The Cuckoo's Calling - Страница 85

“You have absolutely no proof,” said Bristow. “I am waiting for proof.”

“Of course you are,” said Strike, simply. “An innocent man wouldn’t be sitting here listening to me. He’d have stormed out by now. But don’t worry. I’ve got proof.”

“You can’t have,” said Bristow hoarsely.

“Motive, means and opportunity, John. You had the lot.

“Let’s start at the beginning. You don’t deny that you went to Lula’s first thing in the morning…”

“No, of course not.”

“…because people saw you there. But I don’t think Lula ever gave you the contract with Somé that you used to get upstairs to see her. I think you’d swiped that at some point previously. Wilson waved you up, and minutes later you were having a shouting match with Lula on her doorstep. You couldn’t pretend that didn’t happen, because the cleaner overheard it. Fortunately for you, Lechsinka’s English is so bad that she confirmed your version of the row: that you were furious that Lula had reunited with her freeloading druggie boyfriend.

“But I think that row was really about Lula’s refusal to give you money. All her sharper friends have told me you had quite the reputation for coveting her fortune, but you must have been particularly desperate for a handout that day, to force your way in and start shouting like that. Had Tony noticed a lack of funds in Conway Oates’s account? Did you need to replace it urgently?”

“Baseless speculation,” said Bristow, his knee still jerking up and down.

“We’ll see whether it’s baseless or not once we get to court,” said Strike.

“I’ve never denied that Lula and I argued.”

“After she refused to hand over a check, and slammed the door in your face, you went back down the stairs, and there was the door to Flat Two standing open. Wilson and the alarm repairman were busy looking at the keypad, and Lechsinka was somewhere in there by then—maybe vacuuming, because that would have helped mask the noise of you creeping into the hall behind the two men.

“It wasn’t that much of a risk, really. If they’d turned and seen you, you could have pretended you’d come in to thank Wilson for letting you up. You crossed the hall while they were busy with the alarm fuse box, and you hid somewhere in that big flat. There’s loads of space. Empty cupboards. Under the bed.”

Bristow was shaking his head in silent denial. Strike continued in the same matter-of-fact tone:

“You must have heard Wilson telling Lechsinka to set the alarm to 1966. Finally, Lechsinka, Wilson and the Securibell guy left, and you had sole possession of the flat. Unfortunately for you, however, Lula had now left the building, so you couldn’t go back upstairs and try and bully her into coughing up.”

“Total fantasy,” said the lawyer. “I never set foot in Flat Two in my life. I left Lula’s and went in to the office to pick up files—”

“From Alison, isn’t that what you said, the first time we went through your movements that day?” asked Strike.

Patches of pink blossomed again up Bristow’s stringy neck. After a small hesitation, he cleared his throat and said:

“I don’t remember whether—I just know that I was very quick; I wanted to get back to my mother.”

“What effect do you think it’s going to have in court, John, when Alison takes the stand and tells the jury how you asked her to lie for you? You played the devastated bereaved brother in front of her, and then asked her out to dinner, and the poor bitch was so delighted to have a chance to look like a desirable female in front of Tony that she agreed. A couple of dates later, you persuaded her to say she saw you at the office on the morning before Lula died. She thought you were just overanxious and paranoid, didn’t she? She believed that you already had a cast-iron alibi from her adored Tony, later in the day. She didn’t think it mattered if she told a little white lie to calm you down.

“But Alison wasn’t there that day, John, to give you any files. Cyprian sent her off to Oxford the moment she got to work, to look for Tony. You became a bit nervous, after Rochelle’s funeral, when you realized I knew all about that, didn’t you?”

“Alison isn’t very bright,” said Bristow slowly, his hands washing themselves in dumb show, and his knee jiggling up and down. “She must have confused the days. She clearly misunderstood me. I never asked her to say she saw me at the office. It’s her word against mine. Maybe she’s trying to revenge herself on me, because we’ve split up.”

Strike laughed.

“Oh, you’re definitely dumped, John. After my assistant rang you this morning to lure you to Rye—”

“Your assistant?”

