1 The Cuckoo's Calling

And yet he was close to feeling about her as he had felt towards a grass snake
that he had succeeded in trapping in Trevaylor Woods when he was eleven, and
about which he had had a long, pleading argument with his Auntie Joan: “Please
let me keep it…please…”
“I’d better get going,” he said, after he had signed her time sheet, and thrown
his sandwich wrappers and his empty water bottle into the bin underneath her
desk. “Thanks for everything, Robin. Good luck with the job hunt.”
He took down his overcoat, and left through the glass door.
At the top of the stairs, on the precise spot where he had both nearly killed and
then saved her, he came to a halt. Instinct was clawing at him like an importuning
dog.
The glass door banged open behind him and he turned. Robin was pink in the
face.
“Look,” she said. “We could come to a private arrangement. We could cut out
Temporary Solutions, and you could pay me directly.”
He hesitated.
“They don’t like that, temping agencies. You’ll be drummed out of the
service.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ve got three interviews for permanent jobs next week. If
you’d be OK about me taking time off to go to them—”
“Yeah, no problem,” he said, before he could stop himself.
“Well then, I could stay for another week or two.”
A pause. Sense entered into a short, violent skirmish with instinct and
inclination, and was overwhelmed.
“Yeah…all right. Well, in that case, will you try Freddie Bestigui again?”
“Yes, of course,” said Robin, masking her glee under a show of calm
efficiency.
“I’ll see you Monday afternoon, then.”
It was the first grin he had ever dared give her. He supposed he ought to be
annoyed with himself, and yet Strike stepped out into the cool early afternoon
with no feeling of regret, but rather a curious sense of renewed optimism.