1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“A month’s fee in advance will be great,” said Strike. Quashing feeble
stirrings of shame, and remembering that Bristow himself had offered a double
fee, he named an exorbitant amount, and to his delight Bristow did not quibble,
nor ask whether he accepted credit cards nor even promise to drop the money in
later, but drew out a real check-book and a pen.
“If, say, a quarter of it could be in cash,” Strike added, chancing his luck; and
was staggered for the second time that morning when Bristow said, “I did wonder
whether you’d prefer…” and counted out a pile of fifties in addition to the check.
They emerged into the outer office at the very moment that Robin was about to
enter with Strike’s fresh coffee. Bristow’s girlfriend stood up when the door
opened, and folded her newspaper with the air of one who had been kept waiting
too long. She was almost as tall as Bristow, large-framed, with a surly expression
and big, mannish hands.
“So you’ve agreed to do it, have you?” she asked Strike. He had the
impression that she thought he was taking advantage of her rich boyfriend. Very
possibly she was right.
“Yes, John’s hired me,” he replied.
“Oh well,” she said, ungraciously. “You’re pleased, I expect, John.”
The lawyer smiled at her, and she sighed and patted his arm, like a tolerant but
slightly exasperated mother to a child. John Bristow raised his hand in a salute,
then followed his girlfriend out of the room, and their footsteps clanged away
down the metal stairs.