To the real Dibi - many thanks

Why did you come to this world sometimes of snow?
Not at the time when the call of the cuckoo sounds in the forest,
Not that time when the vine cherishes the grapes,
And not when the dashing detachment of swifts
Strives into the distance, to foreign countries of the world,
From the death of summer.
Why did you leave the world when the fleece is sheared?
Not at the time when the fruits are destined to fall to the ground,
When the grasshopper forgot his chirping,
When the rain canopy hangs over the field,
And the wind only sighs in the midst of bad weather
About the death of happiness.

Christina J. Rossetti. Dirge

Prologue

Is demum miser est, cuius nobilitas miserias nobilitat.

Unfortunate is he whose glory glorifies his misfortune.

Lucius Shares. teleph

The street buzzed like a swarm of flies. Photographers with long-nosed cameras at the ready crowded behind the police cordon; the breath rose up in clouds of steam. Snow fell on hats and shoulders; gloved fingers rubbed the lenses. From time to time, camera shutters clicked lazily: someone randomly filmed a white tarpaulin tent on the roadway, the entrance to a brick residential building, as well as the balcony of the upper floor, from where the body fell.

Behind the dense crowd of paparazzi were white vans with huge satellite dishes on their roofs; reporters chattered incessantly (some in foreign languages), and sound engineers hovered nearby in headphones. Taking a breath, the reporters stamped their feet and warmed their hands on hot coffee pots delivered from a crowded cafe at a distance. Having nothing to do, cameramen in knitted hats filmed other people's backs, a balcony, a tent that hid the body, and then moved to more convenient points to take a general shot of the chaos that blew up a sleepy snow-covered street in Mayfair, where rows of black doors framed by white stone porticoes dozed under the protection of hedgerows. In front of number eighteen, a fence was stretched. Police officials flitted through the lobby, some in white forensic uniforms.

All television channels have been broadcasting this news for several hours. The street was crowded at both ends, driven back by the police, curious: someone specially came to stare, someone lingered on their way to work. Passers-by took pictures on mobile phones. One guy, not knowing which balcony became fatal, photographed everything in turn, although the middle one was completely occupied by shrubs - a trio of neatly trimmed evergreen crowns that left no room for human presence.

A flock of girls with flowers got into the lenses: the police, in confusion, accepted their bouquets and awkwardly stacked them in the back seat of their minibus, realizing that their every step was recorded by cameras.

Correspondents of round-the-clock broadcasting channels incessantly commented on what was happening, conjecturing around sensational, but very meager facts.

- ... from his penthouse at about two in the morning. The police were called by a security guard who was on duty at the entrance of the house ...

“…the body has not yet been taken away, and this suggests that…”

“…it’s not reported if anyone was around when she fell…”

- ... several crews entered the house for a thorough inspection ...

A cold light filled the tent. Two men squatted beside the corpse, finally getting permission to put it in a zippered bag. Some blood flowed from the head onto the snow. The face, which had turned into a continuous edema, was broken, one eye was completely swollen, the other looked through the swollen eyelids in a dull white stripe. The sequined top sparkled at the slightest flicker of the lamp, which each time gave an unsettling impression of movement, as if the ribcage moved from a sigh or tensed before a jerk. Snow touched the tarpaulin in soft flakes, as if plucking invisible strings.

How much longer to wait for this damn corpse truck?

Detective Inspector Roy Carver was losing his temper. His physiognomy had long ago acquired the color of canned meat, and the shirts, soaked under his arms, always burst on his belly. His meager supply of patience had run out hours ago: Carver had arrived here a little after the corpse; my legs were already numb and did not obey, my head was swimming from hunger.

The ambulance will arrive in two minutes, - Sergeant Eric Wardle involuntarily answered the question of his superiors; he entered the tent, holding the cell phone to his ear. - I've already secured the passage.

Carver just snorted. It also angered him that Wardle openly enjoyed everyone's attention. Boyishly attractive, with thick, curly brown hair powdered with snow, he was, in Carver's opinion, flirting with anyone who managed to get close to the tent.

They will disperse themselves as soon as we take away the corpse, ”Wardle said, leaning out into the street and posing in front of the lenses.

Hell, they're going to disperse while we're playing murder here! ' snapped Carver.

