1 The Cuckoo's Calling

notes meant, isn’t it?” she added. “I checked a map: it’s walking distance from
the British Museum. Isn’t that what all those scribbles meant?”
Strike nodded again.
“Well, I went in there and pretended I was writing a dissertation on African
politics, and I wanted some information on Professor Agyeman. I ended up
speaking to this really helpful secretary in the politics department, who’d actually
worked for him, and she gave me loads of information on him, including a
bibliography and a brief biography. He studied at SOAS as an undergraduate.”
“He did?”
“Yes,” said Robin. “And I got a picture.”
From inside the notebook she pulled out a photocopy, and passed it across to
Strike.
He saw a black man with a long, high-cheekboned face; close-cropped graying
hair and beard and gold-rimmed glasses supported by overlarge ears. He stared at
it for several long moments, and when at last he spoke, he said:
“Christ.”
Robin waited, elated.
“Christ,” said Strike again. “When did he die?”
“Five years ago. The secretary got upset talking about it. She said he was so
clever, and the nicest, kindest man. A committed Christian.”
“Any family?”
“Yes. He left a widow and a son.”
“A son,” repeated Strike.
“Yes,” said Robin. “He’s in the army.”
“In the army,” said Strike, her deep and doleful echo. “Don’t tell me.”
“He’s in Afghanistan.”
Strike got up and started pacing up and down, the picture of Professor Josiah
Agyeman in his hand.
“Didn’t get a regiment, did you? Not that it matters. I can find out,” he said.
“I did ask,” said Robin, consulting her notes, “but I don’t really understand—
is there a regiment called the Sappers or some—”