Читаем The Cuckoo's Calling полностью

“Oh my God, everyone,” said Bryony, making a wide sweeping gesture with her cigarette-holding hand, which encompassed all of the inhabited rooms outside. “She was the hottest model out there, everyone wanted a piece of her. I mean, Guy—” But Bryony broke off. “Well, Guy’s a businessman, but he did adore her; he wanted her to go and live with him after that stalker business. He’s still not right about her dying. I heard he tried to contact her through some spiritualist. Margo Leiter told me. He’s still devastated, he can barely hear her name without crying. Anyway,” said Bryony, “that’s all I know. I never dreamed that afternoon would be the last time I saw her. I mean, my God.”

“Did she talk about Duffield at all, while you were—er—threading her eyebrows?”

“No,” said Bryony, “but she wouldn’t, would she, if he was really hacking her off?”

“So as far as you can remember, she mainly spoke about Deeby Macc?”

“Well…it was more Ciara and me talking about him.”

“But you think she was excited to meet him?”

“God, yeah, of course.”

“Tell me, did you see a blue piece of paper with Lula’s handwriting on it when you were in the flat?”

Bryony shook her hair over her face again, and combed it with her fingers.

“What? No. No, I didn’t see anything like that. Why, what was it?”

“I don’t know,” said Strike. “That’s what I’d like to find out.”

“No, I didn’t see it. Blue, did you say? No.”

“Did you see any paper at all with her writing on it?”

“No, I can’t remember any papers. No.” She shook her hair out of her face. “I mean, something like that could’ve been lying around, but I wouldn’t have necessarily noticed it.”

The room was dingy. Perhaps he only imagined that she had changed color, but he had not invented the way she twisted her right foot up on to her knee and examined the sole of the leather ballet slipper for something that was not there.

“Lula’s driver, Kieran Kolovas-Jones…”

“Oh, that really, really cute guy?” said Bryony. “We used to tease her about Kieran; he had such a gigantic crush on her. I think Ciara uses him now sometimes.” Bryony gave a meaningful little giggle. “She’s got a bit of a rep as a good-time girl, Ciara. I mean, you can’t help liking her, but…”

“Kolovas-Jones says that Lula was writing something on blue paper in the back of his car, when she left her mother’s that day…”

“Have you talked to Lula’s mother yet? She’s a bit weird.”

“…and I’d like to find out what it was.”

Bryony flicked her cigarette stub out of the open door and shifted restlessly on the desk.

“It could have been anything.” He waited for the inevitable suggestion, and was not disappointed. “A shopping list or something.”

“Yeah, it could’ve been; but if, for the sake of argument, it was a suicide note…”

“But it wasn’t—I mean, that’s silly—how could it’ve been? Who’d write a suicide note that far in advance, and then get their face done and go out dancing? That doesn’t make any sense at all!”

“It doesn’t seem likely, I agree, but it would be good to find out what it was.”

“Maybe it had nothing to do with her dying. Why couldn’t it have been a letter to Evan or something, telling him how hacked off she was?”

“She doesn’t seem to have become hacked off with him until later that day. Anyway, why would she write a letter, when she had his telephone number and was going to see him that night?”

“I don’t know,” said Bryony restlessly. “I’m just saying, it could’ve been something that doesn’t make any difference.”

“And you’re quite sure you didn’t see it?”

“Yes, I’m quite sure,” she said, her color definitely heightened. “I was there to do a job, not go snooping around her stuff. Is that everything, then?”

“Yeah, I think that’s all I’ve got to ask about that afternoon,” said Strike, “but you might be able to help me with something else. Do you know Tansy Bestigui?”

“No,” said Bryony. “Only her sister, Ursula. She’s hired me a couple of times for big parties. She’s awful.”

“In what way?”

“Just one of those spoiled rich women—well,” said Bryony, with a twist to her mouth, “she isn’t nearly as rich as she’d like to be. Both those Chillingham sisters went for old men with bags of money; wealth-seeking missiles, the pair of them. Ursula thought she’d hit the jackpot when she married Cyprian May, but he hasn’t got nearly enough for her. She’s knocking forty now; the opportunities aren’t there the way they used to be. I suppose that’s why she hasn’t been able to trade up.”

Then, evidently feeling that her tone needed some explanation, she continued:

“I’m sorry, but she accused me of listening to her bloody voicemail messages.” The makeup artist folded her arms across her chest, glaring at Strike. “I mean, please. She chucked me her mobile and told me to call her a cab, without so much as a bloody please or thank you. I’m dyslexic. I hit the wrong button and the next thing I know, she’s screaming her bloody head off at me.”

“Why do you think she was so upset?”