The Cuckoo's Calling - Страница 68

“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.

“What makes you think I’ve got anything to tell you?” sneered Duffield.

“I don’t think you asked me back here for the pleasure of my company.”

“I dunno,” said Duffield, with a distinct overtone of malice. “Maybe I hoped you were a laugh, like your old man?”

“Evan,” snapped Ciara.

“OK, if you haven’t got anything to tell me…” said Strike, and he pushed himself up out of the armchair. To his slight surprise, and Duffield’s evident displeasure, Ciara set her empty wineglass down and began to unfold her long legs, preparatory to standing.

“All right,” said Duffield sharply. “There’s one thing.”

Strike sank back into his chair. Ciara thrust one of her own cigarettes at Duffield, who took it with muttered thanks, then she too sat down, watching Strike.

“Go on,” said the latter, while Duffield fiddled with his lighter.

“All right. I dunno whether it matters,” said the actor. “But I don’t want you to say where you got the information.”

“I can’t guarantee that,” said Strike.

Duffield scowled, his knees jumping up and down, smoking with his eyes on the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, Strike saw Ciara open her mouth to speak, and forestalled her, one hand in the air.

“Well,” said Duffield, “two days ago I was having lunch with Freddie Bestigui. He left his BlackBerry on the table when he went up to the bar.” Duffield puffed and jiggled. “I don’t wanna be fired,” he said, glaring at Strike. “I need this fucking job.”

“Go on,” said Strike.

“He got an email. I saw Lula’s name. I read it.”

“OK.”

“It was from his wife. It said something like, ‘I know we’re supposed to be talking through lawyers, but unless you can do better than £1.5 million, I will tell everyone exactly where I was when Lula Landry died, and exactly how I got there, because I’m sick of taking shit for you. This is not an empty threat. I’m starting to think I should tell the police anyway.’ Or something like that,” said Duffield.

Dimly, through the curtained window, came the sound of a couple of the paparazzi outside laughing together.

“That’s very useful information,” Strike told Duffield. “Thank you.”

“I don’t want Bestigui to know it was me who told you.”

“I don’t think your name’ll need to come into it,” said Strike, standing up again. “Thanks for the water.”

“Hang on, sweetie, I’m coming,” said Ciara, her phone pressed to her ear. “Kieran? We’re coming out now, Cormoran and me. Right now. Bye-bye, Evan darling.”

She bent over and kissed him on both cheeks, while Duffield, halfway out of his chair, looked disconcerted.

“You can crash here if you—”

“No, sweetie, I’ve got a job tomorrow afternoon; need my beauty sleep,” she said.

More flashes blinded Strike as he stepped outside; but the paparazzi seemed confused this time. As he helped Ciara down the steps, and followed her into the back of the car, one of them shouted at Strike: “Who the fuck are you?”

Strike slammed the door, grinning. Kolovas-Jones was back in the driver’s seat; they were pulling away from the curb, and this time they were not pursued.

After a block or so of silence, Kolovas-Jones looked in the rear-view mirror and asked Ciara:

“Home?”

“I suppose so. Kieran, will you turn on the radio? I fancy a bit of music,” she said. “Louder than that, sweetie. Oh, I love this.”

“Telephone” by Lady Gaga filled the car.

She turned to Strike as the orange glow of street lights swept across her extraordinary face. Her breath smelled of alcohol, her skin of that sweet, peppery perfume.

“Don’t you want to ask me anything else?”

“You know what?” said Strike. “I do. Why would you have a detachable lining in a handbag?”

She stared at him for several seconds, then let out a great giggle, slumping sideways into his shoulder, nudging him. Lithe and slight, she continued to rest against him as she said:

“You are funny.”

“But why would you?”