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Chapters (57)
  1. COPYRIGHT
  2. The Cuckoo’s Calling
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. Prologue
  6. Three Months Later
  7. Part One
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. Part Two
  16. 1
  17. 2
  18. 3
  19. 4
  20. 5
  21. 6
  22. 7
  23. 8
  24. 9
  25. 10
  26. 11
  27. Part Three
  28. 1
  29. 2
  30. 3
  31. 4
  32. 5
  33. 6
  34. 7
  35. 8
  36. 9
  37. 10
  38. Part Four
  39. 1
  40. 2
  41. 3
  42. 4
  43. 5
  44. 6
  45. 7
  46. 8
  47. 9
  48. 10
  49. 11
  50. 12
  51. 13
  52. 14
  53. Part Five
  54. 1
  55. 2
  56. Epilogue
  57. Ten Days Later

‘A kairos moment?’ she repeated, hoping against hope it was not something sexual, something that she would not be able to forget afterwards, especially as the kebab shop owner was listening in and smirking behind them. ‘No, I don’t. Shall we go back to the office?’

‘You don’t know whadditis?’ he asked, peering at her.

‘No.’

‘’SGreek,’ he told her. ‘Kairos. Kairos moment. An’ it means,’ and from somewhere in his soused brain he dredged up words of surprising clarity, ‘the telling moment. The special moment. The supreme moment.’

Oh please, thought Robin, please don’t tell me we’re having one.

‘An’ d’you know what ours was, R’bin, mine an’ Charlotte’s?’ he said, staring into the middle distance, his unlit cigarette hanging from his hand. ‘It was when she walk’d into the ward – I was in hosp’tal f’long time an’ I hadn’ seen her f’two years – no warning – an’ I saw her in the door an’ ev’ryone turned an’ saw her too, an’ she walked down the ward an’ she never said a word an,’ he paused to draw breath, and hiccoughed again, ‘an’ she kissed me aft’ two years, an’ we were back together. Nobody talkin’. Fuckin’ beautiful. Mos’ beaut’ful woman I’ve ’ver seen. Bes’ moment of the whole fuckin’ – ’fmy whole fuckin’ life, prob’bly. I’m sorry, R’bin,’ he added, ‘f’r sayin’ “fuckin’”. Sorry ’bout that.’

Robin felt equally inclined to laughter and tears, though she did not know why she should feel so sad.

‘Shall I light that cigarette for you?’

‘Y’re a great person, Robin, y’know that?’

Near the turning into Denmark Street he stopped dead, still swaying like a tree in the wind, and told her loudly that Charlotte did not love Jago Ross; it was all a game, a game to hurt him, Strike, as badly as she could.

Outside the black door to the office he halted again, holding up both hands to stop her following him upstairs.

‘Y’gotta go home now, R’bin.’

‘Let me just make sure you get upstairs OK.’

‘No. No. ’M fine now. An’ I might chunder. ’M legless. An’,’ said Strike, ‘you don’ get that fuckin’ tired old fuckin’ joke. Or do you? Know most of it now. Did I tell you?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Ne’r mind, R’bin. You go home now. I gotta be sick.’

‘Are you sure…?’

‘’M sorry I kep’ sayin’ fuck – swearin’. Y’re a nice pers’n, R’bin. G’bye now.’

She looked back at him when she reached Charing Cross Road. He was walking with the awful, clumsy deliberation of the very drunk towards the dingy entrance to Denmark Place, there, no doubt, to vomit in the dark alleyway, before staggering upstairs to his camp bed and kettle.

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