The Silkworm

She ventured no more suggestions but watched him walk up and down, brow furrowed, too intimidated to tell him, now, what was worrying her.

‘Fuck it,’ growled Strike on his sixth walk back to her desk. ‘Shock and awe. No choice. Al,’ he muttered, pulling out his mobile again, ‘and Nick.’

‘Who’s Nick?’ asked Robin, desperately trying to keep up.

‘He’s married to Leonora’s lawyer,’ said Strike, punching buttons on his phone. ‘Old mate… he’s a gastroenterologist…’

He retreated again to his office and slammed the door.

For want of anything else to do, Robin filled the kettle, her heart hammering, and made them both tea. The mugs cooled, untouched, while she waited.

When Strike emerged fifteen minutes later, he seemed calmer.

‘All right,’ he said, seizing his tea and taking a gulp. ‘I’ve got a plan and I’m going to need you. Are you up for it?’

‘Of course!’ said Robin.

He gave her a concise outline of what he wanted to do. It was ambitious and would require a healthy dose of luck.

‘Well?’ Strike asked her finally.

‘No problem,’ said Robin.

‘We might not need you.’

‘No,’ said Robin.

‘On the other hand, you could be key.’

‘Yes,’ said Robin.

‘Sure that’s all right?’ Strike asked, watching her closely.

‘No problem at all,’ said Robin. ‘I want to do it, I really do – it’s just,’ she hesitated, ‘I think he—’

‘What?’ said Strike sharply.

‘I think I’d better have a practice,’ said Robin.

‘Oh,’ said Strike, eyeing her. ‘Yeah, fair enough. Got until Thursday, I think. I’ll check the date now…’

He disappeared for the third time into his inner office. Robin returned to her computer chair.

She desperately wanted to play her part in the capture of Owen Quine’s killer, but what she had been about to say, before Strike’s sharp response panicked her out of it, was: ‘I think he might have seen me.’

47

Ha, ha, ha, thou entanglest thyself in thine own work like a silkworm.

John Webster, The White Devil

By the light of the old-fashioned street lamp the cartoonish murals covering the front of the Chelsea Arts Club were strangely eerie. Circus freaks had been painted on the rainbow-stippled walls of a long low line of ordinarily white houses knocked into one: a four-legged blonde girl, an elephant eating its keeper, an etiolated contortionist in prison stripes whose head appeared to be disappearing up his own anus. The club stood in a leafy, sleepy and genteel street, quiet with the snow that had returned with a vengeance, falling fast and mounting over roofs and pavements as though the brief respite in the arctic winter had never been. All through Thursday the blizzard had grown thicker and now, viewed through a rippling lamp-lit curtain of icy flakes, the old club in its fresh pastel colours appeared strangely insubstantial, pasteboard scenery, a trompe l’œil marquee.

Strike was standing in a shadowy alley off Old Church Street, watching as one by one they arrived for their small party. He saw the aged Pinkelman helped from his taxi by a stone-faced Jerry Waldegrave, while Daniel Chard stood in a fur hat on his crutches, nodding and smiling an awkward welcome. Elizabeth Tassel drew up alone in a cab, fumbling for her fare and shivering in the cold. Lastly, in a car with a driver, came Michael Fancourt. He took his time getting out of the car, straightening his coat before proceeding up the steps to the front door.

The detective, on whose dense curly hair the snow was falling thickly, pulled out his mobile and rang his half-brother.

‘Hey,’ said Al, who sounded excited. ‘They’re all in the dining room.’

‘How many?’

‘’Bout a dozen of them.’

‘Coming in now.’

Strike limped across the street with the aid of his stick. They let him in at once when he gave his name and explained that he was here as Duncan Gilfedder’s guest.

Al and Gilfedder, a celebrity photographer whom Strike was meeting for the first time, stood a short way inside the entrance. Gilfedder seemed confused as to who Strike was, or why he, a member of this eccentric and charming club, had been asked by his acquaintance Al to invite a guest whom he did not know.

