The Silkworm

Matthew had never wanted her to take a permanent job with Strike, whom he had regarded with suspicion from the first, disliking his penury, his homelessness and the profession that Matthew seemed to find absurd. The little snatches of information that Robin brought home—Strike’s career in the Special Investigation Branch, the plain-clothes wing of the Royal Military Police, his decoration for bravery, the loss of his lower right leg, the expertise in a hundred areas of which Matthew—so used to being expert in her eyes—knew little or nothing—had not (as she had innocently hoped) built a bridge between the two men, but had somehow reinforced the wall between them.

Strike’s burst of fame, his sudden shift from failure to success, had if anything deepened Matthew’s animosity. Robin realized belatedly that she had only exacerbated matters by pointing out Matthew’s inconsistencies: “You don’t like him being homeless and poor and now you don’t like him getting famous and bringing in loads of work!”

But Strike’s worst crime in Matthew’s eyes, as she well knew, was the clinging designer dress that her boss had bought her after their trip to the hospital, the one that he had intended as a gift of gratitude and farewell, and which, after showing it to Matthew with pride and delight, and seeing his reaction, she had never dared wear.

All of this Robin hoped to fix with a face-to-face meeting, but repeated cancellations by Strike had merely deepened Matthew’s dislike. On the last occasion, Strike had simply failed to turn up. His excuse—that he had been forced to take a detour to shake off a tail set on him by his client’s suspicious spouse—had been accepted by Robin, who knew the intricacies of that particularly bloody divorce case, but it had reinforced Matthew’s view of Strike as attention-seeking and arrogant.

She had had some difficulty in persuading Matthew to commit to a fourth attempt at drinks. Time and venue had both been picked by Matthew, but now, after Robin had secured Strike’s agreement all over again, Matthew was changing the night and it was impossible not to feel that he was doing it to make a point, to show Strike that he too had other commitments; that he too (Robin could not help herself thinking it) could piss people around.

“Fine,” she sighed into the phone, “I’ll check with Cormoran and see whether Thursday’s OK.”

“You don’t sound like it’s fine.”

“Matt, don’t start. I’ll ask him, OK?”

“I’ll see you later, then.”

Robin replaced the receiver. Strike was now in full throat, snoring like a traction engine with his mouth open, legs wide apart, feet flat on the floor, arms folded.

She sighed, looking at her sleeping boss. Strike had never shown any animosity towards Matthew, had never passed comment on him in any way. It was Matthew who brooded over the existence of Strike, who rarely lost an opportunity to point out that Robin could have earned a great deal more if she had taken any of the other jobs she had been offered before deciding to stay with a rackety private detective, deep in debt and unable to pay her what she deserved. It would ease her home life considerably if Matthew could be brought to share her opinion of Cormoran Strike, to like him, even admire him. Robin was optimistic: she liked both of them, so why could they not like each other?

With a sudden snort, Strike was awake. He opened his eyes and blinked at her.

“I was snoring,” he stated, wiping his mouth.

“Not much,” she lied. “Listen, Cormoran, would it be all right if we move drinks from Friday to Thursday?”

“Drinks?”

“With Matthew and me,” she said. “Remember? The King’s Arms, Roupell Street. I did write it down for you,” she said, with a slightly forced cheeriness.

“Right,” he said. “Yeah. Friday.”

“No, Matt wants—he can’t do Friday. Is it OK to do Thursday instead?”

“Yeah, fine,” he said groggily. “I think I’m going to try and get some sleep, Robin.”

“All right. I’ll make a note about Thursday.”

“What’s happening on Thursday?”

“Drinks with—oh, never mind. Go and sleep.”

She sat staring blankly at her computer screen after the glass door had closed, then jumped as it opened again.

“Robin, could you call a bloke called Christian Fisher,” said Strike. “Tell him who I am, tell him I’m looking for Owen Quine and that I need the address of the writer’s retreat he told Quine about?”

“Christian Fisher…where does he work?”

“Bugger,” muttered Strike. “I never asked. I’m so knackered. He’s a publisher…trendy publisher.”

“No problem, I’ll find him. Go and sleep.”

When the glass door had closed a second time, Robin turned her attention to Google. Within thirty seconds she had discovered that Christian Fisher was the founder of a small press called Crossfire, based in Exmouth Market.

As she dialed the publisher’s number, she thought of the wedding invitation that had been sitting in her handbag for a week now. Robin had not told Strike the date of her and Matthew’s wedding, nor had she told Matthew that she wished to invite her boss. If Thursday’s drinks went well…