The Silkworm

Her foot was two thirds of the way across the threshold. Robin put every ounce of earnest persuasiveness that she could muster into her expression as she looked into Pippa’s panicked eyes.

“Pippa, I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t think it was really important—”

“Let her in,” Pippa told Kathryn. She sounded scared.

The hall was cramped and seemed full of hanging coats. Kathryn led Robin into a small, lamplit sitting room with plain magnolia-painted walls. Brown curtains hung at the windows, the fabric so thin that the lights of buildings opposite and distant, passing cars shone through them. A slightly grubby orange throw covered the old sofa, which sat on a rug patterned with swirling abstract shapes, and the remains of a Chinese takeaway sat on the cheap pine coffee table. In the corner was a rickety computer table bearing a laptop. The two women, Robin saw, with a pang of something like remorse, had been decorating a small fake Christmas tree together. A string of lights lay on the floor and there were a number of decorations on the only armchair. One of them was a china disc reading Future Famous Writer!

“What d’you want?” demanded Kathryn Kent, her arms folded.

She was glaring at Robin through small, fierce eyes.

“May I sit down?” said Robin and she did so without waiting for Kathryn’s answer. (“Make yourself at home as much as you can without being rude, make it harder for her to dislodge you,” Strike had said.)

“What d’you want?” Kathryn Kent repeated.

Pippa stood in front of the windows, staring at Robin, who saw that she was fiddling with a tree ornament: a mouse dressed as Santa.

“You know that Leonora Quine’s been arrested for murder?” said Robin.

“Of course I do. I’m the one,” Kathryn pointed at her own ample chest, “who found the Visa bill with the ropes, the burqa and the overalls on it.”

“Yes,” said Robin, “I know that.”

“Ropes and a burqa!” ejaculated Kathryn Kent. “Got more than he bargained for, didn’t he? All those years thinking she was just some dowdy little…boring little—little cow—and look what she did to him!”

“Yes,” said Robin, “I know it looks that way.”

“What d’you mean, ‘looks that’—?”

“Kathryn, I’ve come here to warn you: they don’t think she did it.”

(“No specifics. Don’t mention the police explicitly if you can avoid it, don’t commit to a checkable story, keep it vague,” Strike had told her.)

“What d’you mean?” repeated Kathryn sharply. “The police don’t—?”

“And you had access to his card, more opportunities to copy it—”

Kathryn looked wildly from Robin to Pippa, who was clutching the Santa-mouse, white-faced.

“But Strike doesn’t think you did it,” said Robin.

“Who?” said Kathryn. She appeared too confused, too panicked, to think straight.

“Her boss,” stage-whispered Pippa.

“Him!” said Kathryn, rounding on Robin again. “He’s working for Leonora!”

“He doesn’t think you did it,” repeated Robin, “even with the credit card bill—the fact you even had it. I mean, it looks odd, but he’s sure you had it by acci—”

“She gave it me!” said Kathryn Kent, flinging out her arms, gesticulating furiously. “His daughter—she gave it me, I never even looked on the back for weeks, never thought to. I was being nice, taking her crappy bloody picture and acting like it was good—I was being nice!”

“I understand that,” said Robin. “We believe you, Kathryn, I promise. Strike wants to find the real killer, he’s not like the police.” (“Insinuate, don’t state.”) “He’s not interested in just grabbing the next woman Quine might’ve—you know—”

The words let tie him up hung in the air, unspoken.

Pippa was easier to read than Kathryn. Credulous and easily panicked, she looked at Kathryn, who seemed furious.

“Maybe I don’t care who killed him!” Kathryn snarled through clenched teeth.

“But you surely don’t want to be arrest—?”

“I’ve only got your word for it they’re interested in me! There’s been nothing on the news!”

“Well…there wouldn’t be, would there?” said Robin gently. “The police don’t hold press conferences to announce that they think they might have the wrong pers—”

“Who had the credit card? Her.”

“Quine usually had it himself,” said Robin, “and his wife’s not the only person who had access.”

“How d’you know what the police are thinking any more than I do?”

“Strike’s got good contacts at the Met,” said Robin calmly. “He was in Afghanistan with the investigating officer, Richard Anstis.”

The name of the man who had interrogated her seemed to carry weight with Kathryn. She glanced at Pippa again.

“Why’re you telling me this?” Kathryn demanded.

“Because we don’t want to see another innocent woman arrested,” said Robin, “because we think the police are wasting time sniffing around the wrong people and because,” (“throw in a bit of self-interest once you’ve baited the hook, it keeps things plausible”) “obviously,” said Robin, with a show of awkwardness, “it would do Cormoran a lot of good if he was the one who got the real killer. Again,” she added.