1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“He didn’t make a lot of sense, but he called John Bristow a ‘stupid prick,’ and
then he was bawling something about Alison walking out, which he seemed to
think had something to do with you, because he was yelling about suing you, and
defamation, and all kinds of things.”
“Alison’s left her job?”
“Yes.”
“Did he say where she—no, of course he didn’t, why would he know?” he
finished, more to himself than to Robin.
He looked down at his wrist. His cheap watch seemed to have hit something
when he had fallen downstairs, because it had stopped at a quarter to one.
“What’s the time?”
“Ten to five.”
“Already?”
“Yes. Do you need anything? I can hang around a bit.”
“No, I want you out of here.”
His tone was such that instead of going to fetch her coat and handbag, Robin
remained exactly where she was.
“What are you expecting to happen?”
Strike was busy fiddling with his leg, just below the knee.
“Nothing. You’ve just worked a lot of overtime lately. I’ll bet Matthew will be
glad to see you back early for once.”
There was no adjusting the prosthesis through his trouser leg.
“Please, Robin, go,” he said, looking up.
She hesitated, then went to fetch her trench coat and bag.
“Thanks,” he said. “See you tomorrow.”
She left. He waited for the sound of her footsteps on the stairs before rolling
up his trouser leg, but heard nothing. The glass door opened, and she reappeared.
“You’re expecting someone to come,” she said, clutching the edge of the door.
“Aren’t you?”
“Maybe,” said Strike, “but it doesn’t matter.”
He mustered a smile at her tight, anxious expression.