The Silkworm

Robin felt horribly aware of the handsome PC, listening to all of it, feet away.

“Come in, come in,” said Edna, backing out of their way and beckoning them enthusiastically inside.

“Mrs.—I’m sorry, I don’t know your surname,” began Strike, wiping his feet on the doormat (her house was warm, clean and much cozier than the Quines’, though identical in layout).

“Call me Edna,” she said, beaming at him.

“Edna, thank you—you know, you ought to ask to see ID before you let anyone into your house.”

“Oh, but,” said Edna, flustered, “Leonora told me all about you…”

Strike insisted, nevertheless, on showing her his driving license before following her down the hall into a blue-and-white kitchen much brighter than Leonora’s.

“She’s upstairs,” said Edna when Strike explained that they had come to see Orlando. “She’s not having a good day. Do you want coffee?”

As she flitted around fetching cups she talked nonstop in the pent-up fashion of the stressed and lonely.

“Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind having her, poor lamb, but…” She looked hopelessly between Strike and Robin then blurted out, “But how long for? They’ve no family, you see. There was a social worker round yesterday, checking on her; she said if I couldn’t keep her she’d have to go in a home or something; I said, you can’t do that to Orlando, they’ve never been apart, her and her mum, no, she can stay with me, but…”

Edna glanced at the ceiling.

“She’s very unsettled just now, very upset. Just wants her mum to come home and what can I say to her? I can’t tell her the truth, can I? And there they are next door, digging up the whole garden, they’ve gone and dug up Mr. Poop…”

“Dead cat,” Strike muttered under his breath to Robin as tears bubbled behind Edna’s spectacles and bounced down her round cheeks.

“Poor lamb,” she said again.

When she had given Strike and Robin their coffees Edna went upstairs to fetch Orlando. It took ten minutes for her to persuade the girl to come downstairs, but Strike was glad to see Cheeky Monkey clutched in her arms when she appeared, today dressed in a grubby tracksuit and wearing a sullen expression.

“He’s called like a giant,” she announced to the kitchen at large when she saw Strike.

“I am,” said Strike, nodding. “Well remembered.”

Orlando slid into the chair that Edna pulled out for her, holding her orangutan tightly in her arms.

“I’m Robin,” said Robin, smiling at her.

“Like a bird,” said Orlando at once. “Dodo’s a bird.”

“It’s what her mum and dad called her,” explained Edna.

“We’re both birds,” said Robin.

Orlando gazed at her, then got up and walked out of the kitchen without speaking.

Edna sighed deeply.

“She takes upset over anything. You never know what she’s—”

But Orlando had returned with crayons and a spiral-bound drawing pad that Strike was sure had been bought by Edna to try to keep her happy. Orlando sat down at the kitchen table and smiled at Robin, a sweet, open smile that made Robin feel unaccountably sad.

“I’m going to draw you a robin,” she announced.

“I’d love that,” said Robin.

Orlando set to work with her tongue between her teeth. Robin said nothing, but watched the picture develop. Feeling that Robin had already forged a better rapport with Orlando than he had managed, Strike ate a chocolate biscuit offered by Edna and made small talk about the snow.

Eventually Orlando finished her picture, tore it out of the pad and pushed it across to Robin.

“It’s beautiful,” said Robin, beaming at her. “I wish I could draw a dodo, but I can’t draw at all.” This, Strike knew, was a lie. Robin drew very well; he had seen her doodles. “I’ve got to give you something, though.”

She rummaged in her bag, watched eagerly by Orlando, and eventually pulled out a small round makeup mirror decorated on the back with a stylized pink bird.

“There,” said Robin. “Look. That’s a flamingo. Another bird. You can keep that.”

Orlando took her gift with parted lips, staring at it.

“Say thank you to the lady,” prompted Edna.

“Thank you,” said Orlando and she slid the mirror inside the pajama case.

“Is he a bag?” asked Robin with bright interest.

“My monkey,” said Orlando, clutching the orangutan closer. “My daddy give him to me. My daddy died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Robin quietly, wishing that the image of Quine’s body had not slid instantly into her mind, his torso as hollow as a pajama case…

Strike surreptitiously checked his watch. The appointment with Fancourt was drawing ever closer. Robin sipped some coffee and asked:

“Do you keep things in your monkey?”

“I like your hair,” said Orlando. “It’s shiny and yellow.”

“Thank you,” said Robin. “Have you got any other pictures in there?”

Orlando nodded.

“C’n I have a biscuit?” she asked Edna.

“Can I see your other pictures?” Robin asked as Orlando munched.

And after a brief pause for consideration, Orlando opened up her orangutan.