The Silkworm

“Yeah. Dog,” said Leonora, and it was a split second before Strike deduced that this applied to the excrement, not her husband. “Three or four times now, at night. Nice thing to find in the morning, I don’t think. And there was a woman come to the door and all, who was weird.”

She paused, waiting for Strike to prompt her. She seemed to enjoy being questioned. Many lonely people, Strike knew, found it pleasant to be the focus of somebody’s undivided attention and sought to prolong the novel experience.

“When did this woman come to the door?”

“Last week it was, and she asks for Owen and when I says, ‘He’s not here,’ she says, ‘Tell him Angela died,’ and walks off.”

“And you didn’t know her?”

“Never seen her before.”

“Do you know an Angela?”

“No. But he gets women fans going funny over him, sometimes,” said Leonora, suddenly expansive. “Like, he had this woman once that wrote him letters and sent him photos of herself dressed up like one of his characters. Some of these women who write to him think he understands them or something because of his books. Silly, innit?” she said. “It’s all made up.”

“Do fans usually know where your husband lives?”

“No,” said Leonora. “But she could’ve bin a student or something. He teaches writing as well, sometimes.”

The door opened and Robin entered with a tray. After putting black coffee in front of Strike and a tea in front of Leonora Quine, she withdrew again, closing the door behind her.

“Is that everything strange that’s happened?” Strike asked Leonora. “The excrement through the door, and this woman coming to the house?”

“And I think I’ve been followed. Tall, dark girl with round shoulders,” said Leonora.

“This is a different woman to the one—?”

“Yeah, the one that come to the house was dumpy. Long red hair. This one’s dark and bent over, like.”

“You’re sure she was following you?”

“Yeah, I think so. I seen her behind me two, three times now. She isn’t local, I’ve never seen her before and I’ve lived in Ladbroke Grove thirty-odd years.”

“OK,” said Strike slowly. “You said your husband’s upset? What happened to upset him?”

“He had a massive row with his agent.”

“What about, do you know?”

“His book, his latest. Liz—that’s his agent—tells him it’s the best thing he’s ever done, and then, like, a day later, she takes him out to dinner and says it’s unpublishable.”

“Why did she change her mind?”

“Ask her,” said Leonora, showing anger for the first time. “Course he was upset after that. Anyone would be. He’s worked on that book for two years. He comes home in a right state and he goes into his study and grabs it all—”

“Grabs what?”

“His book, the manuscript and his notes and everything, swearing his head off, and he shoves them in a bag and he goes off and I haven’t seen him since.”

“Has he got a mobile? Have you tried calling him?”

“Yeah and he’s not picking up. He never does, when he goes off like this. He chucked his phone out the car window once,” she said, again with that faint note of pride at her husband’s spirit.

“Mrs. Quine,” said Strike, whose altruism necessarily had its limits, whatever he had told William Baker, “I’ll be honest with you: I don’t come cheap.”

“That’s all right,” said Leonora implacably. “Liz’ll pay.”

“Liz?”

“Liz—Elizabeth Tassel. Owen’s agent. It’s her fault he’s gone away. She can take it out of her commission. He’s her best client. She’ll want him back all right, once she realizes what she’s done.”

Strike did not set as much store by this assurance as Leonora herself seemed to. He added three sugars to the coffee and gulped it down, trying to think how best to proceed. He felt vaguely sorry for Leonora Quine, who seemed inured to her erratic husband’s tantrums, who accepted the fact that nobody would deign to return her calls, who was sure that the only help she could expect must be paid for. Her slight eccentricity of manner aside, there was a truculent honesty about her. Nevertheless, he had been ruthless in taking on only profitable cases since his business had received its unexpected boost. Those few people who had come to him with hard-luck stories, hoping that his own personal difficulties (reported and embellished in the press) would predispose him to helping them free of charge, had left disappointed.

But Leonora Quine, who had drunk her tea quite as quickly as Strike had downed his coffee, was already on her feet, as though they had agreed to terms and everything was settled.

“I’d better get going,” she said, “I don’t like leaving Orlando too long. She’s missing her daddy. I’ve told her I’m getting a man to go find him.”

Strike had recently helped several wealthy young women rid themselves of City husbands who had become much less attractive to them since the financial crash. There was something appealing about restoring a husband to a wife, for a change.

“All right,” he said, yawning as he pushed his notebook towards her. “I’ll need your contact details, Mrs. Quine. A photograph of your husband would be handy too.”