1 The Cuckoo's Calling

She might well be the only person who knew that Cormoran Strike was not
where he was supposed to be. Perhaps she ought to call him on his mobile? And
if he did not pick up? How many hours ought she to let elapse before contacting
the police? The idea of ringing Matthew at his office and asking his advice came
to her, only to be swatted away.
She and Matthew had rowed when Robin arrived home, very late, after
walking a drunken Strike back to the office from the Tottenham. Matthew had
told her yet again that she was naive, impressionable and a sucker for a hard-luck
story; that Strike was after a secretary on the cheap, and using emotional
blackmail to achieve his ends; that there was probably no Charlotte at all, that it
was all an extravagant ploy to engage Robin’s sympathy and services. Then
Robin had lost her temper, and told Matthew that if anybody was blackmailing
her it was he, with his constant harping on the money she ought to be bringing in,
and his insinuation that she was not pulling her weight. Hadn’t he noticed that
she was enjoying working for Strike; hadn’t it crossed his insensitive, obtuse
accountant’s mind that she might be dreading the tedious bloody job in human
resources? Matthew had been aghast, and then (though reserving the right to
deplore Strike’s behavior) apologetic; but Robin, usually conciliatory and
amiable, had remained aloof and angry. The truce effected the following morning
had prickled with antagonism, mainly Robin’s.
Now, in the silence, watching the telephone, some of her anger at Matthew
spilled over on to Strike. Where was he? What was he doing? Why was he acting
up to Matthew’s accusations of irresponsibility? She was here, holding the fort,
and he was presumably off chasing his ex-fiancée, and never mind their
business…
…his business…
Footsteps on the stairwell: Robin thought she recognized the very slight
unevenness in Strike’s tread. She waited, glaring towards the stairs, until she was
sure that the footfalls were proceeding beyond the first landing; then she turned
her chair resolutely back to face the monitor and began pounding at the keys
again, while her heart raced.
“Morning.”
“Hi.”
She accorded Strike a fleeting glance while continuing to type. He looked
tired, unshaven and unnaturally well dressed. She was instantly confirmed in her
view that he had attempted a reconciliation with Charlotte; by the looks of it,
successfully. The next two sentences were pockmarked with typos.
“How’re things?” asked Strike, noting Robin’s clench-jawed profile, her cold
demeanor.