“Yeah, of course; I didn’t want you around while I searched your mother’s flat, did I? Alison helped us out with the name of the client. I rang her, you see, and told her everything, including the fact that I’ve got proof that Tony’s sleeping with Ursula May, and that you’re about to be arrested for murder. That seemed to convince her that she ought to look for a new boyfriend and a new job. I hope she’s gone to her mother’s place in Sussex—that’s what I told her to do. You’ve been keeping Alison close because you thought she was your fail-safe alibi, and because she’s a conduit to knowing what Tony, whom you fear, is thinking. But lately, I’ve been getting worried that she might outlive her usefulness to you, and fall off something high.”

Bristow tried for another scathing laugh, but the sound was artificial and hollow.

“So it turns out that nobody saw you nip into your office for files that morning,” continued Strike. “You were still hiding out in the middle flat at number eighteen, Kentigern Gardens.”

“I wasn’t there. I was in Chelsea, at my mother’s,” said Bristow.

“I don’t think you were planning to murder Lula at that point,” Strike continued regardless. You probably just had some idea of waylaying her again when she came back. Nobody was expecting you at the office that day, because you were supposed to be working from home, to keep your sick mother company. There was a full fridge and you knew how to get in and out without setting off the alarm. You had a clear view of the street, so if Deeby Macc and entourage were to appear, you had plenty of time to get out of there, and walk downstairs with some cock-and-bull story about having been waiting for your sister at her place. The only remote risk was the possibility of deliveries into the flat; but that massive vase of roses arrived without anyone noticing you hiding in there, didn’t it?

“I expect the idea of the murder started to germinate then, all those hours you were alone, in all that luxury. Did you start to imagine how wonderful it would be if Lula, who you were sure was intestate, died? You must’ve known your sick mother would be a much softer touch, especially once you were her only remaining child. And that in itself must have felt great, John, didn’t it? The idea of being the only child, at long last? And never losing out again to a better-looking, more lovable sibling?”

Even in the thickening gloom, he could see Bristow’s jutting teeth, and the intense stare of the weak eyes.

“No matter how much you’ve fawned over your mother, and played the devoted son, you’ve never come first with her, have you? She always loved Charlie most, didn’t she? Everyone did, even Uncle Tony. And the moment Charlie had gone, when you might have expected to be the center of attention at last, what happens? Lula arrives, and everyone starts worrying about Lula, looking after Lula, adoring Lula. Your mother hasn’t even got a picture of you by her deathbed. Just Charlie and Lula. Just the two she loved.”

“Fuck you,” snarled Bristow. “Fuck you, Strike. What do you know about anything, with your whore of a mother? What was it she died of, the clap?”

“Nice,” said Strike, appreciatively. “I was going to ask you whether you looked into my personal life when you were trying to find some patsy to manipulate. I bet you thought I’d be particularly sympathetic to poor bereaved John Bristow, didn’t you, what with my own mother having died young, in suspicious circumstances? You thought you’d be able to play me like a fucking violin…

“But never mind, John. If your defense team can’t find a personality disorder for you, I expect they’ll argue that your upbringing’s to blame. Unloved. Neglected. Overshadowed. Always felt hard done by, haven’t you? I noticed it the first day I met you, when you burst into those moving tears at the memory of Lula being carried up the drive into your home, into your life. Your parents hadn’t even taken you with them to get her, had they? They left you at home like a pet dog, the son who wasn’t enough for them once Charlie had died; the son who was about to come a poor second all over again.”

“I don’t have to listen to this,” whispered Bristow.

“You’re free to leave,” said Strike, watching the place where he could no longer make out eyes in the deepening shadows behind Bristow’s glasses. “Why not leave?”

But the lawyer merely sat there, one knee still jiggling up and down, his hands sliding over each other, waiting to hear Strike’s proof.

“Was it easier the second time?” the detective asked quietly. “Was it easier killing Lula than killing Charlie?”

He saw the pale teeth, bared as Bristow opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

“Tony knows you did it, doesn’t he? All that bullshit about the hard, cruel things he said after Charlie died. Tony was there; he saw you cycling away from the place where you’d pushed Charlie over. Did you dare him to ride close to the edge? I knew Charlie: he couldn’t resist a dare. Tony saw Charlie dead at the bottom of that quarry, and he told your parents that he thought you’d done it, didn’t he? That’s why your father hit him. That’s why your mother fainted. That’s why Tony was thrown out of the house after Charlie died: not because Tony said that your mother had raised delinquents, but because he told her she was raising a psychopath.”