1 The Cuckoo's Calling

Robin felt equally inclined to laughter and tears, though she did not know why
she should feel so sad.
“Shall I light that cigarette for you?”
“Y’re a great person, Robin, y’know that?”
Near the turning into Denmark Street he stopped dead, still swaying like a tree
in the wind, and told her loudly that Charlotte did not love Jago Ross; it was all a
game, a game to hurt him, Strike, as badly as she could.
Outside the black door to the office he halted again, holding up both hands to
stop her following him upstairs.
“Y’ gotta go home now, R’bin.”
“Let me just make sure you get upstairs OK.”
“No. No. ’M fine now. An’ I might chunder. ’M legless. An’,” said Strike,
“you don’ get that fuckin’ tired old fuckin’ joke. Or do you? Know most of it
now. Did I tell you?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Ne’r mind, R’bin. You go home now. I gotta be sick.”
“Are you sure…?”
“ ’M sorry I kep’ sayin’ fuck—swearin’. Y’re a nice pers’n, R’bin. G’bye
now.”
She looked back at him when she reached Charing Cross Road. He was
walking with the awful, clumsy deliberation of the very drunk towards the dingy
entrance to Denmark Place, there, no doubt, to vomit in the dark alleyway, before
staggering upstairs to his camp bed and kettle.