Wardle remained silent, not succumbing to provocation. But Carver exploded anyway:

This chicken jumped out of the window! Nobody was with her. And your, if I may say so, witness was so stoned that ...

Slipping out of the tent, Wardle, to Carver's distaste, ran into an ambulance in spectacular fashion.

This history obscured political collisions, wars and catastrophes; each version of her was accompanied by photographs of a flawless face and a flexible, chiseled figure. In a matter of hours, bits of reliable information spread like a virus among millions: a public scandal with a famous boyfriend, a trip home alone, overheard screams and a final, fatal fall ...

First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Sphere

THE CUCKOO'S CALLING

INOSTRANKA® Publishing House

All characters and events in this publication, with the exception of those, information about which is undoubtedly contained in open sources, are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, both living and deceased, is coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of the electronic version of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, including posting on the Internet and corporate networks, for private and public use, without the written permission of the copyright owner.

To the real Debi - with many thanks

Why did you come to this world sometimes of snow?
Not at the time when the call of the cuckoo sounds in the forest,
Not that time when the vine cherishes the grapes,
And not when the dashing detachment of swifts
Strives into the distance, to foreign countries of the world,
From the death of summer.
Why did you leave the world when the fleece is sheared?
Not at the time when the fruits are destined to fall to the ground,
When the grasshopper forgot his chirping,
When the rain canopy hangs over the field,
And the wind only sighs in the midst of bad weather
About the death of happiness.
Christina J. Rossetti. Dirge

Prologue

Is demum miser est, cuius nobilitas miserias nobilitat.

Unfortunate is he whose glory glorifies his misfortune.

Lucius Shares. teleph

Behind the dense crowd of paparazzi were white vans with huge satellite dishes on their roofs; reporters chattered incessantly (some in foreign languages), and sound engineers in headphones hovered nearby. Taking a breath, the reporters stamped their feet and warmed their hands on hot coffee pots delivered from a crowded cafe at a distance. Having nothing to do, cameramen in knitted hats filmed other people's backs, a balcony, a tent that hid the body, and then moved to more convenient points to take a general shot of the chaos that blew up a sleepy snow-covered street in Mayfair, where rows of black doors framed by white stone porticoes dozed under the protection of hedgerows. In front of number eighteen, a fence was stretched. The lobby was littered with police officers, some in white forensic uniforms.

Correspondents of round-the-clock broadcasting channels incessantly commented on what was happening, conjecturing around sensational, but very meager facts.

“… from my penthouse at about two in the morning. The police were called by a security guard who was on duty at the entrance of the house ...

“…the body has not yet been removed, and this suggests that…”

"...it's not reported if anyone was around when she fell..."

- ... several crews entered the house for a thorough inspection ...

“How long do we have to wait for this damn corpse truck?”

“The ambulance will arrive in two minutes,” Sergeant Eric Wardle involuntarily answered the question of his superiors; he entered the tent, holding the cell phone to his ear. “I have already secured the passage.

“They’ll disperse themselves as soon as we take away the corpse,” Wardle said, leaning out into the street and posing for the cameras.

"They're going to get the hell out of here while we're playing murder here!" ' snapped Carver.

Wardle remained silent, not succumbing to provocation. But Carver exploded anyway:

This chicken jumped out of the window by itself! Nobody was with her. And your, if I may say so, witness was so stoned that ...

Slipping out of the tent, Wardle, to Carver's distaste, ran into an ambulance in spectacular fashion.

The boyfriend hastily took refuge in a drug treatment clinic, and the police remained silent; all those who communicated with the deceased on that fateful evening were identified; there was enough material for thousands of newspaper columns and many hours of television news, and the woman who swore that immediately before the fall of the body heard the noise of another quarrel even became famous, albeit not for long: her photographs, albeit small format, appeared next to the portraits of the victim.

But soon, under an almost distinct groan of general disappointment, it turned out that the witness had lied, after which she took refuge in a drug clinic, and the famous original suspect, on the contrary, stopped hiding, as if they were figures in an alpine barometer-house, male and female, capable of only appear in sequence.

