1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“Who?” asked Strike.
“Kieran Kolovas-Jones. He was Lula’s regular driver. He wants to talk to you
too.”
“OK, great,” said Strike. “When will he be here?”
“I dunno. He’s on a job. He’ll come if he can.”
The waitress put a mug of tea in front of Strike, who thanked her and clicked
out the nib of his pen. Before he could ask anything, Wilson said:
“You’re ex-milit’ry, Mister Bristow said.”
“Yeah,” said Strike.
“Mi nephew’s in Afghanistan,” said Wilson, sipping his tea. “Helmand
Province.”
“What regiment?”
“Signals,” said Wilson.
“How long’s he been out there?”
“Four month. His mother’s not sleeping,” said Wilson. “How come you left?”
“Got my leg blown off,” said Strike, with an honesty that was not habitual.
It was only part of the truth, but the easiest part to communicate to a stranger.
He could have stayed; they had been keen to keep him; but the loss of his calf
and foot had merely precipitated a decision he had felt stealing towards him in
the past couple of years. He knew that his personal tipping point was drawing
nearer; that moment by which, unless he left, he would find it too onerous to go,
to readjust to civilian life. The army shaped you, almost imperceptibly, with the
years; wore you into a surface conformity that made it easier to be swept along
by the tidal force of military life. Strike had never become entirely submerged,
and had chosen to go before that happened. Even so, he remembered the SIB
with a fondness that was unaffected by the loss of half a limb. He would have
been glad to remember Charlotte with the same uncomplicated affection.
Wilson acknowledged Strike’s explanation with a slow nod of the head.
“Tough,” he said, in his deep voice.
“I got off light compared with some.”
“Yeah. Guy in mi nephew’s platoon got blown up two weeks ago.”
Wilson sipped his tea.