1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“Robin says you’ve been out detecting.” Lucy seemed in high spirits, as she so
often was when she was out alone, unencumbered by Greg and the boys.
“Yeah, we do that sometimes, detectives,” said Strike. “Been shopping?”
“Yes, Sherlock, I have.”
“D’you want to go out for a coffee?”
“I’ve already got one, Stick,” she said, holding up the mug. “You’re not very
sharp today. Are you limping a bit?”
“Not that I’ve noticed.”
“Have you seen Mr. Chakrabati recently?”
“Fairly recently,” lied Strike.
“If it’s all right,” said Robin, who was putting on her trench coat, “I’ll take
lunch, Mr. Strike. I haven’t had any yet.”
The resolution of moments ago, to treat her with professional froideur, now
seemed not only unnecessary but unkind. She had more tact than any woman he
had ever met.
“That’s fine, Robin, yeah,” he said.
“Nice to meet you, Lucy,” Robin said, and with a wave she disappeared,
closing the glass door behind her.
“I really like her,” said Lucy enthusiastically, as Robin’s footsteps clanged
away. “She’s great. You should try and get her to stay on permanently.”
“Yeah, she’s good,” said Strike. “What were you two having such a laugh
about?”
“Oh, her fiancé—he sounds a bit like Greg. Robin says you’ve got an
important case on. It’s all right. She was very discreet. She says it’s a suspicious
suicide. That can’t be very nice.”
She gave him a meaningful look he chose not to understand.
“It’s not the first time. I had a couple of those in the army, too.”
But he doubted that Lucy was listening. She had taken a deep breath. He knew
what was coming.
“Stick, have you and Charlotte split up?”
Better get it over with.