1 The Cuckoo's Calling

knowledge of how his millions had come to him. Strike guessed that Jonah
Agyeman’s thoughts were flitting wildly between his comrades back in
Afghanistan, visions of sports cars and of his half-sister lying dead in the snow.
Who was more conscious than the soldier of capricious fortune, of the random
roll of the dice?
“He won’t get off, will he?” asked Agyeman suddenly, as they were about to
part.
“No, of course not,” said Strike. “The papers haven’t got it yet, but the police
found Rochelle’s mobile phone in his mother’s safe. He didn’t dare get rid of it.
He’d reset the code of the safe so that no one could get in but him: 030483.
Easter Sunday, nineteen eighty-three: the day he killed my mate Charlie.”
It was Robin’s last day. Strike had invited her to come with him to meet Jonah
Agyeman, whom she had done so much to find, but she had refused. Strike had
the feeling that she was deliberately withdrawing from the case, from the work,
from him. He had an appointment at the Amputee Center at Queen Mary’s
Hospital that afternoon; she would be gone by the time he returned from
Roehampton. Matthew was taking her to Yorkshire for the weekend.
As Strike limped back to the office through the continuing chaos of the
building work, he wondered whether he would ever see his temporary secretary
again after today, and doubted it. Not so very long ago, the impermanence of
their arrangement had been the only thing that reconciled him to her presence, but
now he knew that he would miss her. She had come with him in the taxi to the
hospital, and wrapped her trench coat around his bleeding arm.
The explosion of publicity around Bristow’s arrest had done Strike’s business
no harm at all. He might even genuinely need a secretary before long; and indeed,
as he made his way painfully up the stairs to his office, he heard Robin’s voice on
the telephone.
“…an appointment for Tuesday, I’m afraid, because Mr. Strike’s busy all day
Monday…Yes…absolutely…I’ll put you down for eleven o’clock, then. Yes.
Thank you. Goodbye.”
She swung around on her swivel chair as Strike entered.
“What was Jonah like?” she demanded.
“Nice guy,” said Strike, lowering himself into the collapsed sofa. “Situation’s
doing his head in. But the alternative was Bristow winding up with ten mill, so
he’ll have to cope.”