1 The Cuckoo's Calling

It took a further forty minutes for Mrs. Hook to drink her second cup of tea
and sob her way through half the toilet roll Robin had liberated from the
bathroom on the landing. At last she left, clutching the folder full of
incriminating photographs, and the index detailing the time and place of their
creation, her breast heaving, still mopping her eyes.
Strike waited until she was clear of the end of the street, then went out,
humming cheerfully, to buy sandwiches for himself and Robin, which they
enjoyed together at her desk. It was the friendliest gesture that he had made
during their week together, and Robin was sure that this was because he knew
that he would soon be free of her.
“You know I’m going out this afternoon to interview Derrick Wilson?” he
asked.
“The security guard who had diarrhea,” said Robin. “Yes.”
“You’ll be gone when I get back, so I’ll sign your time sheet before I go. And
listen, thanks for…”
Strike nodded at the now empty sofa.
“Oh, no problem. Poor woman.”
“Yeah. She’s got the good on him anyway. And,” he continued, “thanks for
everything you’ve done this week.”
“It’s my job,” said Robin lightly.
“If I could afford a secretary…but I expect you’ll end up pulling down a
serious salary as some fat cat’s PA.”
Robin felt obscurely offended.
“That’s not the kind of job I want,” she said.
There was a slightly strained silence.
Strike was undergoing a small internal struggle. The prospect of Robin’s desk
being empty next week was a gloomy one; he found her company pleasantly
undemanding, and her efficiency refreshing; but it would surely be pathetic, not
to mention profligate, to pay for companionship, as though he were some rich,
sickly Victorian magnate? Temporary Solutions were rapacious in their demand
for commission; Robin was a luxury he could not afford. The fact that she had
not questioned him about his father (for Strike had noticed Jonny Rokeby’s
Wikipedia entry on the computer monitor) had impressed him further in her
favor, for this showed unusual restraint, and was a standard by which he often
judged new acquaintances. But it could make no difference to the cold
practicalities of the situation: she had to go.