1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“Oh, I’m pretty sure I know where she was,” said Strike. “It’s getting her to
admit it, when it might blow her chances of a multimillion-pound settlement from
Freddie, that’s going to be the difficult bit. You’ll be able to work it out too, if
you just look through the police photographs again.”
“But…”
“Have a look at the pictures of the front of the building on the morning Lula
died, and then think about how it was when we saw it. It’ll be good for your
detective training.”
Robin experienced a great surge of excitement and happiness, immediately
tempered by a cold pang of regret, because she would soon be leaving for human
resources.
“I need to change,” said Strike, standing up. “Please will you try Freddie
Bestigui again for me?”
He disappeared into the inner room, closed the door behind him and swapped
his lucky suit (as he thought he might henceforth call it) for an old and
comfortable shirt, and a roomier pair of trousers. When he passed Robin’s desk
on the way to the bathroom, she was on the telephone, wearing that expression of
disinterested attentiveness that betokens a person on hold. Strike cleaned his teeth
in the cracked basin, reflecting on how much easier life with Robin would be,
now that he had tacitly admitted that he lived in the office, and returned to find
her off the telephone and looking exasperated.
“I don’t think they’re even bothering to take my messages now,” she told
Strike. “They say he’s out at Pinewood Studios and can’t be disturbed.”
“Ah well, at least we know he’s back in the country,” said Strike.
He took the interim report out of the filing cabinet, sank back down on the sofa
and began to add his notes of yesterday’s conversations, in silence. Robin
watched out of the corner of her eye, fascinated by the meticulousness with
which Strike tabulated his findings, making a precise record of how, where and
from whom he had gained each piece of information.
“I suppose,” she asked, after a long stretch of silence, during which she had
divided her time between covert observation of Strike at work, and examination
of a photograph of the front of number 18, Kentigern Gardens on Google Earth,
“you have to be very careful, in case you forget anything?”
“It’s not only that,” said Strike, still writing, and not looking up. “You don’t
want to give defending counsel any footholds.”
He spoke so calmly, so reasonably that Robin considered the implication of his
words for several moments, in case she could have misunderstood.