1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“I’m temporary,” said Robin.
“As I expect you’ve guessed, it’s my husband,” said Mrs. Hook, not listening.
“I suppose you see women like me all the time, don’t you? Wanting to know the
worst. I dithered for ages and ages. But it’s best to know, isn’t it? Best to know. I
thought Cormoran would be here. Is he out on another case?”
“That’s right,” said Robin, who suspected that Strike was actually doing
something related to his mysterious personal life; there had been a caginess about
him as he had told her he would be late.
“Do you know who his father is?” asked Mrs. Hook.
“No, I don’t,” said Robin, thinking that they were talking about the poor
woman’s husband.
“Jonny Rokeby,” said Mrs. Hook, with a kind of dramatic relish.
“Jonny Roke—”
Robin caught her breath, realizing simultaneously that Mrs. Hook meant
Strike, and that Strike’s massive frame was looming up outside the glass door.
She could see that he was carrying something very large.
“Just one moment, Mrs. Hook,” she said.
“What?” asked Strike, peering around the edge of the cardboard box, as Robin
darted out of the glass door and closed it behind her.
“Mrs. Hook’s here,” she whispered.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. She’s an hour early.”
“I know. I thought you might want to, um, organize your office a bit before
you take her in there.”
Strike eased the cardboard box on to the metal floor.
“I’ve got to bring these in off the street,” he said.
“I’ll help,” offered Robin.
“No, you go and make polite conversation. She’s taking a pottery class and she
thinks her husband’s sleeping with his accountant.”
Strike limped off down the stairs, leaving the box beside the glass door.
Jonny Rokeby; could it be true?
“He’s on his way, just coming,” Robin told Mrs. Hook brightly, resettling
herself at her desk. “Mr. Strike told me you do pottery. I’ve always wanted to
try…”