1 The Cuckoo's Calling

8
WHEN ROBIN ARRIVED NEXT MORNING, it was, for the second time, to a locked glass
door. She let herself in with the spare key that Strike had now entrusted to her,
approached the closed inner door and stood silent, listening. After a few seconds,
she heard the faintly muffled but unmistakable sound of deep snoring.
This presented her with a delicate problem, because of their tacit agreement
not to mention Strike’s camp bed, or any of the other signs of habitation lying
around the place. On the other hand, Robin had something of an urgent nature to
communicate to her temporary boss. She hesitated, considering her options. The
easiest route would be to try and wake Strike by clattering around the outer
office, thereby giving him time to organize himself and the inner room, but that
might take too long: her news would not keep. Robin therefore took a deep breath
and rapped on the door.
Strike woke instantly. For one disoriented moment he lay there, registering the
reproachful daylight pouring through the window. Then he remembered setting
down the mobile phone after reading Charlotte’s text, and knew that he had
forgotten to set the alarm.
“Don’t come in!” he bellowed.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” Robin called through the door.
“Yeah—yeah, that’d be great. I’ll come out there for it,” Strike added loudly,
wishing, for the first time, that he had fitted a lock on the inner door. His false
foot and calf was standing propped against the wall, and he was wearing nothing
but boxer shorts.
Robin hurried away to fill the kettle, and Strike fought his way out of his
sleeping bag. He dressed at speed, making a clumsy job of putting on the
prosthesis, folding the camp bed into its corner, pushing the desk back into place.
Ten minutes after she had knocked on the door, he limped into the outer office
smelling strongly of deodorant, to find Robin at her desk, looking very excited
about something.
“Your tea,” she said, indicating a steaming mug.
“Great, thanks. Just give me a moment,” he said, and he left to pee in the
bathroom on the landing. As he zipped up his fly, he caught sight of himself in
the mirror, crumpled-looking and unshaven. Not for the first time, he consoled
himself that his hair looked the same whether brushed or unbrushed.
“I’ve got news,” said Robin, when he had re-entered the office through the
glass door and, with reiterated thanks, picked up his mug of tea.
“Yeah?”