The Silkworm

“I’d love to talk to Fancourt. I want to know why he joined Roper Chard when Quine was there and he was supposed to hate him. They’d have been bound to meet.”

“You think Fancourt killed Quine so he wouldn’t have to meet him at office parties?”

“Good one,” said Strike wryly.

He drained his pint glass, picked up his mobile yet again, dialed Directory Inquiries and shortly afterwards was put through to the Elizabeth Tassel Literary Agency.

Her assistant, Ralph, answered. When Strike gave his name, the young man sounded both fearful and excited.

“Oh, I don’t know…I’ll ask. Putting you on hold.”

But he appeared to be less than adept with the telephone system, because after a loud click the line remained open. Strike could hear a distant Ralph informing his boss that Strike was on the telephone and her loud, impatient retort.

“What the bloody hell does he want now?”

“He didn’t say.”

Heavy footsteps, the sound of the receiver being snatched off the desk.

“Hello?”

“Elizabeth,” said Strike pleasantly. “It’s me, Cormoran Strike.”

“Yes, Ralph’s just told me. What is it?”

“I was wondering if we could meet. I’m still working for Leonora Quine. She’s convinced that the police suspect her of her husband’s murder.”

“And what do you want to talk to me for? I can’t tell you whether she did or not.”

Strike could imagine the shocked faces of Ralph and Sally, listening in the smelly old office.

“I’ve got a few more questions about Quine.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” growled Elizabeth. “Well, I suppose I could do lunch tomorrow if it suits. Otherwise I’m busy until—”

“Tomorrow would be great,” said Strike. “But it doesn’t have to be lunch, I could—?”

“Lunch suits me.”

“Great,” said Strike at once.

“Pescatori, Charlotte Street,” she said. “Twelve thirty unless you hear differently.”

She rang off.

“They love their bloody lunches, book people,” Strike said. “Is it too much of a stretch to think they don’t want me at home in case I spot Quine’s guts in the freezer?”

Robin’s smile faded.

“You know, you could lose a friend over this,” she said, pulling on her coat. “Ringing people up and asking to question them.”

Strike grunted.

“Don’t you care?” she asked, as they left the warmth for biting cold, snowflakes burning their faces.

“I’ve got plenty more friends,” said Strike, truthfully, without bombast.

“We should have a beer every lunchtime,” he added, leaning heavily on his stick as they headed off towards the Tube, their heads bowed against the white blur. “Breaks up the working day.”

Robin, who had adjusted her stride to his, smiled. She had enjoyed today more than almost any since she had started work for Strike, but Matthew, still in Yorkshire, helping plan his mother’s funeral, must not know about the second trip to a pub in two days.

27

That I should trust a man, whom I had known betray his friend!

William Congreve, The Double-Dealer

An immense carpet of snow was rolling down over Britain. The morning news showed the northeast of England already buried in powdery whiteness, cars stranded like so many hapless sheep, headlamps feebly glinting. London waited its turn beneath an increasingly ominous sky and Strike, glancing at the weather map on his TV as he dressed, wondered whether his drive to Devon the next day would be possible, whether the M5 would even be navigable. Determined though he was to meet the incapacitated Daniel Chard, whose invitation struck him as highly peculiar, he dreaded driving even an automatic with his leg in this condition.

The dogs would still be out on Mucking Marshes. He imagined them as he attached the prosthesis, his knee puffier and more painful than ever; their sensitive, quivering noses probing the freshest patches of landfill under these threatening gunmetal clouds, beneath circling seagulls. They might already have started, given the limited daylight, dragging their handlers through the frozen garbage, searching for Owen Quine’s guts. Strike had worked alongside sniffer dogs. Their wriggling rumps and wagging tails always added an incongruously cheerful note to searches.

He was disconcerted by how painful it was to walk downstairs. Of course, in an ideal world he would have spent the previous day with an ice pack pressed to the end of his stump, his leg elevated, not tramping all over London because he needed to stop himself thinking about Charlotte and her wedding, soon to take place in the restored chapel of the Castle of Croy…not Croy Castle, because it annoys the fucking family. Nine days to go…