The Silkworm

“Unless we hit trouble on the motorway,” said Robin, surreptitiously touching the wood trim on the door’s interior.

They had just reached the M4, where there were weather warnings on every sign and where the speed limit had been reduced to sixty, when Strike’s mobile rang.

“Ilsa? What’s going on?”

“Hi, Corm. Well, it could be worse. They haven’t arrested her, but that was some intense questioning.”

Strike turned the mobile onto speakerphone for Robin’s benefit and together they listened, similar frowns of concentration on their faces as the car moved through a vortex of swirling snow, rushing the windscreen.

“They definitely think it’s her,” said Ilsa.

“Based on what?”

“Opportunity,” said Ilsa, “and her manner. She really doesn’t help herself. Very grumpy at being questioned and kept talking about you, which put their backs up. She said you’ll find out who really did it.”

“Bloody hell,” said Strike, exasperated. “And what was in the lockup?”

“Oh yeah, that. It was a burned, bloodstained rag in among a pile of junk.”

“Big effing deal,” said Strike. “Could’ve been there years.”

“Forensics will find out, but I agree, it’s not much to go on seeing as they haven’t even found the guts yet.”

“You know about the guts?”

“Everyone knows about the guts now, Corm. It’s been on the news.”

Strike and Robin exchanged fleeting looks.

“When?”

“Lunchtime. I think the police knew it was about to break and brought her in to see if they could squeeze anything out of her before it all became common knowledge.”

“It’s one of their lot who’s leaked it,” said Strike angrily.

“That’s a big accusation.”

“I had it from the journalist who was paying the copper to talk.”

“Know some interesting people, don’t you?”

“Comes with the territory. Thanks for letting me know, Ilsa.”

“No problem. Try and keep her out of jail, Corm. I quite like her.”

“Who is that?” Robin asked as Ilsa hung up.

“Old school friend from Cornwall; lawyer. She married one of my London mates,” said Strike. “I put Leonora onto her because—shit.”

They had rounded a bend to find a huge tailback ahead of them. Robin applied the brake and they drew up behind a Peugeot.

“Shit,” repeated Strike, with a glance at Robin’s set profile.

“Another accident,” said Robin. “I can see flashing lights.”

Her imagination showed her Matthew’s face if she had to telephone him and say that she was not coming, that she had missed the sleeper. His mother’s funeral…who misses a funeral? She should have been there already, at Matt’s father’s house, helping with arrangements, taking some of the strain. Her weekend bag ought already to have been sitting in her old bedroom at home, her funeral clothes pressed and hanging in her old wardrobe, everything ready for the short walk to the church the following morning. They were burying Mrs. Cunliffe, her future mother-in-law, but she had chosen to drive off into the snow with Strike, and now they were gridlocked, two hundred miles from the church where Matthew’s mother would be laid to rest.

He’ll never forgive me. He’ll never forgive me if I miss the funeral because I did this…

Why did she have to have been presented with such a choice, today of all days? Why did the weather have to be so bad? Robin’s stomach churned with anxiety and the traffic did not move.

Strike said nothing, but turned on the radio. The sound of Take That filled the car, singing about there being progress now, where once there was none. The music grated on Robin’s nerves, but she said nothing.

The line of traffic moved forward a few feet.

Oh, please God, let me get to King’s Cross on time, prayed Robin inside her head.

For three quarters of an hour they crawled through the snow, the afternoon light fading fast around them. What had seemed a vast ocean of time until the departure of the night train was starting to feel to Robin like a rapidly draining pool in which she might shortly be sitting alone, marooned.

Now they could see the crash ahead of them; the police, the lights, a mangled Polo.

“You’ll make it,” said Strike, speaking for the first time since he had turned on the radio as they waited their turn to be waved forwards by the traffic cop. “It’ll be tight, but you’ll make it.”

Robin did not answer. She knew it was all her fault, not his: he had offered her the day off. It was she who had been insistent on coming with him to Devon, she who had lied to Matthew about the availability of train seats today. She ought to have stood all the way from London to Harrogate rather than miss Mrs. Cunliffe’s funeral. Strike had been with Charlotte sixteen years, on and off, and the job had broken them. She did not want to lose Matthew. Why had she done this; why had she offered to drive Strike?