1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“Yes, it is, but it can’t hurt her now. Mind you,” she said, “I’d give those
doctors a piece of my mind. She’s had three of them giving her prescriptions for
years, from the labels on the boxes.”
“Very unprofessional,” said Strike. “Thanks again for the coffee. Goodbye.”
He jogged down the stairs, his mobile already out of his pocket, so exhilarated
that he did not concentrate on where he was going, so that he took a corner on the
stair and let out a bellow of pain as the prosthetic foot slipped on the edge; his
knee twisted and he fell, hard and heavy, down six stairs, landing in a heap at the
bottom with an excruciating, fiery pain in both the joint and the end of his stump,
as though it was freshly severed, as though the scar tissue was still healing.
“Fuck. Fuck!”
“Are you all right?” shouted the Macmillan nurse, gazing down at him over
the banisters, her face comically inverted.
“I’m fine—fine!” he shouted back. “Slipped! Don’t worry! Fuck, fuck, fuck,”
he moaned under his breath, as he pulled himself back to his feet on the newel
post, scared to put his full weight on the prosthesis.
He limped downstairs, leaning on the banisters as much as possible; half
hopped across the lobby floor and hung on the heavy front door as he
maneuvered himself out on to the front steps.
The sporting children were receding in a distant crocodile, pale and navy blue,
winding their way back to their school and lunch. Strike stood leaning against
warm brick, cursing himself fluently and wondering what damage he had done.
The pain was excruciating, and the skin that had already been irritated felt as
though it had been torn; it burned beneath the gel pad that was supposed to
protect it, and the idea of walking all the way to the underground was miserably
unappealing.
He sat down on the top step and phoned a taxi, after which he made a further
series of calls, firstly to Robin, then to Wardle, then to the offices of Landry,
May, Patterson.
The black cab swung around the corner. For the very first time, it occurred to
Strike how like miniature hearses they were, these stately black vehicles, as he
hoisted himself upright and limped, in escalating pain, down to the pavement.