The Silkworm

Phallus Impudicus; Strike could not repress a grin of amusement, yet Chard’s baldness suited him. He was younger and fitter-looking than Strike had expected and handsome in his way, with thick dark eyebrows over deep-set eyes, a hawkish nose and a thin-lipped mouth. His charcoal suit was unexceptional but his tie, which was pale mauve, was much wider than the average and bore drawings of human noses. Strike, whose dress sense had always been conventional, an instinct honed by the sergeants’ mess, could not help but be intrigued by this small but forceful statement of nonconformity in a CEO, especially as it was drawing the occasional glance of surprise or amusement.

“Where’s the drink?” Nina said, standing pointlessly on tiptoe.

“Over there,” said Strike, who could see a bar in front of the windows that showed a view of the dark Thames. “Stay here, I’ll get them. White wine?”

“Champers, if Daniel’s pushed the boat out.”

He took a route through the crowd so that he could, without ostentation, bring himself in close proximity to Chard, who was letting his companion do all the talking. She had that air of slight desperation of the conversationalist who knows that they are failing. The back of Chard’s hand, which was clutching a glass of water, Strike noticed, was covered in shiny red eczema. Strike paused immediately behind Chard, ostensibly to allow a party of young women to pass in the opposite direction.

“…and it really was awfully funny,” the girl in the black dress was saying nervously.

“Yes,” said Chard, who sounded deeply bored, “it must have been.”

“And was New York wonderful? I mean—not wonderful—was it useful? Fun?” asked his companion.

“Busy,” said Chard and Strike, though he could not see the CEO, thought he actually yawned. “Lots of digital talk.”

A portly man in a three-piece suit who appeared drunk already, though it was barely eight thirty, stopped in front of Strike and invited him, with overdone courtesy, to proceed. Strike had no choice but to accept the elaborately mimed invitation and so passed out of range of Daniel Chard’s voice.

“Thanks,” said Nina a few minutes later, taking her champagne from Strike. “Shall we go up to the roof garden, then?”

“Great,” said Strike. He had taken champagne too, not because he liked it, but because there had been nothing else there he cared to drink. “Who’s that woman Daniel Chard’s talking to?”

Nina craned to see as she led Strike towards a helical metal staircase.

“Joanna Waldegrave, Jerry’s daughter. She’s just written her first novel. Why? Is that your type?” she asked, with a breathy little laugh.

“No,” said Strike.

They climbed the mesh stairs, Strike relying heavily once more on the handrail. The icy night air scoured his lungs as they emerged onto the top of the building. Stretches of velvety lawn, tubs of flowers and young trees, benches dotted everywhere; there was even a floodlit pond where fish darted, flame-like, beneath the black lily pads. Outdoor heaters like giant steel mushrooms had been placed in groups between neat square lawns and people were huddled under them, their backs turned to the synthetic pastoral scene, looking inwards at their fellow smokers, cigarette tips glowing.

The view over the city was spectacular, velvet black and jeweled, the London Eye glowing neon blue, the Oxo Tower with its ruby windows, the Southbank Center, Big Ben and the Palace of Westminster shining golden away to the right.

“Come on,” said Nina, and she boldly took Strike’s hand and led him towards an all-female trio, whose breath rose in gusts of white mist even when they were not exhaling smoke.

“Hi guys,” said Nina. “Anyone seen Jerry?”

“He’s pissed,” said a redhead baldly.

“Oh no,” said Nina. “And he was doing so well!”

A lanky blonde glanced over her shoulder and murmured:

“He was half off his face in Arbutus last week.”

“It’s Bombyx Mori,” said an irritable-looking girl with short dark hair. “And the anniversary weekend in Paris didn’t come off. Fenella had another tantrum, I think. When is he going to leave her?”

“Is she here?” asked the blonde avidly.

“Somewhere,” said the dark girl. “Aren’t you going to introduce us, Nina?”

There was a flurry of introduction that left Strike none the wiser as to which of the girls was Miranda, Sarah or Emma, before the four women plunged again into a dissection of the unhappiness and drunkenness of Jerry Waldegrave.

“He should have ditched Fenella years ago,” said the dark girl. “Vile woman.”

“Shh!” hissed Nina and all four of them became unnaturally still as a man nearly as tall as Strike ambled up to them. His round, doughy face was partly concealed by large horn-rimmed glasses and a tangle of brown hair. A brimming glass of red wine was threatening to spill over his hand.