The Silkworm

“There can be no doubt,” said Chard, turning to what Strike, one of the tallest men in the room and close to the stage, could see was the last page of his speech, “that publishing is currently undergoing a period of rapid changes and fresh challenges, but one thing remains as true today as it was a century ago: content is king. While we boast the best writers in the world, Roper Chard will continue to excite, to challenge and to entertain. And it is in that context”—the approach of a climax was declared not by any excitement, but by a relaxation in Chard’s manner induced by the fact that his ordeal was nearly over—“that I am honored and delighted to tell you that we have this week secured the talents of one of the finest authors in the world. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Michael Fancourt!”

A perceptible intake of breath rolled like a breeze across the crowd. A woman yelped excitedly. Applause broke out somewhere to the rear of the room and spread like crackling fire to the front. Strike saw a distant door open, the glimpse of an overlarge head, a sour expression, before Fancourt was swallowed by the enthusiastic employees. It was several minutes before he emerged onto the stage to shake Chard’s hand.

“Oh my God,” an excitedly applauding Nina kept saying. “Oh my God.”

Jerry Waldegrave, who like Strike rose head and shoulders above the mostly female crowd, was standing almost directly opposite them on the other side of the stage. He was again holding a full glass, so could not applaud, and he raised it to his lips, unsmiling, as he watched Fancourt gesture for quiet in front of the microphone.

“Thanks, Dan,” said Fancourt. “Well, I certainly never expected to find myself here,” he said, and these words were greeted by a raucous outbreak of laughter, “but it feels like a homecoming. I wrote for Chard and then I wrote for Roper and they were good days. I was an angry young man”—widespread titters—“and now I’m an angry old man”—much laughter and even a small smile from Daniel Chard—“and I look forward to raging for you”—effusive laughter from Chard as well as the crowd; Strike and Waldegrave seemed to be the only two in the room not convulsed. “I’m delighted to be back and I’ll do my best to—what was it, Dan?—keep Roper Chard exciting, challenging and entertaining.”

A storm of applause; the two men were shaking hands amid camera flashes.

“Half a mill, I reckon,” said a drunken man behind Strike, “and ten k to turn up tonight.”

Fancourt descended the stage right in front of Strike. His habitually dour expression had barely varied for the photographs, but he looked happier as hands stretched out towards him. Michael Fancourt did not disdain adulation.

“Wow,” said Nina to Strike. “Can you believe that?”

Fancourt’s overlarge head had disappeared into the crowd. The curvaceous Joanna Waldegrave appeared, trying to make her way towards the famous author. Her father was suddenly behind her; with a drunken lurch he reached out a hand and took her upper arm none too gently.

“He’s got other people to talk to, Jo, leave him.”

“Mummy’s made a beeline, why don’t you grab her?”

Strike watched Joanna stalk away from her father, evidently angry. Daniel Chard had vanished too; Strike wondered whether he had slipped out of a door while the crowd was busy with Fancourt.

“Your CEO doesn’t love the limelight,” Strike commented to Nina.

“They say he’s got a lot better,” said Nina, who was still gazing towards Fancourt. “He could barely look up from his notes ten years ago. He’s a good businessman, though, you know. Shrewd.”

Curiosity and tiredness tussled inside Strike.

“Nina,” he said, drawing his companion away from the throng pressing around Fancourt; she permitted him to lead her willingly, “where did you say the manuscript of Bombyx Mori is?”

“In Jerry’s safe,” she said. “Floor below this.” She sipped champagne, her huge eyes shining. “Are you asking what I think you’re asking?”

“How much trouble would you be in?”

“Loads,” she said insouciantly. “But I’ve got my keycard on me and everyone’s busy, aren’t they?”

Her father, Strike thought ruthlessly, was a QC. They would be wary of how they dismissed her.

“D’you reckon we could run off a copy?”

“Let’s do it,” she said, throwing back the last of her drink.

The lift was empty and the floor below dark and deserted. Nina opened the door to the department with her keycard and led him confidently between blank computer monitors and deserted desks towards a large corner office. The only light came from perennially lit London beyond the windows and the occasional tiny orange light indicating a computer on standby.

Waldegrave’s office was not locked but the safe, which stood behind a hinged bookcase, operated on a keypad. Nina input a four-number code. The door swung open and Strike saw an untidy stack of pages lying inside.

“That’s it,” she said happily.

“Keep your voice down,” Strike advised her.