mock horror. “Come on, Cormoran. I’ve got a driver outside.”

8

STRIKE, FOREWARNED, WAS NOWHERE NEAR as surprised to see Kieran Kolovas-Jones as the driver was to see him. Kolovas-Jones was holding open the left-hand passenger door, faintly lit by the car’s interior light, but Strike spotted his momentary change of expression when he laid eyes on Ciara’s companion.