So, suicide; after a brief pause, the story gained a faint second wind. It became known that the deceased was distinguished by an unbalanced, unstable character, was prone to star fever, made acquaintance with immoral oligarchs who corrupted her, and immersion in an unaccustomed hectic lifestyle completely destroyed her already fragile personality. Her tragedy has become a mournful edification for others; journalists used the comparison with Icarus so often that the bilious "Private Eye" even published an entire article on this topic.

But in the end, the excitement subsided, and even the newspapermen had nothing more to say, except that everything had already been said.

Part one

Nam in omni adversitate fortunae infelicissimum est genus infortunii, fuisse felicem.

After all, with all the vicissitudes of fortune, the most grievous misfortune is that you were happy.

Boethius. The consolation of philosophy

1

Three months later

Whatever dramas and vicissitudes have happened to Robin Ellacott in the twenty-five years of her life, but not once has she woken up in the firm conviction that the coming day will be remembered by her forever.

The night before, after midnight, her longtime boyfriend Matthew had proposed to her under the statue of Eros in Piccadilly Circus. When Robin agreed, he even felt dizzy with excitement and admitted that he wanted to ask for her hand at dinner, in a Thai restaurant, but he was stopped by the presence of a silent couple sitting next to them, who greedily caught their every word. So he persuaded Robin to wander the streets at dusk, although she insisted that they both had to get up early tomorrow; however, inspiration had already flooded over him, and he headed towards the pedestal, which surprised her unspeakably. There, in the cold wind, throwing aside his restraint (which he never did), Matthew knelt down on one knee in the vicinity of three wrapped bums who apparently drank methanol, and asked her to be his wife.

According to Robin, this was the most magnificent marriage proposal in the history of marriage. Matthew even had a ring in his pocket that now gleamed on her finger: a perfect fit, with a sapphire and a pair of diamonds; on the way back, she kept her eyes on him, her hand on his knee. Now she and Matthew have a fascinating family story, the kind children tell of how he thought his plan through (she was pleased that he thought it through) and was not taken aback by unexpected interruptions, but decided to act on the spur of the moment. She was pleased with everything: these bums under the moonlight, and the bewildered, agitated Matthew, down on one knee, and Eros in the dirty, painfully familiar Piccadilly, and the black taxi that drove them home to Clapham. She was already ready to fall in love with all of London, which she had never gotten used to during the whole month that she had lived in this city. The radiance of the ring softened even the pale, unfriendly faces of the subway passengers; as she left Tottenham Court Road station into the cold March morning, she touched her platinum band with her thumb and felt a surge of joy at the thought of buying a bunch of wedding magazines at lunchtime. Under attentive male gazes, she overcame the excavated section of Oxford Street, consulting the sheet clutched in her right hand. By all standards, Robin was not bad-looking: tall, curvaceous, with long, blond, slightly reddish hair that trembled with every swift step; in addition, the cold air touched her cheeks with a blush. She was to take over the duties of temporary secretary for a period of one week. Having moved in London with Matthew, she worked part-time as a substitute at the request of various firms, although she had already scheduled several interviews for a “normal” job, as she put it.

The main difficulty of this dreary activity was sometimes to find the right office. After her native Yorkshire town, London looked gigantic, intricate and forbidding. Matthew had warned her more than once not to stick her nose into a guide book on the street, which betrayed her as a visitor and could lead to any misfortunes. So Robin mostly relied on sketchy plans that someone at the temporary employment agency drew for her by hand. However, she was far from sure that with these sheets she looked like a native metropolitan resident.

Because of the metal barricades and blue plastic barriers that surrounded the excavated sidewalk, she had little idea where to go next, because she did not see the landmarks plotted on the plan. Crossing over to the other side of the tall office building she called Center Point, with its squared windows like a gigantic concrete waffle, Robin hoped she would soon be on Danmark Street.

She found this short street almost by accident, passing a narrow passage called Danmark Place and seeing rows of picturesque storefronts with guitars, synthesizers and a host of other musical paraphernalia in front of her. On the roadway gaped another excavation, surrounded by a red-and-white barrier; workers in phosphorescent vests greeted the girl with a lively morning whoop, but she pretended not to hear.

