1 The Cuckoo's Calling

2
THE CAMERAS LOOKED LIKE MALEVOLENT shoeboxes atop their pole, each with a
single blank, black eye. They pointed in opposite directions, staring the length of
Alderbrook Road, which bustled with pedestrians and traffic. Both pavements
were crammed with shops, bars and cafés. Double-deckers rumbled up and down
bus lanes.
“This is where Bristow’s Runner was caught on film,” observed Strike, turning
his back on Alderbrook Road to look up the much quieter Bellamy Road, which
led, lined with tall and palatial houses, into the residential heart of Mayfair. “He
passed here twelve minutes after she fell…this’d be the quickest route from
Kentigern Gardens. Night buses run here. Best bet to pick up a taxi. Not that
that’d be a smart move if you’d just murdered a woman.”
He buried himself again in an extremely battered A–Z. Strike did not seem
worried that anyone might mistake him for a tourist. No doubt, thought Robin, it
would not matter if they did, given his size.
Robin had been asked to do several things, in the course of her brief temping
career, that were outside the terms of a secretarial contract, and had therefore
been a little unnerved by Strike’s suggestion of a walk. She was pleased,
however, to acquit Strike of any flirtatious intent. The long walk to this spot had
been conducted in almost total silence, Strike apparently deep in thought, and
occasionally consulting his map.
Upon their arrival in Alderbrook Road, however, he had said:
“If you spot anything, or you think of anything I haven’t, tell me, won’t you?”
This was rather thrilling: Robin prided herself on her observational powers;
they were one reason she had secretly cherished the childhood ambition that the
large man beside her was living. She looked intelligently up and down the street,
and tried to visualize what someone might have been up to, on a snowy night, in
sub-zero temperatures, at two in the morning.
“This way,” said Strike, however, before any insights could occur to her, and
they walked off, side by side, along Bellamy Road. It curved gently to the left
and continued for some sixty houses, which were almost identical, with their
glossy black doors, their short railings either side of clean white steps and their
topiary-filled tubs. Here and there were marble lions and brass plaques, giving
names and professional credentials; chandeliers glinted from upper windows, and
one door stood open to reveal a checkerboard floor, oil paintings in gold frames
and a Georgian staircase.
As he walked, Strike pondered some of the information that Robin had
managed to find on the internet that morning. As Strike had suspected, Bristow
had not been honest when he asserted that the police had made no effort to trace