1 The Cuckoo's Calling

As it turned out, however, she had lied: retrieving the coat from the window
was distinctly problematic. It needed to be taken off the mannequin that was
wearing it, and disentangled from its electronic tag; ten minutes later, the coat
had still not emerged, and the original assistant had called two of her colleagues
into the window display to help her. Robin, meanwhile, was drifting around
without talking to Strike, picking out an assortment of dresses and belts. By the
time the sequined coat was carried out from the window, all three assistants
involved in its retrieval seemed somehow invested in its future, and all
accompanied Robin towards the changing room, one volunteering to help her
carry the pile of extras she had chosen, the other two bearing the coat.
The curtained changing rooms consisted of ironwork frames draped with thick
cream silk, like tents. As he positioned himself close enough to listen to what
went on inside, Strike felt that he was only now starting to appreciate the full
range of his temporary secretary’s talents.
Robin had taken over ten thousand pounds’ worth of goods into the changing
room with her, of which the sequined coat cost half. She would never have had
the nerve to do this under normal circumstances, but something had got into her
this morning: recklessness and bravado; she was proving something to herself, to
Matthew, and even to Strike. The three assistants fussed around her, hanging up
dresses and smoothing out the heavy folds of the coat, and Robin felt no shame
that she could not have afforded even the cheapest of the belts now draped over
the arm of the redhead with tattoos up both arms, and that none of the girls would
ever receive the commission for which they were, undoubtedly, vying. She even
allowed the assistant with pink hair to go and find a gold jacket she assured
Robin would suit her admirably, and go wonderfully well with the green dress
she had picked out.
Robin was taller than any of the shop girls, and when she had swapped her
trench coat for the sequined one, they cooed and gasped.
“I must show my brother,” she told them, after surveying her reflection with a
critical eye. “It isn’t for me, you see, it’s for his wife.”
And she strode back out through the changing-room curtains with the three
assistants hovering behind her. The rich girls over by the clothing rack all turned
to stare at Robin through narrow eyes as she asked boldly:
“What do you think?”
Strike had to admit that the coat he had thought so vile looked better on Robin
than on the mannequin. She twirled on the spot for him, and the thing glittered
like a lizard’s skin.
“It’s all right,” he said, masculinely cautious, and the assistants smiled
indulgently. “Yeah, it’s quite nice. How much is it?”