The Cuckoo's Calling (Cormoran Strike)
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After losing his leg to a land mine in Afghanistan, Cormoran Strike is barely scraping by as a private investigator. Strike is down to one client, and creditors are calling. He has also just broken up with his longtime girlfriend and is living in his office.
Then John Bristow walks through his door with an amazing story: His sister, thelegendary supermodel Lula Landry, known to her friends as the Cuckoo, famously fell to her death a few months earlier. The police ruled it a suicide, but John refuses to believe that. The case plunges Strike into the world of multimillionaire beauties, rock-star boyfriends, and desperate designers, and it introduces him to every variety of pleasure, enticement, seduction, and delusion known to man.
You may think you know detectives, but you've never met one quite like Strike. You may think you know about the wealthy and famous, but you've never seen them under an investigation like this.
Introducing Cormoran Strike, this is the acclaimed first crime novel by J.K. Rowling, writing under the pseudonym Robert Galbraith.
‘So you set the alarm after you’d finished cleaning in here?’ ‘Put alarm, yes.’ ‘And the alarm man, what did he look like?’ ‘Alarm man? Look?’ She frowned attractively, her small nose wrinkling, and shrugged. ‘I not see he’s face. But blue – all blue…’ she added, and with the hand not holding polythened dresses, she made a sweeping gesture down her body. ‘Overall?’ he suggested, but she met the word with blank incomprehension. ‘OK, where did you clean after that?’ ‘Number one,’ said
bloating…’ ‘That’s when you gave her your card, is it?’ Wardle asked Strike. ‘Yeah. I’m surprised it was still legible.’ ‘It was stuck in with her Oyster card, in a plastic cover inside her back jeans pocket. The plastic protected it.’ ‘What was she wearing?’ ‘Big pink fake-fur coat. Like a skinned Muppet. Jeans and trainers.’ ‘That’s what she was wearing when I bought her the burger.’ ‘In that case, the contents of the stomach should give an accurate—’ began the mortician. ‘D’you know if
boyfriend. The very handsome boy. What is his name?’ ‘Evan Duffield?’ ‘That’s right. He came to see me a little while ago, you know. Quite recently. I don’t know exactly… I lose track of time. They give me so many drugs now. But he came to see me. It was so sweet of him. He wanted to talk about Lula.’ Strike remembered Bristow’s assertion that his mother had not known who Duffield was, and he wondered whether Lady Bristow had played this little game with her son; making herself out to be more
floor, and by the time he reached the entrance bearing his name the pain in the end of his right leg was excruciating. He leaned for a moment, bearing all his weight on his left foot, panting against the glass door, watching it mist. ‘You fat cunt,’ he said aloud. ‘You knackered old dinosaur.’ Wiping the sweat off his forehead, he unlocked the door, and heaved his various purchases over the threshold. In the inner office he pushed his desk aside and set up the bed, unrolled the sleeping bag,
upper arms of the body was almost certainly his work. If, however, he had taken heroin with Whycliff, Strike knew that the odds of him being in a fit state to infiltrate number 18, Kentigern Gardens, or to work himself into a murderous rage, were negligible. Strike was familiar with the behaviour of heroin addicts; he had met plenty at the last squat his mother had lived in. The drug rendered its slaves passive and docile; the absolute antithesis of shouting, violent alcoholics, or twitchy,