Robin looked at her watch. As a rule, she came with a margin - in case she did not immediately find the indicated address, and now she still had fifteen minutes left. An unpresentable door, painted black, was located to the left of the 12 bars bar; next to the bell button on the third floor, on a lined piece of paper stuck with adhesive tape, was scrawled the name of the owner of one of the offices. On some other day, if she hadn't had a brand new, sparkling ring on her finger, she probably would have considered it a uniform disgrace, but today both the sloppy piece of paper and the peeling paint looked like yesterday's tramps, just a bizarre backdrop for her great novel. Robin checked the time again (the sparkle of the sapphire made her heart ache: one could admire such a stone for the rest of her life) and, in a surge of euphoria, decided to arrive early to demonstrate her service zeal, on which, by and large, nothing depended.

Before she could ring the bell, the black door swung open and a woman jumped out onto the sidewalk. For one strangely drawn-out moment, they glared at each other: each was already preparing for a collision. On this magical morning, all of Robin's senses were sharpened to the limit; she was so impressed by this chalk-white face, seen only for a fraction of a second, that, dodging the collision by only a centimeter and following the dark-haired stranger who quickly disappeared around the corner with her eyes, she imprinted this image in her memory with portrait accuracy. The pale face was remembered not only for its extraordinary beauty, but also for its special expression: angry and at the same time pleased.

Robin managed to hold the door open and entered the untidy entrance. An equally old-fashioned spiral staircase skirted the ancient cage of a long-dead elevator. Moving her feet carefully so that the hairpins did not get stuck in the metal grating of the steps, Robin safely passed the landing of the second floor, where on one of the doors there was a poster, laminated and framed: “Crowdy Company. Graphic design". But it wasn't until she got upstairs that she realized where the agency had taken her. At least be warned! The glass door was engraved with the same name that was read on a piece of paper at the entrance: “K. B. Strike” and below “private detective”.

With her mouth open, she froze in place, seized with a delight that none of her acquaintances could understand. Not a single living soul (even Matthew) Robin revealed the secret, innermost dream of her whole life. It turns out, it came true, and even on such a day! It was as if God himself winked at her. (That's what the magic of that day means - Matthew, the ring ... although, in all fairness, what's the connection?)

Exultantly, Robin slowly took a couple of steps forward and extended her left hand (the sapphire looked deep blue in the dim light), but before she could touch the doorknob, the glass door swung open in the same way in her nose.

This time, a collision could not be avoided. An unseeing, disheveled centner of male weight fell upon her; unable to stay on her feet, Robin clumsily waved her hands, dropped her bag and flew back to the deadly gaping iron stairs.

2

Strike took the hit easily. Stunned by a piercing scream, he, without thinking twice, threw out a long hand and grabbed a fold of clothing along with living flesh; then a second shriek echoed off the stone walls, but Strike managed to pull the girl back upright with a powerful yank. Her screams still echoed in the flight of stairs, and Strike involuntarily burst out:

- Ugh, infection!

At the entrance to his office, an unfamiliar girl groaned and writhed in pain. Seeing that she was twisted on one side, and her hand was buried under the clasp of her coat, Strike concluded that during the rescue operation he had inadvertently crushed her left breast. The girl's reddened face was hidden by a veil of thick blond strands, but Strike could see that tears were running down her cheeks.

From the second floor, an eccentric lone designer spoke up: “What is going on with you there?”; then the manager of the downstairs café, who rented an apartment in the attic just above Strike's office, grunted dully from above: he, too, was alarmed, or maybe awakened by screams on the stairs.

- Come in...

With his fingertips, to avoid touching the crooked figure leaning against the wall, Strike pushed open the glass door.

- Well, did you figure it out? the designer shouted grumpily.

Strike helped her into the office and slammed the door shut.

After a few seconds she straightened up and turned to Strike, her purple face still wet with tears.

The involuntary offender turned out to be a real bully: tall, overgrown, like a grizzly bear, and even with a belly; an abrasion under the left eyebrow, a black eye, the left cheek, as well as the right side of the powerful neck, visible from the unbuttoned collar of the shirt, are slashed with deep scratches with dried blood in them.

“Are you Mr. Strike?”

- He is.

“I…I…replacement.”

- Where where?

- To replace, temporarily. From the Temporary Solutions Agency, you understand?

