The “C.B. Strike” series delves into much more than the nuts and bolts of private investigation. One of its core strengths is how it brings Cormoran Strike’s personal challenges to the forefront—physical, emotional, and even existential. If you’re looking to really understand what makes this character tick, and why his struggles are so relatable (and at times, excruciating to witness), you’re in the right place. Below, I’m going to break down his challenges, pepper in practical examples from the texts, and even reference how other literary detectives compare. As a long-time reader and amateur crime fiction blogger (with way too many hours lost on Reddit threads about this series), I’ll also share my own take on how these challenges are actually depicted, not just described.
Strike lost the lower half of his right leg in Afghanistan. This isn’t just a background fact that’s occasionally referenced; it’s a constant, shaping every part of his life. In “The Cuckoo’s Calling,” for example, there’s a scene where Strike is forced to walk up several flights of stairs to a client’s apartment because the elevator’s out. He tries to hide his pain, but you can tell he’s gritting his teeth through every step. There’s this bit where he nearly collapses in the hallway, and honestly, as someone who once tried (and failed) to crutch my way up three flights with a twisted ankle, I winced reading it.
In practical terms, Strike’s prosthesis means he’s always strategizing: Where’s the nearest chair? How long until he can sit down again? There’s an almost tactical quality to his movements—something ex-military readers on the CBStrike Reddit have pointed out. One poster, a veteran himself, mentioned how accurate Strike’s frustration with uneven pavements and long distances felt, saying, “It’s not just pain. It’s the exhaustion—planning every move ahead.” That authenticity is why so many disabled readers have praised the series.
And, of course, there are moments when his prosthesis literally breaks at the worst possible times—like during a chase in “Lethal White.” Not only is this a physical setback, it’s humiliating for Strike, who prides himself on independence. That scene is a masterclass in tension: you want him to catch the suspect, but you’re also thinking, “Oh god, don’t fall, don’t fall.”
Strike’s pain isn’t just physical. It affects his sleep, his mood, his ability to concentrate. In “Troubled Blood,” there’s a running subplot about his insomnia—he’s up at 3 a.m., tossing and turning, sometimes resorting to painkillers and alcohol. This leads to classic PI mistakes: missing clues, snapping at Robin, his partner, or just zoning out at key moments. The books don’t romanticize this; it’s messy, frustrating, and it makes his victories feel earned.
I remember reading an interview with J.K. Rowling (writing as Robert Galbraith) where she said she wanted to depict a detective whose pain wasn’t a melodramatic plot device, but something that “wore away at the edges of his life” (source). That’s exactly how it reads—sometimes, Strike’s pain is the main antagonist in the scene.
Let’s talk about Strike’s emotional world, or, more accurately, his emotional minefield. Partly as a result of his military background and partly because of his chaotic upbringing (his mother was a groupie, his father a famous rock star he barely knows), Strike is deeply private—almost to a fault.
His relationship with Charlotte, his on-and-off fiancée, is a running disaster: full of passion, manipulation, and self-destruction. Every time he thinks he’s done with her, she finds a way back in, and it’s always bad news. In “Career of Evil,” their dynamic is particularly raw. There’s a painful scene where Strike, exhausted after a long day, finds Charlotte waiting for him, and you can practically feel his emotional defenses crumble. He knows she’s bad for him, but he can’t help himself.
This affects his working life, too. He’s slow to trust Robin, his assistant-turned-partner. Even as she proves herself, he holds back, afraid of losing control or getting hurt. There’s a memorable exchange in “The Silkworm” where Robin confronts him about his secrecy, and Strike, rather than opening up, snaps at her. It’s messy, real, and, honestly, sometimes I wanted to shake him and yell, “Just talk to her!”
Strike is almost always broke, especially in the earlier books. Running a PI agency in London isn’t exactly lucrative—especially when you have a habit of taking on pro bono cases. There are whole chapters where Strike is scraping together enough for rent and beer, sometimes sleeping in his office. This isn’t just background color; it shapes his decisions. He can’t afford to turn down difficult clients, even when they’re clearly trouble.
