1 The Cuckoo's Calling

11
“NO,” SAID STRIKE FORCEFULLY, ON the telephone that evening. “This is getting
dangerous. Surveillance doesn’t fall within the scope of secretarial duties.”
“Nor did visiting the Malmaison Hotel in Oxford, or SOAS,” Robin pointed
out, “but you were happy enough that I did both of them.”
“You’re not following anyone, Robin. I doubt Matthew would be very happy
about it, either.”
It was funny, Robin thought, sitting in her dressing gown on her bed, with the
phone pressed to her ear, how Strike had retained the name of her fiancé, without
ever having met him. In her experience, men did not usually bother to log that
kind of information. Matthew frequently forgot people’s names, even that of his
newborn niece; but she supposed that Strike must have been trained to recall such
details.
“I don’t need Matthew’s permission,” she said. “Anyway, it wouldn’t be
dangerous; you don’t think Ursula May’s killed anyone…”
(There was an inaudible “do you?” at the end of the sentence.)
“No, but I don’t want anyone to hear I’m taking an interest in her movements.
It might make the killer nervous, and I don’t want anyone else thrown from a
height.”
Robin could hear her own heart thumping through the thin material of her
dressing gown. She knew that he would not tell her who he thought the killer
was; she was even a little frightened of knowing, notwithstanding the fact that
she could think of nothing else.
It was she who had called Strike. Hours had passed since she had received a
text saying that he had been compelled to go with the police to Scotland Yard,
and asking her to lock up the office behind her at five. Robin had been worried.
“Call him, then, if it’s going to keep you awake,” Matthew had said; not quite
snapping, not quite indicating that he was, without knowing any of the details,
firmly on the side of the police.
“Listen, I want you to do something for me,” said Strike. “Call John Bristow
first thing tomorrow and tell him about Rochelle.”
“All right,” said Robin, with her eyes on the large stuffed elephant Matthew
had given her on their first Valentine’s Day together, eight years previously. The
present-giver himself was watching Newsnight in the sitting room. “What are you
going to be doing?”