The name of the agency did not erase the bewilderment from his painted face. Mutual hostility, mixed with nervousness, grew. Like Robin, Cormoran Strike knew he would remember the day that had passed for the rest of his life. And now, it seems, evil fate sent his messenger to him in a spacious beige trench coat to remind him of an imminent and already close catastrophe. What can be the replacements? Having fired his former secretary, he considered that the contract with the agency was cancelled.

- And for how long?

"Y-one week to start," replied Robin, who had received such an unkind reception for the first time.

Strike quickly did some mental thinking. One week, given the extortionate rates of the agency, threatened him with a financial abyss - he had already exceeded all limits, and the main creditor hinted more than once that he was only waiting for an opportunity.

– I am now.

He went out the glass door, turned right and locked himself in a cramped, dank toilet. From the spotty, cracked mirror over the sink, a rather strange type looked out at him. A high, steep forehead, a flattened nose, thick eyebrows - a kind of not yet old Beethoven in the role of a boxer; a swollen eye with a black eye only strengthened this impression. His thick, curly hair, as hard as stubble, explained why he was given the nickname Loboc in his younger years, not to mention various other nicknames. He looked much older than his thirty-five.

Inserting a plug into the drain of the unwashed sink, he turned on the faucet, then took a deep breath and dipped his head into the cold water to stop the pounding in his temples. The water rushed over the edge right onto his boots, but he chose not to notice it and enjoyed blind icy immobility for ten seconds.

Scattered images of the previous night raced through his mind: as Charlotte scolded him, stuffing the contents of three chest of drawers into his backpack; how an ashtray flew into his brow when he finally looked back, how his legs carried him through the dark streets to the office, where he napped in his work chair for a couple of hours. Then there is the nasty scene when Charlotte rushed in at dawn to stab him with the last banderillas left over from the night's scandal; slashing his face with her nails, she rushed away, and he firmly decided to let her go on all four sides, but in a momentary clouding of reason he rushed after him: the chase ended as quickly as it began, because this empty-headed girl appeared on his way through thoughtlessness, which had to be caught on the fly, and then also calmed down.

Straightening up, Strike let out a convulsive breath and snorted in satisfaction; the face and the whole head were pleasantly numb, the skin tingled. He wiped himself dry with the rusty towel that hung on the door, and then looked again at his reflection. The dried blood had soaked away, and the scratches now looked something like the marks of a crumpled pillow. Charlotte must have reached the subway by now. Why, in fact, he rushed after her: he had a crazy thought that she might throw herself under a train. Once, when they were twenty-five years old, they already had a similar episode: she got drunk, climbed onto the roof, stopped, swaying, on the very edge and threatened to jump. Perhaps he should have said thank you to the Temporary Solutions Agency, because it was they who finally stopped his pursuit. After the morning scene, there was still no going back. And point.

Pulling his wet collar back from his neck, Strike fiddled with the rusty latch and headed for the glass door.

A jackhammer rumbled outside. Robin stood at the desk, with her back to the entrance; Strike did not escape the fact that when he appeared, she sharply pulled her hand out from under the lapel of her coat - nothing more than massaging her breasts again.

“Are you… are you in pain?” he asked, avoiding looking at the injured organ.

- Everything is fine with me. Listen, if you don't need an assistant assistant, I'll go, - Robin said with dignity.

“No, no… no way. Strike listened to his own words with disgust. - For one week - just what you need. Uh-uh... Here's the correspondence... - He picked up a pile of letters from the mat and threw them on the bare table as a redemptive sacrifice. “Please, look… answer the phone, clean up a little here… the computer password is Hatherill-two-three, let me write it down…” He did this under her watchful, wary gaze. - Here, hold ... If anything - I'm at home.

He carefully closed the door behind him and stopped, looking at the knapsack that stood under the bare table. It contained his belongings - one-tenth of what was left in Charlotte's apartment and, most likely, would never return to him. By noon, those things will be burned, thrown out into the street, cut up, trampled, dissolved in bleach. Outside the window, a jackhammer rattled mercilessly.

Giant debts, nothing to pay, collapse is inevitable, the consequences are unpredictable, Charlotte will begin to subtly mischief in revenge for his departure ... Strike was exhausted; all these misfortunes spun like an infernal kaleidoscope before his eyes.

