1 The Cuckoo's Calling

5
STRIKE AND ROBIN PARTED AT New Bond Street station. Robin took the
underground back to the office to call BestFilms, look through online telephone
directories for Rochelle Onifade’s aunt, and evade Temporary Solutions (“Keep
the door locked” was Strike’s advice).
Strike bought himself a newspaper and caught the underground to
Knightsbridge, then walked, having plenty of time to spare, to the Serpentine Bar
and Kitchen, which Bristow had chosen for their lunch appointment.
The trip took him across Hyde Park, down leafy walkways and across the
sandy bridle path of Rotten Row. He had jotted down the bare bones of the girl
called Mel’s evidence on the Tube, and now, in the sun-dappled greenery, his
mind drifted, lingering on the memory of Robin as she had looked in the clinging
green dress.
He had disconcerted her by his reaction, he knew that; but there had been a
weird intimacy about the moment, and intimacy was precisely what he wanted
least at the moment, most especially with Robin, bright, professional and
considerate as she was. He enjoyed her company and he appreciated the way that
she respected his privacy, keeping her curiosity in check. God knew, thought
Strike, moving over to avoid a cyclist, he had come across that particular quality
rarely enough in life, particularly from women. Yet the fact that he would, quite
soon, be free of Robin was an inextricable part of his enjoyment of her presence;
the fact that she was going to move on imposed, like her engagement ring, a
happy boundary. He liked Robin; he was grateful to her; he was even (after this
morning) impressed by her; but, having normal sight and an unimpaired libido,
he was also reminded every day she bent over the computer monitor that she was
a very sexy girl. Not beautiful; nothing like Charlotte; but attractive, nonetheless.
That fact had never been so crudely presented to him as when she walked out of
the changing room in the clinging green dress, and in consequence he had
literally averted his eyes. He acquitted her of any deliberate provocation, but he
was realistic, all the same, about the precarious balance that must be maintained
for his own sanity. She was the only human with whom he was in regular contact,
and he did not underestimate his current susceptibility; he had also gathered,
from certain evasions and hesitations, that her fiancé disliked the fact that she had
left the temping agency for this ad hoc agreement. It was safest all round not to
let the burgeoning friendship become too warm; best not to admire openly the
sight of her figure draped in jersey.
Strike had never been to the Serpentine Bar and Kitchen. It was set on the
boating lake, a striking building that was more like a futuristic pagoda than
anything he had ever seen. The thick white roof, looking like a giant book that
had been placed down on its open pages, was supported by concertinaed glass. A