‘My brother,’ said Al, introducing them. He sounded proud.

‘Oh,’ said Gilfedder blankly. He wore the same type of glasses as Christian Fisher and his lank hair was cut in a straggly shoulder-length bob. ‘I thought your brother was younger.’

‘That’s Eddie,’ said Al. ‘This is Cormoran. Ex-army. He’s a detective now.’

‘Oh,’ said Gilfedder, looking even more bemused.

‘Thanks for this,’ Strike said, addressing both men equally. ‘Get you another drink?’

The club was so noisy and packed it was hard to see much of it except glimpses of squashy sofas and a crackling log fire. The walls of the low-ceilinged bar were liberally covered in prints, paintings and photographs; it had the feeling of a country house, cosy and a little scruffy. As the tallest man in the room, Strike could see over the crowd’s heads towards the windows at the rear of the club. Beyond lay a large garden lit by exterior lights so that it was illuminated in patches. A thick, pristine layer of snow, pure and smooth as royal icing, lay over verdant shrubbery and the stone sculptures lurking in the undergrowth.

Strike reached the bar and ordered wine for his companions, glancing as he did so into the dining room.

Those eating filled several long wooden tables. There was the Roper Chard party, with a pair of French windows beside them, the garden icy white and ghostly behind the glass. A dozen people, some of whom Strike did not recognise, had gathered to honour the ninety-year-old Pinkelman, who was sitting at the head of the table. Whoever had been in charge of the placement, Strike saw, had sat Elizabeth Tassel and Michael Fancourt well apart. Fancourt was talking loudly into Pinkelman’s ear, Chard opposite him. Elizabeth Tassel was sitting next to Jerry Waldegrave. Neither was speaking to the other.

Strike passed glasses of wine to Al and Gilfedder, then returned to the bar to fetch a whisky for himself, deliberately maintaining a clear view of the Roper Chard party.

‘Why,’ said a voice, clear as a bell but somewhere below him, ‘are you here?’

Nina Lascelles was standing at his elbow in the same strappy black dress she had worn to his birthday dinner. No trace of her former giggly flirtatiousness remained. She looked accusatory.

‘Hi,’ said Strike, surprised. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’

‘Nor I you,’ she said.

He had not returned any of her calls for over a week, not since the night he had slept with her to rid himself of thoughts of Charlotte on her wedding day.

‘So you know Pinkelman,’ said Strike, trying for small talk in the face of what he could tell was animosity.

‘I’m taking over some of Jerry’s authors now he’s leaving. Pinks is one of them.’

‘Congratulations,’ said Strike. Still, she did not smile. ‘Waldegrave still came to the party, though?’

‘Pinks is fond of Jerry. Why,’ she repeated, ‘are you here?’

‘Doing what I was hired to do,’ said Strike. ‘Trying to find out who killed Owen Quine.’

She rolled her eyes, clearly feeling that he was pushing his persistence past a joke.

‘How did you get in here? It’s members only.’

‘I’ve got a contact,’ said Strike.

‘You didn’t think of using me again, then?’ she asked.

He did not much like the reflection of himself he saw in her large mouse-like eyes. There was no denying that he had used her repeatedly. It had become cheap, shameful, and she deserved better.

‘I thought that might be getting old,’ said Strike.

‘Yeah,’ said Nina. ‘You thought right.’

She turned from him and walked back to

the table, filling the last vacant seat, between two employees whom he did not know.

Strike was in Jerry Waldegrave’s direct line of vision. Waldegrave caught sight of him and Strike saw the editor’s eyes widen behind his horn-rimmed glasses. Alerted by Waldegrave’s transfixed stare, Chard twisted in his seat and he, too, clearly recognised Strike.

‘How’s it going?’ asked Al excitedly at Strike’s elbow.

‘Great,’ said Strike. ‘Where’s that Gilsomething gone?’