Feeling no legs under him, he himself did not notice how he collapsed into the same chair where he spent the rest of the previous night. There was movement behind the thin partition. It was only Temporary Solutions that turned on the computer and very soon they would find out that in three weeks he had not received a single business offer. And then - he himself asked - the secretary will begin to open the envelopes and look through the latest requirements. Fatigue, bruises and hunger took their toll: Strike again buried his face in the table, putting his hands under his head like a lifeline so as not to see or hear how an unfamiliar girl in his waiting room would drag his shame into the light.

. Center Point is an office building in the center of London, one of the first skyscrapers in the British capital. Built in 1967 according to the design of R. Seyfert near the Totnam Court Road metro station. Protected by the state as a monument of architecture.

The manuscript of the novel by a previously unknown writer Robert Galbraith called "Cuckoo's Call" for a long time publishers did not want to print. The niche of the detective genre has long been occupied by seasoned, professional writers. It was quite difficult to write something new and exciting within these literary frameworks. But after numerous rejections, this work finally went to print. And a few months later, thanks to an investigation by the Sunday Times magazine, it was found that under this pseudonym one very famous writer is hiding - JK Rowling! She wanted to try her hand at writing a book of a completely different genre than her super popular Potter. And the writer coped with this task perfectly well, because the sales of the book, after the revelation of the real name of the author, steadily crept up.

The masterfully crafted plot of this story takes place in gray, rainy London. Before your mind's eye will appear the clean streets of Mayfair's luxurious mansions, the filthy, smoky pubs of the East End and the round-the-clock seething Soho. It is here that the main events related to the mysterious murder of a young girl, successful model Lula Landry, take place. The police are framing her death as a suicide. But the brother of the deceased is very doubtful of this development of events, so he hires a private detective to investigate this mysterious, intricate case. And now the former military Kormoran Strike will look for the elusive killer. At first, even he will not doubt the suicide of the deceased, but in the process of investigation, more and more details will emerge that will convince the detective of the opposite. In addition, the neighbor of the deceased assures our protagonist that she saw how Lulu was pushed from the balcony by an unfamiliar man. So who did this dark deed, and most importantly, why? Digging into the past of this girl, Strike finds out that many had motives for the murder ... The friends of the deceased, and the uncle, and the homeless girlfriend, and the boyfriend and even the personal driver fall under the suspicion of the detective. But the solution to this crime will be truly unexpected for the detective ...

The Call of the Cuckoo is not just a well-written thriller with a masterfully twisted detective line, but also a work with powerful psychological overtones. The author raises many relevant topics in his novel, such as: the complex adaptation of a person who went through a war in peaceful, civilian life, the problem of fathers and children, relationships in a family where the child is adopted, the search for one's roots, the wrong side of secular life, where behind the glamorous lifestyle and materially carefree existence, various psychological problems are hidden. This is, first of all, a story about loneliness, about a girl who was ready to sacrifice everything: position in society, money, fame in order to feel loved and desired. And before his death, this Cuckoo managed to snatch his little piece of happiness ...

On our literary site, you can download the book "The Call of the Cuckoo" by Robert Galbraith for free in formats suitable for different devices - epub, fb2, txt, rtf. Do you like to read books and always follow the release of new products? We have a large selection of books of various genres: classics, modern science fiction, literature on psychology and children's editions. In addition, we offer interesting and informative articles for beginner writers and all those who want to learn how to write beautifully. Each of our visitors will be able to find something useful and exciting.

Great, that's true, it's incredibly cool to have another favorite writer! When I finished reading the Harry Potter saga (well, it’s impossible not to mention who the author of this book is!) I wished health and well-being to Ro’s mother on the laurels of this phenomenon, because she will forever remain in world literature, even if she doesn’t write anything else . And she, after all, is smart! - Wrote! Yes, and not one book, but after this one, I know, I believe, I feel that there will be more books, and it's so great! If "Accidental Vacancy" was met simply with interest - "let's see what else it can do?", then with this book everything is different. Rowling is one of the best writers of our time, and no one can argue with that. The world that she describes is always impeccable and thought out to the smallest detail, every detail is in its place, every scene breathes and feels, and the characters, which is why I love her so much, are invariably deep and thoughtful.

