1 The Cuckoo's Calling

5
STRIKE HAD TOLD ROBIN THAT he would be late into the office on her last morning.
He had given her the spare key, and told her to let herself in.
She had been very slightly hurt by his casual use of the word “last.” It told her
that however well they had got along, albeit in a guarded and professional way;
however much more organized his office was, and how much cleaner the horrible
washroom outside the glass door; however much better the bell downstairs
looked, without that scrappy piece of paper taped beneath it, but a neatly typed
name in the clear plastic holder (it had taken her half an hour, and cost her two
broken nails, to prize the cover off); however efficient she had been at taking
messages, however intelligently she had discussed the almost certainly
nonexistent killer of Lula Landry, Strike had been counting down the days until
he could get rid of her.
That he could not afford a temporary secretary was perfectly obvious. He had
only two clients; he seemed (as Matthew kept mentioning, as though sleeping in
an office was a mark of terrible depravity) to be homeless; Robin saw, of course,
that from Strike’s point of view it made no sense to keep her on. But she was not
looking forward to Monday. There would be a strange new office (Temporary
Solutions had already telephoned through the address); a neat, bright, bustling
place, no doubt, full of gossipy women as most of these offices were, all engaged
in activities that meant less than nothing to her. Robin might not believe in a
murderer; she knew that Strike did not believe either; but the process of proving
one nonexistent fascinated her.
Robin had found the whole week more exciting than she would ever have
confessed to Matthew. All of it, even calling Freddie Bestigui’s production
company, BestFilms, twice a day, and receiving repeated refusals to her requests
to be put through to the film producer, had given her a sense of importance she
had rarely experienced during her working life. Robin was fascinated by the
interior workings of other people’s minds: she had been halfway through a
psychology degree when an unforeseen incident had finished her university
career.
Half past ten, and Strike had still not returned to the office, but a large woman
wearing a nervous smile, an orange coat and a purple knitted beret had arrived.
This was Mrs. Hook, a name familiar to Robin because it was that of Strike’s
only other client. Robin installed Mrs. Hook on the sagging sofa beside her own
desk, and fetched her a cup of tea. (Acting on Robin’s awkward description of
the lascivious Mr. Crowdy downstairs, Strike had bought cheap cups and a box of
their own tea bags.)
“I know I’m early,” said Mrs. Hook, for the third time, taking ineffectual little
sips of boiling tea. “I haven’t seen you before, are you new?”