1 The Cuckoo's Calling

Strike, who had not relinquished the wrapped parcel since arriving, handed it
over and watched as Robin’s careful handiwork was destroyed by small, eager
fingers.
“Cool,” said Jack happily. “A soldier.”
“That’s right,” said Strike.
“He’s got a gun an’ dev’rything.”
“Yeah, he has.”
“Did you have a gun when you were a soldier?” asked Jack, turning over the
box to look at the picture of its contents.
“I had two,” said Strike.
“Have you still got them?”
“No, I had to give them back.”
“Shame,” said Jack, matter-of-factly.
“Aren’t you supposed to be playing?” asked Strike, as renewed shrieks erupted
from the garden.
“I don’t wanna,” said Jack. “Can I take him out?”
“Yeah, all right,” said Strike.
While Jack ripped feverishly at the box, Strike slipped Wardle’s DVD out of
the player and pocketed it. Then he helped Jack to free the plastic paratrooper
from the restraints holding him to the cardboard insert, and to fix his gun into his
hand.
Lucy found them both sitting there ten minutes later. Jack was making his
soldier fire around the back of the sofa and Strike was pretending to have taken a
bullet to the stomach.
“For God’s sake, Corm, it’s his party, he’s supposed to be playing with the
others! Jack, I told you you weren’t allowed to open any presents yet—pick it
up—no, it’ll have to stay in here—no, Jack, you can play with it later—it’s nearly
time for tea anyway…”
Flustered and irritable, Lucy ushered her reluctant son back out of the room
with a dark backwards look at her brother. When Lucy’s lips were pursed she
bore a strong resemblance to their Aunt Joan, who was no blood relation to either
of them.
The fleeting similarity engendered in Strike an uncharacteristic spirit of
cooperation. He behaved, in Lucy’s terms, well throughout the rest of the party,
devoting himself in the main to defusing brewing arguments between various
overexcited children, then barricading himself behind a trestle table covered in
jelly and ice cream, thus avoiding the intrusive interest of the prowling mothers.