The Silkworm

Even reduced to a distant and tinny monosyllable, Shannon’s dislike echoed scornfully around the book-lined room.

“Yeah, have you seen him?”

“Not for a year or more. Why? He’s not thinking of coming here, is he? He won’t be bloody welcome, I can tell you that.”

“No worries, Shan, I think his wife’s got hold of the wrong end of the stick. Speak soon.”

Fisher cut off her farewells, keen to return to Strike.

“See?” he said. “Told you. He couldn’t go to Bigley Hall if he wanted to.”

“Couldn’t you have told his wife that, when she phoned you up?”

“Oh, that’s what she kept calling about!” said Fisher with an air of dawning comprehension. “I thought Owen was making her call me.”

“Why would he make his wife phone you?”

“Oh, come on,” said Fisher, with a grin, and when Strike did not grin back, he laughed shortly and said, “Because of Bombyx Mori. I thought it’d be typical of Quine to try to get his wife to call me and sound me out.”

“Bombyx Mori,” repeated Strike, trying to sound neither interrogative nor puzzled.

“Yeah, I thought Quine was pestering me to see whether there was still a chance I’d publish it. It’s the sort of thing he’d do, make his wife ring. But if anyone’s going to touch Bombyx Mori now, it won’t be me. We’re a small outfit. We can’t afford court cases.”

Gaining nothing from pretending to know more than he did, Strike changed tack.

“Bombyx Mori’s Quine’s latest novel?”

“Yeah,” said Fisher, taking a sip of his takeaway latte, following his own train of thought. “So he’s disappeared, has he? I’d’ve thought he’d want to stick around and watch the fun. I’d’ve thought that was the whole point. Or has he lost his nerve? Doesn’t sound like Owen.”

“How long have you published Quine?” asked Strike. Fisher looked at him incredulously.

“I’ve never published him!” he said.

“I thought—”

“He’s been with Roper Chard for his last three books—or is it four? No, what happened was, I was at a party with Liz Tassel, his agent, a few months ago, and she told me in confidence—she’d had a few—that she didn’t know how much longer Roper Chard were going to put up with him, so I said I’d be happy to have a look at his next one. Quine’s in the so-bad-he’s-good category these days—we could’ve done something offbeat with the marketing. Anyway,” said Fisher, “there was Hobart’s Sin. That was a good book. I figured he might still have something in him.”

“Did she send you Bombyx Mori?” asked Strike, feeling his way and inwardly cursing himself for the lack of thoroughness with which he had questioned Leonora Quine the previous day. This was what came of taking on clients when you were three parts dead of exhaustion. Strike was used to coming to interviews knowing more than the interviewee and he felt curiously exposed.

“Yeah, she biked me over a copy Friday before last,” said Fisher, his Puckish smirk slier than ever. “Biggest mistake of poor Liz’s life.”

“Why?”

“Because she obviously hadn’t read it properly, or not all the way to the end. About two hours after it arrived I got this very panicky message on my phone: ‘Chris, there’s been a mistake, I’ve sent the wrong manuscript. Please don’t read it, could you just send it straight back, I’ll be at the office to take it.’ I’ve never heard Liz Tassel like that in my life. Very scary woman usually. Makes grown men cower.”

“And did you send it back?”

“Course not,” said Fisher. “I spent most of Saturday reading it.”

“And?” asked Strike.

“Hasn’t anyone told you?”

“Told me…?”

“What’s in there,” said Fisher. “What he’s done.”

“What has he done?”

Fisher’s smile faded. He put down his coffee.

“I’ve been warned,” he said, “by some of London’s top lawyers not to disclose that.”

“Who’s employing the lawyers?” asked Strike. When Fisher didn’t answer, he added, “Anyone apart from Chard and Fancourt?”

“It’s just Chard,” said Fisher, toppling easily into Strike’s trap. “Though I’d be more worried about Fancourt if I were Owen. He can be an evil bastard. Never forgets a grudge. Don’t quote me,” he added hastily.

“And the Chard you’re talking about?” said Strike, groping in semidarkness.

“Daniel Chard, CEO of Roper Chard,” said Fisher, with a trace of impatience. “I don’t understand how Owen thought he’d get away with screwing over the man who runs his publisher, but that’s Owen for you. He’s the most monumentally arrogant, deluded bastard I’ve ever met. I suppose he thought he could depict Chard as—”

Fisher broke off with an uneasy laugh.

“I’m a danger to myself. Let’s just say I’m surprised that even Owen thought he’d get away with it. Maybe he lost his nerve when he realized everyone knew exactly what he was hinting at and that’s why he’s done a runner.”

“It’s libelous, is it?” Strike asked.