1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“Doesn’t she give this ordinary girl from the treatment facility a name?”
interrupted Strike.
Robin scanned the story silently.
“No.”
Strike scratched his imperfectly shaven chin.
“Bristow didn’t mention any friend from a treatment facility.”
“D’you think she could be important?” asked Robin eagerly, turning in her
swivel chair to look at him.
“It could be interesting to talk to someone who knew Landry from therapy,
instead of nightclubs.”
Strike had only asked Robin to look up Landry’s connections on the internet
because he had nothing else for her to do. She had already telephoned Derrick
Wilson, the security guard, and arranged a meeting with Strike on Friday
morning at the Phoenix Café in Brixton. The day’s post had comprised two
circulars and a final demand; there had been no calls, and she had already
organized everything in the office that could be alphabetized, stacked or arranged
according to type and color.
Inspired by her Google proficiency of the previous day, therefore, he had set
her this fairly pointless task. For the past hour or so she had been reading out odd
snippets and articles about Landry and her associates, while Strike put into order
a stack of receipts, telephone bills and photographs relating to his only other
current case.
“Shall I see whether I can find out more about that girl, then?” asked Robin.
“Yeah,” said Strike absently, examining a photograph of a stocky, balding man
in a suit and a very ripe-looking redhead in tight jeans. The besuited man was Mr.
Geoffrey Hook; the redhead, however, bore no resemblance to Mrs. Hook, who,
prior to Bristow’s arrival in his office, had been Strike’s only client. Strike stuck
the photograph into Mrs. Hook’s file and labeled it No. 12, while Robin turned
back to the computer.
For a few moments there was silence, except for the flick of photographs and
the tapping of Robin’s short nails against the keys. The door into the inner office
behind Strike was closed to conceal the camp bed and other signs of habitation,
and the air was heavy with the scent of artificial limes, due to Strike’s liberal use
of cheap air-freshener before Robin had arrived. Lest she perceive any tinge of
sexual interest in his decision to sit at the other end of her desk, he had pretended
to notice her engagement ring for the first time before sitting down, then made
polite, studiously impersonal conversation about her fiancé for five minutes. He