1 The Cuckoo's Calling

press. I’ll tell them I gave you every bit of information I had, and that you had
every fucking chance to bring this killer in. I’ll make up my fee in selling the
rights to my story, and you can pass that message on to Carver for me.
“Here,” he said, pushing across the table a piece of torn paper, on which he
had scribbled several six-figure numbers. “Try them first. Now get a fucking
warrant.”
He pushed the will across the table to Wardle and slid off the high bar stool.
The walk from the pub to the taxi was agony. The more pressure he put on his
right leg, the more excruciating the pain became.
Robin had been calling Strike every ten minutes since one o’clock, but he had not
picked up. She rang again as he was climbing, with enormous difficulty, up the
metal stairs towards the office, heaving himself up with the use of his arms. She
heard his ringtone echoing up the stairwell, and hurried out on to the top landing.
“There you are! I’ve been calling and calling, there’s been loads…What’s the
matter, are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” he lied.
“No you’re…What’s happened to you?”
She hastened down the stairs towards him. He was white, and sweaty, and
looked, in Robin’s opinion, as though he might be sick.
“Have you been drinking?”
“No I haven’t been bloody drinking!” he snapped. “I’ve—sorry, Robin. In a
bit of pain here. I just need to sit down.”
“What’s happened? Let me…”
“I’ve got it. No problem. I can manage.”
Slowly he pulled himself to the top landing and limped very heavily to the old
sofa. When he dropped his weight into it, Robin thought she heard something
deep in the structure crack, and noted, We’ll need a new one, and then, But I’m
leaving.
“What happened?” she asked.
“I fell down some stairs,” said Strike, panting a little, still wearing his coat.
“Like a complete tit.”
“What stairs? What happened?”