1 The Cuckoo's Calling

the cubicle with her. Her friend heard everything; she would’ve told the police,
wouldn’t she?”
Robin was pulling on the glittering coat again, for something to do. Almost as
an afterthought, as she twisted and turned in front of the mirror, she asked:
“And it was definitely Evan Duffield she was talking to, was it?”
“Of course it was,” said Mel, as though Robin had insulted her intelligence.
“Who else would she’ve been asking round to her place in the early hours? She
sounded desperate to see him.”
“God, his eyes,” said the girl with the cotton candy hair. “He is so gorgeous.
And massive charisma in person. He came in here with her once. God, he’s
sexy.”
Ten minutes later, Robin having modeled a further two outfits for Strike, and
agreed with him in front of the assistants that the sequined coat was the best of
the bunch, they decided (with the assistants’ agreement) that she ought to bring
Sandra in to have a look at it the following day before they committed
themselves. Strike reserved the five-thousand-pound coat under the name of
Andrew Atkinson, gave an invented mobile phone number and left the boutique
with Robin in a shower of friendly good wishes, as though they had already spent
the money.
They walked fifty yards in silence, and Strike had lit up a cigarette before he
said:
“Very, very impressive.”
Robin glowed with pride.