1 The Cuckoo's Calling

her work, which involved a small clockwise swivel of her desk chair, away from
the two men.
The flare of a match turned Strike’s attention from his own double espresso to
his guest.
“This is a non-smoking office, Spanner.”
“What? You smoke like a fucking chimney.”
“Not in here I don’t. Follow me.”
Strike led Spanner into his own office and closed the door firmly behind him.
“She’s engaged,” he said, taking his usual seat.
“Wasting my powder, am I? Ah well. Put in a word for me if the engagement
goes down the pan; she’s just my type.”
“I don’t think you’re hers.”
Spanner grinned knowingly.
“Already queuing, are you?”
“No,” said Strike. “I just know her fiancé’s a rugby-playing accountant. Cleancut,
square-jawed Yorkshireman.”
He had formed a surprisingly clear mental image of Matthew, though he had
never seen a photograph.
“You never know; she might fancy rebounding on to something a bit edgier,”
said Spanner, swinging Lula Landry’s laptop on to the desk and sitting down
opposite Strike. He was wearing a slightly tatty sweatshirt and Jesus sandals on
bare feet; it was the warmest day of the year so far. “I’ve had a good look at this
piece of crap. How much technical detail do you want?”
“None; but I need to know that you could explain it clearly in court.”
Spanner looked, for the first time, truly intrigued.
“You serious?”
“Very. Would you be able to prove to a defending counsel that you know your
stuff?”
“ ’Course I could.”
“Then just give me the important bits.”