1 The Cuckoo's Calling

unbuttoned her rain-flecked coat. A small glass of what looked like port stood on
the table in front of her, and a slightly scornful smile played around her mouth, as
though she found her surroundings ramshackle and inadequate. Strike was still
trying to think of a good opener when she said unexpectedly:
“John was supposed to be at a meeting with Conway Oates’s executors this
morning. He’s left Tony to meet them on his own. Tony’s absolutely furious.”
Her tone implied that Strike was in some way responsible for this, and that he
deserved to know what trouble he had caused. She took a sip of port. Her hair
hung limply to her shoulders and her big hands dwarfed the glass. In spite of a
plainness that would have made wallflowers of other women, she radiated a great
sense of self-importance.
“You don’t think it was a nice gesture for John to come to the funeral?” asked
Strike.
Alison gave a scathing little “huh,” a token laugh.
“It’s not as though he knew this girl.”
“Why did you come along, then?”
“Tony wanted me to.”
Strike noted the pleasurable self-consciousness with which she pronounced her
boss’s name.
“Why?”
“To keep an eye on John.”
“Tony thinks John needs watching, does he?”
She did not answer.
“They share you, John and Tony, don’t they?”
“What?” she said sharply.
He was glad to have discomposed her.
“They share your services? As a secretary?”
“Oh—oh, no. I work for Tony and Cyprian; I’m the senior partners’
secretary.”
“Ah. I wonder why I thought you were John’s too?”
“I work on a completely different level,” said Alison. “John uses the typing
pool. I have nothing to do with him at work.”