The Cuckoo's Calling

“And thanks for the Alka-Seltzer,” said Strike.

“Did it help?” asked Robin, stiffly.

“I nearly puked all over this,” said Strike, dealing the sagging sofa a gentle punch with his fist, “but once it kicked in, it helped a lot.”

Robin laughed, and Strike remembered, for the first time, the note she had pushed under the door while he slept, and the excuse she had given for her tactful absence.

“Right, well, I’ve been looking forward to hearing how you got on yesterday,” he lied. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”

Robin expanded like a water blossom.

“I was just typing it up…”

“Let’s have it verbally, and you can put it into the file later,” said Strike, with the mental reservation that it would be easy to remove if useless.

“OK,” said Robin, both excited and nervous. “Well, like I said in my note, I saw that you wanted to look into Professor Agyeman, and the Malmaison Hotel in Oxford.”

Strike nodded, grateful for the reminder, because he had not been able to remember the details of the note, read once in the depths of his blinding hangover.

“So,” said Robin, a little breathlessly, “first of all I went along to Russell Square, to SOAS; the School of Oriental and African Studies. That’s what your notes meant, isn’t it?” she added. “I checked a map: it’s walking distance from the British Museum. Isn’t that what all those scribbles meant?”

Strike nodded again.

“Well, I went in there and pretended I was writing a dissertation on African politics, and I wanted some information on Professor Agyeman. I ended up speaking to this really helpful secretary in the politics department, who’d actually worked for him, and she gave me loads of information on him, including a bibliography and a brief biography. He studied at SOAS as an undergraduate.”

“He did?”

“Yes,” said Robin. “And I got a picture.”

From inside the notebook she pulled out a photocopy, and passed it across to Strike.

He saw a black man with a long, high-cheekboned face; close-cropped graying hair and beard and gold-rimmed glasses supported by overlarge ears. He stared at it for several long moments, and when at last he spoke, he said:

“Christ.”

Robin waited, elated.

“Christ,” said Strike again. “When did he die?”

“Five years ago. The secretary got upset talking about it. She said he was so clever, and the nicest, kindest man. A committed Christian.”

“Any family?”

“Yes. He left a widow and a son.”

“A son,” repeated Strike.

“Yes,” said Robin. “He’s in the army.”

“In the army,” said Strike, her deep and doleful echo. “Don’t tell me.”

“He’s in Afghanistan.”

Strike got up and started pacing up and down, the picture of Professor Josiah Agyeman in his hand.

“Didn’t get a regiment, did you? Not that it matters. I can find out,” he said.

“I did ask,” said Robin, consulting her notes, “but I don’t really understand—is there a regiment called the Sappers or some—”

“Royal Engineers,” said Strike. “I can check up on all that.”

He stopped beside Robin’s desk, and stared again at the face of Professor Josiah Agyeman.

“He was from Ghana originally,” she said. “But the family lived in Clerkenwell until he died.”

Strike handed her back the picture.

“Don’t lose that. You’ve done bloody well, Robin.”

“That’s not all,” she said, flushed, excited and trying to keep from smiling. “I took the train out to Oxford in the afternoon, to the Malmaison. Do you know, they’ve made a hotel out of an old prison?”

“Really?” said Strike, sinking back on to the sofa.

“Yes. It’s quite nice, actually. Well, anyway, I thought I’d pretend to be Alison and check whether Tony Landry had left something there or something…”

Strike sipped his tea, thinking that it was highly implausible that a secretary would be dispatched in person for such an inquiry three months after the event.

“Anyway, that was a mistake.”

“Really?” he said, his tone carefully neutral.

“Yes, because Alison actually did go to the Malmaison on the seventh, to try and find Tony Landry. It was incredibly embarrassing, because one of the girls on reception had been there that day, and she remembered her.”

Strike lowered his mug.

“Now that,” he said, “is very interesting indeed.”

“I know,” said Robin excitedly. “So then I had to think really fast.”

“Did you tell them your name was Annabel?”

“No,” she said, on a half-laugh. “I said, well, OK then, I’ll tell the truth, I’m his girlfriend. And I cried a bit.”

“You cried?”

“It wasn’t actually that hard,” said Robin, with an air of surprise. “I got right into character. I said I thought he was having an affair.”

“Not with Alison? If they’ve seen her, they wouldn’t believe that…”