The Silkworm

“Shut up. Nobody except the killer knew Quine was dead when you started stalking me. You followed me the day I found the body and I know you were following Leonora for a week before that. Why?” And when she did not answer, he repeated: “Last chance: why did you follow me from Leonora’s?”

“I thought you might lead me to where he was,” said Pippa.

“Why did you want to know where he was?”

“So I could fucking kill him!” yelled Pippa, and Robin was confirmed in her impression that Pippa shared Martin’s almost total lack of self-preservation.

“And why did you want to kill him?” asked Strike, as though she had said nothing out of the ordinary.

“Because of what he did to us in that horrible fucking book! You know—you’ve read it—Epicoene—that bastard, that bastard—”

“Bloody calm down! So you’d read Bombyx Mori by then?”

“Yeah, of course I had—”

“And that’s when you started putting shit through Quine’s letter box?”

“Shit for a shit!” she shouted.

“Witty. When did you read the book?”

“Kath read the bits about us on the phone and then I went round and—”

“When did she read you the bits on the phone?”

“W-when she came home and found it lying on her doormat. Whole manuscript. She could hardly get the door open. He’d fed it through her door with a note,” said Pippa Midgley. “She showed me.”

“What did the note say?”

“It said ‘Payback time for both of us. Hope you’re happy! Owen.’”

“‘Payback time for both of us’?” repeated Strike, frowning. “D’you know what that meant?”

“Kath wouldn’t tell me but I know she understood. She was d-devastated,” said Pippa, her chest heaving. “She’s a—she’s a wonderful person. You don’t know her. She’s been like a m-mother to me. We met on his writing course and we were like—we became like—” She caught up her breath and whimpered: “He was a bastard. He lied to us about what he was writing, he lied about—about everything—”

She began to cry again, wailing and sobbing, and Robin, worried about Mr. Crowdy, said gently:

“Pippa, just tell us what he lied about. Cormoran only wants the truth, he’s not trying to frame anyone…”

She did not know whether Pippa had heard or believed her; perhaps she simply wanted to relieve her overwrought feelings, but she took a great shuddering breath and out spilled a torrent of words:

“He said I was like his second daughter, he said that to me; I told him everything, he knew my mum threw me out and everything. And I showed him m-m-my book about my life and he w-was so k-kind and interested and he said he’d help me get it p-published and he t-told us both, me and Kath, that we were in his n-new novel and he said I w-was a ‘b-beautiful lost soul’—that’s what he said to me,” gasped Pippa, her mobile mouth working, “and he p-pretended to read a bit out to me one day, over the phone, and it was—it was lovely and then I r-read it and he’d—he’d written that…Kath was in b-bits…the cave…Harpy and Epicoene…”

“So Kathryn came home and found it all over the doormat, did she?” said Strike. “Came home from where—work?”

“From s-sitting in the hospice with her dying sister.”

“And that was when?” said Strike for the third time.

“Who cares when it—?”

“I fucking care!”

“Was it the ninth?” Robin asked. She had brought up Kathryn Kent’s blog on her computer, the screen angled away from the sofa where Pippa was sitting. “Could it have been Tuesday the ninth, Pippa? The Tuesday after bonfire night?”

“It was…yeah, I think it was!” said Pippa, apparently awestruck by Robin’s lucky guess. “Yeah, Kath went away on bonfire night because Angela was so ill—”

“How d’you know it was bonfire night?” Strike asked.

“Because Owen told Kath he c-couldn’t see her that night, because he had to do fireworks with his daughter,” said Pippa. “And Kath was really upset, because he was supposed to be leaving! He’d promised her, he’d promised at long bloody last he’d leave his bitch of a wife, and then he says he’s got to play sparklers with the reta—”

She drew up short, but Strike finished for her.

“With the retard?”

“It’s just a joke,” muttered Pippa, shamefaced, showing more regret about her use of the word than she had about trying to stab Strike. “Just between me and Kath: his daughter was always the excuse why Owen couldn’t leave and be with Kath…”

“What did Kathryn do that night, instead of seeing Quine?” asked Strike.

“I went over to hers. Then she got the call that her sister Angela was a lot worse and she left. Angela had cancer. It had gone everywhere.”

“Where was Angela?”

“In the hospice in Clapham.”

“How did Kathryn get there?”

“Why’s that matter?”

“Just answer the bloody question, will you?”

“I don’t know—Tube, I s’pose. And she stayed with Angela for three days, sleeping on a mattress on the floor by her bed because they thought Angela was going to die any moment, but Angela kept hanging on so Kath had to go home for clean clothes and that’s when she found the manuscript all over the doormat.”