The Silkworm

“It’s not what you think,” said Strike. He was halfway through the story of Dave Polworth and the shark when his mobile rang again: an unknown number. He picked up.

“Is that Cameron—er—Strike?”

“Speaking.”

“It’s Jude Graham ’ere. Kath Kent’s neighbor. She’s back,” said the female voice happily.

“That’s good news,” said Strike, with a thumbs-up to Robin.

“Yeah, she got back this morning. Got a friend staying with ’er. I asked ’er where she’d been, but she wouldn’t say,” said the neighbor.

Strike remembered that Jude Graham thought him a journalist.

“Is the friend male or female?”

“Female,” she answered regretfully. “Tall skinny dark girl, she’s always hanging around Kath.”

“That’s very helpful, Ms. Graham,” said Strike. “I’ll—er—put something through your door later for your trouble.”

“Great,” said the neighbor happily. “Cheers.”

She rang off.

“Kath Kent’s back at home,” Strike told Robin. “Sounds like she’s got Pippa Midgley staying with her.”

“Oh,” said Robin, trying not to smile. “I, er, suppose you’re regretting you put her in a headlock now?”

Strike grinned ruefully.

“They’re not going to talk to me,” he said.

“No,” Robin agreed. “I don’t think they will.”

“Suits them fine, Leonora in the clink.”

“If you told them your whole theory, they might cooperate,” suggested Robin.

Strike stroked his chin, looking at Robin without seeing her.

“I can’t,” he said finally. “If it leaks out that I’m sniffing up that tree, I’ll be lucky not to get a knife in the back one dark night.”

“Are you serious?”

“Robin,” said Strike, mildly exasperated, “Quine was tied up and disemboweled.”

He sat down on the arm of the sofa, which squeaked less than the cushions but groaned under his weight, and said:

“Pippa Midgley liked you.”

“I’ll do it,” said Robin at once.

“Not alone,” he said, “but maybe you could get me in? How about this evening?”

“Of course!” she said, elated.

Hadn’t she and Matthew established new rules? This was the first time she had tested him, but she went to the telephone with confidence. His reaction when she told him that she did not know when she would be home that night could not have been called enthusiastic, but he accepted the news without demur.

So, at seven o’clock that evening, having discussed at length the tactics that they were about to employ, Strike and Robin proceeded separately through the icy night, ten minutes apart with Robin in the lead, to Stafford Cripps House.

A gang of youths stood again in the concrete forecourt of the block and they did not permit Robin to pass with the wary respect they had accorded Strike two weeks previously. One of them danced backwards ahead of her as she approached the inner stairs, inviting her to party, telling her she was beautiful, laughing derisively at her silence, while his mates jeered behind her in the darkness, discussing her rear view. As they entered the concrete stairwell her taunter’s jeers echoed strangely. She thought he might be seventeen at most.

“I need to go upstairs,” she said firmly as he slouched across the stairwell for his mates’ amusement, but sweat had prickled on her scalp. He’s a kid, she told herself. And Strike’s right behind you. The thought gave her courage. “Get out of the way, please,” she said.

He hesitated, dropped a sneering comment about her figure, and moved. She half expected him to grab her as she passed but he loped back to his mates, all of them calling filthy names after her as she climbed the stairs and emerged with relief, without being followed, on to the balcony leading to Kath Kent’s flat.

The lights inside were on. Robin paused for a second, gathering herself, then rang the doorbell.

After some seconds the door opened a cautious six inches and there stood a middle-aged woman with a long tangle of red hair.

“Kathryn?”

“Yeah?” said the woman suspiciously.

“I’ve got some very important information for you,” said Robin. “You need to hear this.”

(“Don’t say ‘I need to talk to you,’” Strike had coached her, “or ‘I’ve got some questions.’ You frame it so that it sounds like it’s to her advantage. Get as far as you can without telling her who you are; make it sound urgent, make her worry she’s going to miss something if she lets you go. You want to be inside before she can think it through. Use her name. Make a personal connection. Keep talking.”)

“What?” demanded Kathryn Kent.

“Can I come in?” asked Robin. “It’s very cold out here.”

“Who are you?”

“You need to hear this, Kathryn.”

“Who—?”

“Kath?” said someone behind her.

“Are you a journalist?”

“I’m a friend,” Robin improvised, her toes over the threshold. “I want to help you, Kathryn.”

“Hey—”

A familiar long pale face and large brown eyes appeared beside Kath’s.

“It’s her I told you about!” said Pippa. “She works with him—”

“Pippa,” said Robin, making eye contact with the tall girl, “you know I’m on your side—there’s something I need to tell you both, it’s urgent—”