This also feeds into his pride. He hates asking for help, whether it’s from friends, family, or even Robin. In one memorable moment, a cheque bounces and he’s humiliated in front of a client—something that, as a self-employed freelancer myself, hit way too close to home. The financial struggle is real, and it’s one of the things that makes Strike feel like a working-class detective, not a glamorous Sherlock type.
Strike’s time in the military wasn’t just physically scarring. He’s haunted by memories of friends lost and violence witnessed. While the series doesn’t use the term “PTSD” explicitly (something some readers have debated on forums like thefreedictionary.com), the symptoms are there: nightmares, hypervigilance, flashes of anger. The most striking (sorry) example comes in “Troubled Blood,” where certain cases trigger intense flashbacks. Instead of dramatizing it, the narrative lets us sit in Strike’s discomfort—he zones out, loses track of conversations, or lashes out unexpectedly.
There’s a scene where Robin gently asks if he wants to talk, and he just shrugs it off. Many veterans have commented online about how accurate this is—trauma isn’t always about dramatic breakdowns; often, it’s about withdrawal and avoidance.
It’s easy to compare Strike to iconic detectives—Sherlock Holmes, Philip Marlowe, or even contemporary ones like Harry Bosch. But what sets Strike apart is how unglamorous his challenges are. For example, Sherlock’s drug use is treated almost as a quirk, while Strike’s painkiller-and-booze habit is shown as self-destructive. In an interview with CrimeReads, detective fiction expert Sarah Weinman noted, “Strike’s vulnerability isn’t performative. It’s woven into the fabric of the books.”
I once tried to map out the number of times Strike’s disability directly interferes with his investigations versus, say, Morse’s heart problems or Bosch’s insomnia. Strike’s challenges crop up way more often—practically every other chapter. This frequency matters. It’s not just a character note; it’s the story’s engine.
During a recent online panel hosted by the Crime Writers’ Association, author Val McDermid said, “Strike’s body is a battleground, and that’s what makes him compelling. He’s not a superhero—he’s surviving, and sometimes that’s enough.” This is spot-on. You get the sense that Strike’s biggest victories aren’t catching killers; they’re getting out of bed, facing the day, and managing not to screw up the good things in his life.
Just to illustrate how standards and definitions can differ across borders (which, weirdly, mirrors how disability and trauma are treated differently in fiction and real life), here’s a quick table comparing “verified trade” standards in three major economies:
| Country/Region | Standard Name | Legal Basis | Enforcement Agency |
|---|---|---|---|
| United States | Verified Trusted Trader Program | CTPAT (Customs-Trade Partnership Against Terrorism) | U.S. Customs and Border Protection |
| European Union | Authorized Economic Operator (AEO) | EU Customs Code | National Customs Administrations |
| China | Advanced Certified Enterprise (ACE) | GACC Regulations | General Administration of Customs |
Why bring this up? Because just as “verified” means something different in every country, “coping” and “disability” mean something different for every character—and every reader.
Cormoran Strike is one of the most convincingly flawed detectives in modern fiction. His physical pain, emotional baggage, and financial woes aren’t just seasoning—they’re the main course. The series stands out for refusing easy solutions or quick fixes; instead, it dwells in the messiness of real life. As someone who’s followed the books from the start and swapped theories with everyone from veterans to therapists to fellow fans, I can say this: You don’t have to have a prosthetic leg to relate to Strike. His challenges are universal. The details just happen to be more vivid—and more honest—than most.
If you’re wrestling with your own challenges, or just want to see how fiction can reflect reality without sugarcoating, the C.B. Strike series is a masterclass. Next time you read, pay attention to the small moments—the limp, the sigh, the pause before answering. That’s where the real story is.
For further exploration, check out the OECD’s trade facilitation portal for a sense of how international standards collide—and, by analogy, how fiction and reality do too. And if you want a more academic take on disability in detective fiction, I recommend this recent Taylor & Francis chapter.
Final thought? Sometimes, the most heroic thing you can do is just keep going. Strike gets that. And so do we.