The Silkworm

“Interesting,” said Strike. “Very interesting. When Kent attacked me last night, she assured me that someone called Pippa wanted to kill me.”

“Look at this, then!” said Robin in excitement, scrolling down to 9 November.

The first time I ever met TFW he said to me ‘Your not writing properly unless someone is bleeding, probably you.’ As follower’s of this Blog know I’ve Metaphorically opened my veins both here and also in my novels. But today I feel like I have been Fatally stabbed by somebodywho I had learned to trust.

“O Macheath! thou hast robb’d me of my Quiet—to see thee tortur’d would give me Pleasure.”

“Where’s that quotation from?” asked Strike.

Robin’s nimble fingers danced across the keyboard.

“The Beggar’s Opera, by John Gay.”

“Erudite, for a woman who confuses ‘you’re’ and ‘your’ and goes in for random capitalization.”

“We can’t all be literary geniuses,” said Robin reproachfully.

“Thank Christ for that, from all I’m hearing about them.”

“But look at the comment under the quotation,” said Robin, returning to Kathryn’s blog. She clicked on the link and a single sentence was revealed.

I’ll turn the handle on the f*@%ing rack for you Kath.

This comment, too, had been made by Pippa2011.

“Pippa sounds a handful, doesn’t she?” commented Strike. “Anything about what Kent does for a living on here? I’m assuming she’s not paying the bills with her erotic fantasies.”

“That’s a bit odd, too. Look at this bit.”

On 28 October, Kathryn had written:

Like most Writers I also have a day job. I can’t say to much about it for secuty reasons. This week security has been tightened at our Facility again which means in consequence that my officious Co-Worker (born again Christian, sanctimnious on the subject of my private life) an excuse to suggest to management that blogs e.tc should be viewed in case sensitive Information is revealed. Frotunately it seems sense has prevailed and no action is being taken.

“Mysterious,” said Strike. “Tightened security…women’s prison? Psychiatric hospital? Or are we talking industrial secrets?”

“And look at this, on the thirteenth of November.”

Robin scrolled right down to the most recent post on the blog, which was the only entry after that in which Kathryn claimed to have been fatally stabbed.

My beloved sister has lost her long battle with breast cancer three days ago. Thank you all for your good wishes and support.

Two comments had been added below this, which Robin opened.

Pippa2011 had written:

So sorry to hear this Kath. Sending you all the love in the world xxx.

Kathryn had replied:

Thanks Pippa your a real friend xxxx

Kathryn’s advance thanks for multiple messages of support sat very sadly above the short exchange.

“Why?” asked Strike heavily.

“Why what?” said Robin, looking up at him.

“Why do people do this?”

“Blog, you mean? I don’t know…didn’t someone once say the unexamined life isn’t worth living?”

“Yeah, Plato,” said Strike, “but this isn’t examining a life, it’s exhibiting it.”

“Oh God!” said Robin, slopping tea down herself as she gave a guilty start. “I forgot, there’s something else! Christian Fisher called just as I was walking out the door last night. He wants to know if you’re interested in writing a book.”

“He what?”

“A book,” said Robin, fighting the urge to laugh at the expression of disgust on Strike’s face. “About your life. Your experiences in the army and solving the Lula Landry—”

“Call him back,” Strike said, “and tell him no, I’m not interested in writing a book.”

He drained his mug and headed for the peg where an ancient leather jacket now hung beside his black overcoat.

“You haven’t forgotten tonight?” Robin said, with the knot that had temporarily dissolved tight in her stomach again.

“Tonight?”

“Drinks,” she said desperately. “Me. Matthew. The King’s Arms.”

“No, haven’t forgotten,” he said, wondering why she looked so tense and miserable. “’Spect I’ll be out all afternoon, so I’ll see you there. Eight, was it?”

“Six thirty,” said Robin, tenser than ever.

“Six thirty. Right. I’ll be there…Venetia.”

She did a doubletake.

“How did you know—?”

“It’s on the invitation,” said Strike. “Unusual. Where did that come from?”

“I was—well, I was conceived there, apparently,” she said, pink in the face. “In Venice. What’s your middle name?” she asked over his laughter, half amused, half cross. “C. B. Strike—what’s the B?”

“Got to get going,” said Strike. “See you at eight.”

“Six thirty!” she bellowed at the closing door.

Strike’s destination that afternoon was a shop that sold electronic accessories in Crouch End. Stolen mobile phones and laptops were unlocked in a back room, the personal information therein extracted, and the purged devices and the information were then sold separately to those who could use them.