After the social theme, Rowling took up the detective story and proved that this genre is also up to her. It turned out to be such a wonderful, unhurried, classic English detective story that does not sag in the plot from either side. It has a victim, a plot, a lot of suspects and a brilliant investigation. And the main characters are amazingly good. Temporary secretary Robin, too beautiful and smart for such a nondescript place, and Detective Cormoran Strike, a bastard thug with an Afghan past, an unsuccessful personal life, financial problems, an unpresentable appearance and a half-amputated leg. Charm, right? I immediately recall the description of Snape in the first book, we are just now reading it with our youngest son. After all, who then would have thought that it was he who would be one of the central most beloved characters, whose death fans cannot forgive her in any way? And it is precisely this type throughout the book, page by page, that conquers us with its character, thoughts and actions, in order to finally fall in love with itself on the last pages.

Cormoran Strike, a private detective, is approached by the brother of supermodel Lula Landry, who died by suicide. He mourns for his adopted sister, and does not believe that she jumped out of the window on her own. He's willing to pay the detective double the rate, and Strike, in serious financial trouble at the moment, decides to give it a try. But the more he learns about Lula, the more clearly he understands that in this case everything is really not as smooth as the official version of the investigation concludes, and suddenly this investigation ceases to be just work. On top of that, we get Kormoran's rather interesting relationship with his temp, the details of his origins and relationship with the most beautiful woman in the world, who appears in person only once in the book. But on the other hand, there are a dime a dozen skeletons in the family of a supermodel, as well as heaps of lies and self-interest, which at all times have moved criminals. And there is also a lot of London here, very different, but always so atmospheric. He, like another character in the book, lives his own life, is present on every scenery. To unravel the riddle of Lula, to restore the chronicle of the last three days of her life, we will go down to the poor criminal slums and visit indecently expensive houses and areas. Strike won't miss anything. Pay attention to every detail!

To be honest, I hardly read detective stories, because my mind almost in the middle calculates the plot and the criminal, I simply cannot do otherwise. In this story, as many as five characters went as suspects at different times, and the killer turned out to be a butler :)) I didn’t guess why honor and praise to Rowling’s talent. The number one at the beginning of the book gives hope that Robert Gilbraith has the series in mind, and we have to wait for the sequel!

The Call of the Cuckoo is a detective story written by author Robert Galbraith. However, no such writer exists. The novel gained great popularity when readers found out who was hiding under this pseudonym. Its author was JK Rowling, who decided to try herself in a new genre. At first, under a pseudonym, she sent the manuscript to various publications, but was refused publication. Finally, the novel saw the light of day. The truth about the author was revealed 3 months after the release of the book.

The protagonist is Kormoran Strike, who went through the war and is in the process of getting a divorce. He is currently a private investigator. Famous model Lula Landry fell from the balcony of her house. The police considered it a suicide, but the brother of the deceased thinks otherwise. He hires Strike to investigate. At first, the detective also thinks that it was a suicide, and does not want to take on the case. But investigations are his only source of income, and he agrees.

The detective gets acquainted with the circle of acquaintances of the model: relatives, friends, acquaintances, a designer and a driver. Each of them tells his story, something special that they know about Lula. Receiving new information, the detective comes to the conclusion that it was a murder. He has many questions, a circle of suspects, whom he carefully studies. It turns out that the circumstances of the death were ambiguous, and now he has to find out who killed the girl and why.

We can say with confidence that the writer was a success in her first experience in the detective genre. All the characters are thought out in detail, their characters, psychology. All the subtleties of a detective investigation are provided. The author has retained a light style of narration, only it no longer looks like a fairy tale, one can feel painstaking work on an adult and serious work. Readers will be at a loss as to who the culprit was. JK Rowling will not reveal this secret until the very end, intriguing, not letting you tear yourself away from the book and making you wonder a lot at the end.

The work belongs to the Prose genre. It was published in 2013 by the Inostranka publishing house. This book is part of the Kormoran Strike series. On our website you can download the book "The Call of the Cuckoo" in fb2, rtf, epub, pdf, txt format or read online. The rating of the book is 4.07 out of 5. Here, before reading, you can also refer to the reviews of readers who are already familiar with the book and find out their opinion. In the online store of our partner you can buy and read the book in paper form.