The Cuckoo's Calling

He walked fast, barely conscious of the twinges from his right knee. At last he realized that he had walked all along Maddox Street and emerged on Regent Street. The red awnings of Hamleys Toy Shop fluttered a little in the distance, and Strike remembered that he had intended to buy a birthday present for his nephew’s forthcoming birthday on the way back to the office.

The multicolored, squeaking, flashing maelstrom into which he walked registered on him only vaguely. Blindly he moved from floor to floor, untroubled by the shrieks, the whirring of airborne toy helicopters, the oinks of mechanical pigs moving across his distracted path. Finally, after twenty minutes or so, he came to rest near the HM Forces dolls. Here he stood, quite still, gazing at the ranks of miniature marines and paratroopers but barely seeing them; deaf to the whispers of parents trying to maneuver their sons around him, too intimidated to ask the strange, huge, staring man to move.

Part Three

Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit.

Maybe one day it will be cheering even to remember these things.

Virgil, Aeneid, Book 1

1

IT STARTED TO RAIN ON Wednesday. London weather; dank and gray, through which the old city presented a stolid front: pale faces under black umbrellas, the eternal smell of damp clothing, the steady pattering on Strike’s office window in the night.

The rain in Cornwall had a different quality, when it came: Strike remembered how it had lashed like whips against the panes of Aunt Joan and Uncle Ted’s spare room, during those months in the neat little house that smelled of flowers and baking, while he had attended the village school in St. Mawes. Such memories swam to the forefront of his mind whenever he was about to see Lucy.

Raindrops were still dancing exuberantly on the windowsills on Friday afternoon, while at opposite ends of her desk, Robin wrapped Jack’s new paratrooper doll, and Strike wrote her a check to the amount of a week’s work, minus the commission of Temporary Solutions. Robin was about to attend the third of that week’s “proper” interviews, and was looking neat and groomed in her black suit, with her bright gold hair pinned back in a chignon.

“There you are,” they both said simultaneously, as Robin pushed across the desk a perfect parcel patterned with small spaceships, and Strike held out the check.

“Cheers,” said Strike, taking the present. “I can’t wrap.”

“I hope he likes it,” she replied, tucking the check away in her black handbag.

“Yeah. And good luck with the interview. D’you want the job?”

“Well, it’s quite a good one. Human resources in a media consultancy in the West End,” she said, sounding unenthusiastic. “Enjoy the party. I’ll see you Monday.”

The self-imposed penance of walking down into Denmark Street to smoke became even more irksome in the ceaseless rain. Strike stood, minimally shielded beneath the overhang of his office entrance, and asked himself when he was going to kick the habit and set to work to restore the fitness that had slipped away along with his solvency and his domestic comfort. His mobile rang while he stood there.

“Thought you might like to know your tip-off’s paid dividends,” said Eric Wardle, who sounded triumphant. Strike could hear engine noise and the sound of men talking in the background.

“Quick work,” commented Strike.

“Yeah, well, we don’t hang around.”

“Does this mean I’m going to get what I was after?”

“That’s what I’m calling about. It’s a bit late today, but I’ll bike it over Monday.”

“Sooner rather than later suits me. I can hang on here at the office.”

Wardle laughed a little offensively.

“You get paid by the hour, don’t you? I’d’ve thought it suited you to string it out a bit.”

“Tonight would be better. If you can get it here this evening, I’ll make sure you’re the first to know if my old mate drops any more tip-offs.”

In the slight pause that followed, Strike heard one of the men in the car with Wardle say:

“…Fearney’s fucking face…”

“Yeah, all right,” said Wardle. “I’ll get it over later. Might not be till seven. Will you still be there?”

“I’ll make sure I am,” Strike replied.

The file arrived three hours later, while he was eating fish and chips out of a small polystyrene tray in his lap and watching the London evening news on his portable television. The courier buzzed the outer door and Strike signed for a bulky package sent from Scotland Yard. Once unwrapped, a thick gray folder full of photocopied material was disclosed. Strike took it back to Robin’s desk, and began the lengthy process of digesting the contents.