The Silkworm

“Oh yeah,” said Strike, who was standing bare-chested in front of the shaving mirror he usually kept beside the kitchen sink, the shower room being both dark and cramped. Wiping shaving foam from around his mouth with his forearm, he said:

“Did he tell you what it was about, Nina?”

“Yeah, you want to infiltrate Roper Chard’s anniversary party.”

“‘Infiltrate’ is a bit strong.”

“But it sounds much more exciting if we say ‘infiltrate.’”

“Fair enough,” he said, amused. “I take it you’re up for this?”

“Oooh, yes, fun. Am I allowed to guess why you want to come and spy on everyone?”

“Again, ‘spy’ isn’t really—”

“Stop spoiling things. Am I allowed a guess?”

“Go on then,” said Strike, taking a sip from his mug of tea, his eyes on the window. It was foggy again; the brief spell of sunshine extinguished.

“Bombyx Mori,” said Nina. “Am I right? I am, aren’t I? Say I’m right.”

“You’re right,” said Strike and she gave a squeal of pleasure.

“I’m not even supposed to be talking about it. There’s been a lockdown, emails round the company, lawyers storming in and out of Daniel’s office. Where shall we meet? We should hook up somewhere first and turn up together, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, definitely,” said Strike. “Where’s good for you?”

Even as he took a pen from the coat hanging behind the door he thought longingly of an evening at home, a good long sleep, an interlude of peace and rest before an early start on Saturday morning, tailing his brunet client’s faithless husband.

“D’you know Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese?” asked Nina. “On Fleet Street? Nobody from work’ll be in there, and it’s walking distance to the office. I know it’s corny but I love it.”

They agreed to meet at seven thirty. As Strike returned to his shaving, he asked himself how likely it was that he would meet anyone who knew Quine’s whereabouts at his publisher’s party. The trouble is, Strike mentally chided the reflection in the circular mirror as the pair of them strafed stubble from their chins, you keep acting like you’re still SIB. The nation’s not paying you to be thorough anymore, mate.

But he knew no other way; it was part of a short but inflexible personal code of ethics that he had carried with him all his adult life: do the job and do it well.

Strike was intending to spend most of the day in the office, which under normal circumstances he enjoyed. He and Robin shared the paperwork; she was an intelligent and often helpful sounding board and as fascinated now with the mechanics of an investigation as she had been when she had joined him. Today, however, he headed downstairs with something bordering on reluctance and, sure enough, his seasoned antennae detected in her greeting a self-conscious edge that he feared would shortly break through into “What did you think of Matthew?”

This, Strike reflected, retiring to the inner office and shutting the door on the pretext of making phone calls, was exactly why it was a bad idea to meet your only member of staff outside working hours.

Hunger forced him to emerge a few hours later. Robin had bought sandwiches as usual, but she had not knocked on the door to let him know that they were there. This, too, seemed to point to feelings of awkwardness after the previous evening. To postpone the moment when it must be mentioned, and in the hope that if he kept off the subject long enough she might never bring it up (although he had never known the tactic to work on a woman before), Strike told her truthfully that he had just got off the phone with Mr. Gunfrey.

“Is he going to go to the police?” asked Robin.

“Er—no. Gunfrey isn’t the type of bloke who goes to the police if someone’s bothering him. He’s nearly as bent as the bloke who wants to cut his son. He’s realized he’s in over his head this time, though.”

“Didn’t you think of recording what that gangster was paying you to do and taking it to the police yourself?” asked Robin, without thinking.

“No, Robin, because it’d be obvious where the tip-off came from and it’ll put a strain on business if I’ve got to dodge hired killers while doing surveillance.”

“But Gunfrey can’t keep his son at home forever!”

“He won’t have to. He’s going to take the family off for a surprise holiday in the States, phone our knife-happy friend from LA and tell him he’s given the matter some thought and changed his mind about interfering with his business interests. Shouldn’t look too suspicious. The bloke’s already done enough shitty stuff to him to warrant a cooling off. Bricks through his windscreen, threatening calls to his wife.

“S’pose I’ll have to go back to Crouch End next week, say the boy never showed up and give his monkey back.” Strike sighed. “Not very plausible, but I don’t want them to come looking for me.”

“He gave you a—?”

“Monkey—five hundred quid, Robin,” said Strike. “What do they call that in Yorkshire?”