1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“You need to go outside to do that,” he told Strike loudly.
Strike peered up at the boy, bleary-eyed, surprised.
“It’s all right,” Robin told the barman, gathering up her handbag. “Come on,
Cormoran.”
He stood, massive, ungainly, swaying, unfolding himself out of the cramped
space behind the table and glaring at the barman, whom Robin could not blame
for taking a step backwards.
“There’z no need,” Strike told him, “t’shout. No need. Fuckin’ rude.”
“OK, Cormoran, let’s go,” said Robin, standing back to give him space to
pass.
“Juz a moment, Robin,” said Strike, one large hand held aloft. “Juz a
moment.”
“Oh God,” said Robin quietly.
“ ’V’ you ever done any boxing?” Strike asked the barman, who looked
terrified.
“Cormoran, let’s go.”
“I wuzza boxer. ’Narmy, mate.”
Over at the bar, some wisecracker murmured, “I could’ve been a contender.”
“Let’s go, Cormoran,” said Robin. She took his arm, and to her great relief and
surprise he came along meekly. It reminded her of leading the enormous
Clydesdale her uncle had kept on his farm.
Out in the fresh air Strike leaned back against one of the Tottenham’s
windows and tried, fruitlessly, to light his cigarette; Robin had to work the lighter
for him in the end.
“What you need is food,” she told him, as he smoked with his eyes closed,
listing slightly so that she was afraid he would fall over. “Sober you up.”
“I don’ wanna sober up,” Strike muttered. He overbalanced and only saved
himself from falling with several rapid sidesteps.
“Come on,” she said, and she guided him across the wooden bridge spanning
the gulf in the road, where the clattering machines and builders had at last fallen
silent and departed for the night.
“Robin, didjer know I wuzza boxer?”
“No, I didn’t know that,” she said.