1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“Are your clients usually a bit mad?” asked Robin, when she had freed her
mouth again.
“He is, but they’re usually just stressed.”
“I was thinking about John Bristow,” Robin said hesitantly. “His girlfriend
thinks he’s deluded. And you thought he might be a bit…you know…didn’t
you?” she asked. “We heard,” she added, a little shamefacedly, “through the
door. The bit about ‘armchair psychologists.’ ”
“Right,” said Strike. “Well…I might have changed my mind.”
“What do you mean?” asked Robin, her clear gray-blue eyes wide. The train
was jolting to a halt; figures were flashing past the windows, becoming less
blurred with every second. “Do you—are you saying he’s not—that he might be
right—that there really was a…?”
“This is our stop.”
The white-painted boutique they sought stood on some of the most expensive
acreage in London, in Conduit Street, close to the junction with New Bond
Street. To Strike, its colorful windows displayed a multitudinous mess of life’s
unnecessities. Here were beaded cushions and scented candles in silver pots;
slivers of artistically draped chiffon; gaudy kaftans worn by faceless mannequins;
bulky handbags of an ostentatious ugliness; all spread against a pop-art backdrop,
in a gaudy celebration of consumerism he found irritating to retina and spirit. He
could imagine Tansy Bestigui and Ursula May in here, examining price tags with
expert eyes, selecting four-figure bags of alligator skin with a pleasureless
determination to get their money’s worth out of their loveless marriages.
Beside him, Robin too was staring at the window display, but only dimly
registering what she was looking at. A job offer had been made to her that
morning, by telephone, while Strike was smoking downstairs, just before
Temporary Solutions had called. Every time she contemplated the offer, which
she would have to accept or decline within the next two days, she felt a jab of
some intense emotion to the stomach that she was trying to persuade herself was
pleasure, but increasingly suspected was dread.
She ought to take it. There was much in its favor. It paid exactly what she and
Matthew had agreed she ought to aim for. The offices were smart and well placed
for the West End. She and Matthew would be able to lunch together. The
employment market was sluggish. She should be delighted.
“How did the interview go on Friday?” asked Strike, squinting at a sequined
coat he found obscenely unattractive.
“Quite well, I think,” said Robin vaguely.