1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“Three prospective clients phoned while you were out,” she said, “but I’m a
bit worried about that last one. He could be another journalist. He was much
more interested in discussing you than his own problem.”
There had been quite a few such calls. The press had seized with glee upon a
story that had angles aplenty, and everything they loved best. Strike himself had
featured heavily in the coverage. The photograph they had used most, and he was
glad of it, was ten years old and had been taken while he was still a Red Cap; but
they had also dug out the picture of the rock star, his wife and the supergroupie.
There had been plenty written about police incompetence; Carver had been
snapped hurrying down the street, his jacket flying, the sweat patches just visible
on his shirt; but Wardle, handsome Wardle, who had helped Strike bring Bristow
in, had so far been treated with indulgence, especially by female journalists.
Mostly, however, the news media had feasted all over again on the corpse of Lula
Landry; every version of the story sparkling with pictures of the dead model’s
flawless face, and her lithe and sculpted body.
Robin was talking; Strike had not been listening, his attention diverted by the
throbbing in his arm and leg.
“…a note of all the files and your diary. Because you’ll need someone, now,
you know; you’re not going to be able to take care of all this on your own.”
“No,” he agreed, struggling to his feet; he had intended to do this later, at the
moment of her departure, but now was as good a moment as any, and it made an
excuse to leave the sofa, which was extremely uncomfortable. “Listen, Robin, I
haven’t ever said a proper thank-you…”
“Yes you have,” she said hurriedly. “In the cab on the way to the hospital—
and anyway, there’s no need. I’ve enjoyed it. I’ve loved it, actually.”
He was hobbling away into the inner office, and did not hear the catch in her
voice. The present was hidden at the bottom of his kitbag. It was very badly
wrapped.
“Here,” he said. “This is for you. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Oh,” said Robin, on a strangled note, and Strike was both touched and faintly
alarmed to see tears spill down her cheeks. “You didn’t have to…”
“Open it at home,” he said, but too late; the package was literally coming apart
in her hands. Something slithered, poison-green, out of the split in the paper, on
to the desk in front of her. She gasped.
“You…oh my God, Cormoran…”
She held up the dress she had tried on, and loved, in Vashti, and stared at him
over the top of it, pink-faced, her eyes sparkling.