The Silkworm

“So? What did you think of Bombyx Mori?” Nina asked him as they pulled away from her flat in a taxi he could ill afford. If he had not invited her, Strike would have made the journey to Bromley and back by public transport, time-consuming and inconvenient though that would have been.

“Product of a diseased mind,” said Strike.

Nina laughed.

“But you haven’t read any of Owen’s other books; they’re nearly as bad. I admit this one’s got a serious gag factor. What about Daniel’s suppurating knob?”

“I haven’t got there yet. Something to look forward to.”

Beneath yesterday evening’s warm woolen coat she was wearing a clinging, strappy black dress, of which Strike had had an excellent view when she had invited him into her St. John’s Wood flat while she collected bag and keys. She was also clutching a bottle of wine that she had seized from her kitchen when she saw that he was empty-handed. A clever, pretty girl with nice manners, but her willingness to meet him the very night following their first introduction, and that night a Saturday to boot, hinted at recklessness, or perhaps neediness.

Strike asked himself again what he thought he was playing at as they rolled away from the heart of London towards a realm of owner-occupiers, towards spacious houses crammed with coffee makers and HD televisions, towards everything that he had never owned and which his sister assumed, anxiously, must be his ultimate ambition.

It was like Lucy to throw him a birthday dinner at her own house. She was fundamentally unimaginative and, even though she often seemed more harried there than anywhere else, she rated her home’s attractions highly. It was like her to insist on giving him a dinner he didn’t want, but which she could not understand him not wanting. Birthdays in Lucy’s world were always celebrated, never forgotten: there must be cake and candles and cards and presents; time must be marked, order preserved, traditions upheld.

As the taxi passed through the Blackwall Tunnel, speeding them below the Thames into south London, Strike recognized that the act of bringing Nina with him to the family party was a declaration of nonconformity. In spite of the conventional bottle of wine held on her lap, she was highly strung, happy to take risks and chances. She lived alone and talked books not babies; she was not, in short, Lucy’s kind of woman.

Nearly an hour after he had left Denmark Street, with his wallet fifty pounds lighter, Strike helped Nina out into the dark chill of Lucy’s street and led her down a path beneath the large magnolia tree that dominated the front garden. Before ringing the doorbell Strike said, with some reluctance:

“I should probably tell you: this is a birthday dinner. For me.”

“Oh, you should have said! Happy—”

“It isn’t today,” said Strike. “No big deal.”

And he rang the doorbell.

Strike’s brother-in-law, Greg, let them inside. A lot of arm slapping followed, as well as an exaggerated show of pleasure at the sight of Nina. This emotion was conspicuous by its absence in Lucy, who bustled down the hall holding a spatula like a sword and wearing an apron over her party dress.

“You didn’t say you were bringing someone!” she hissed in Strike’s ear as he bent to kiss her cheek. Lucy was short, blonde and round-faced; nobody ever guessed that they were related. She was the result of another of their mother’s liaisons with a well-known musician. Rick was a rhythm guitarist who, unlike Strike’s father, maintained an amicable relationship with his offspring.

“I thought you asked me to bring a guest,” Strike muttered to his sister as Greg ushered Nina into the sitting room.

“I asked whether you were going to,” said Lucy angrily. “Oh God—I’ll have to go and set an extra—and poor Marguerite—”

“Who’s Marguerite?” asked Strike, but Lucy was already hurrying off towards the dining room, spatula aloft, leaving her guest of honor alone in the hall. With a sigh, Strike followed Greg and Nina into the sitting room.

“Surprise!” said a fair-haired man with a receding hairline, getting up from the sofa at which his bespectacled wife was beaming at Strike.

“Christ almighty,” said Strike, advancing to shake the outstretched hand with genuine pleasure. Nick and Ilsa were two of his oldest friends and they were the only place where the two halves of his early life intersected: London and Cornwall, happily married.

“No one told me you were going to be here!”

“Yeah, well, that’s the surprise, Oggy,” said Nick as Strike kissed Ilsa. “D’you know Marguerite?”

“No,” said Strike, “I don’t.”