1 The Cuckoo's Calling

Weighed down, young, by a mortgage, a stolid husband, three children and an
onerous job, Lucy seemed to crave responsibility, as though she could never have
enough anchors. Strike had always suspected that she wanted to prove to herself
and the world that she was nothing like their fly-by-night mother, who had
dragged the two of them all over the country, from school to school, house to
squat to camp, in pursuit of the next enthusiasm or man. Lucy was the only one
of his eight half-siblings with whom Strike had shared a childhood; he was
fonder of her than of almost anyone else in his life, and yet their interactions were
often unsatisfactory, laden with familiar anxieties and arguments. Lucy could not
disguise the fact that her brother worried and disappointed her. In consequence,
Strike was less inclined to be honest with her about his present situation than he
would have been with many a friend.
“Yeah, it’s going great,” he told her, smoking at the open window, watching
people drift in and out of the shops below. “Business has doubled lately.”
“Where are you? I can hear traffic.”
“At the office. I’ve got paperwork to do.”
“On Saturday? How does Charlotte feel about that?”
“She’s away; she’s gone to visit her mother.”
“How are things going between you?”
“Great,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. How’s Greg?”
She gave him a brief precis of her husband’s workload, then returned to the
attack.
“Is Gillespie still on your back for repayment?”
“No.”
“Because you know what, Stick”—the childhood nickname boded ill: she was
trying to soften him up—“I’ve been looking into this, and you could apply to the
British Legion for—”
“Fucking hell, Lucy,” he said, before he could stop himself.
“What?”
The hurt and indignation in her voice were only too familiar: he closed his
eyes.