‘Downed his drink and left. Doesn’t know what the hell we’re up to,’ said Al.

Al did not know why they were here either. Strike had told him nothing except that he needed entry to the Chelsea Arts Club tonight and that he might need a lift. Al’s bright red Alfa Romeo Spider sat parked a little down the road. It had been agony on Strike’s knee to get in and out of the low-slung vehicle.

As he had intended, half the Roper Chard table now seemed acutely aware of his presence. Strike was positioned so that he could see them reflected clearly in the dark French windows. Two Elizabeth Tassels were glaring at him over their menus, two Ninas were determinedly ignoring him and two shiny-pated Chards summoned a waiter each and muttered in their ears.

‘Is that the bald bloke we saw in the River Café?’ asked Al.

‘Yeah,’ said Strike, grinning as the solid waiter separated from his reflected wraith and made his way towards them. ‘I think we’re about to be asked whether we’ve got the right to be in here.’

‘Very sorry, sir,’ began the waiter in a mutter as he reached Strike, ‘but could I ask—?’

‘Al Rokeby – my brother and I are here with Duncan Gilfedder,’ said Al pleasantly before Strike could respond. Al’s tone expressed surprise that they had been challenged at all. He was a charming and privileged young man who was welcome everywhere, whose credentials were impeccable and whose casual roping of Strike into the family pen conferred upon him that same sense of easy entitlement. Jonny Rokeby’s eyes looked out of Al’s narrow face. The waiter muttered hasty apologies and retreated.

‘Are you just trying to put the wind up them?’ asked Al, staring over at the publisher’s table.

‘Can’t hurt,’ said Strike with a smile, sipping his whisky as he watched Daniel Chard deliver what was clearly a stilted speech in Pinkelman’s honour. A card and present were brought out from under the table. For every look and smile they gave the old writer, there was a nervous glance towards the large, dark man staring at them from the bar. Michael Fancourt alone had not looked around. Either he remained in ignorance of the detective’s presence, or was untroubled by it.

When starters had been put in front of them all, Jerry Waldegrave got to his feet and moved out from the table towards the bar. Nina and Elizabeth’s eyes followed him. On Waldegrave’s way to the bathroom he merely nodded at Strike, but on the way back, he paused.

‘Surprised to see you here.’

‘Yeah?’ said Strike.

‘Yeah,’ said Waldegrave. ‘You’re, er… making people feel uncomfortable.’

‘Nothing I can do about that,’ said Strike.

‘You could try not staring us out.’

‘This is my brother, Al,’ said Strike, ignoring the request.

Al beamed and held out a hand, which Waldegrave shook, seeming nonplussed.

‘You’re annoying Daniel,’ Waldegrave told Strike, looking directly into the detective’s eyes.

‘That’s a shame,’ said Strike.

The editor rumpled his untidy hair.

‘Well, if that’s your attitude.’

‘Surprised you care how Daniel Chard feels.’

‘I don’t particularly,’ said Waldegrave, ‘but he can make life unpleasant for other people when he’s in a bad mood. I’d like tonight to go well for Pinkelman. I can’t understand why you’re here.’

‘Wanted to make a delivery,’ said Strike.

He pulled a blank white envelope out from an inside pocket.

‘What is this?’

‘It’s for you,’ said Strike.

Waldegrave took it, looking utterly confused.

‘Something you should think about,’ said Strike, moving closer to the bemused editor in the noisy bar. ‘Fancourt had mumps, you know, before his wife died.’

‘What?’ said Waldegrave, bewildered.

‘Never had kids. Pretty sure he’s infertile. Thought you might be interested.’

Waldegrave stared at him, opened his mouth, found nothing to say, then walked away, still clutching the white envelope.

‘What was that?’ Al asked Strike, agog.

‘Plan A,’ said Strike. ‘We’ll see.’

Waldegrave sat back down at the Roper Chard table. Mirrored in the black window beside him, he opened the envelope Strike had given him. Puzzled, he pulled out a second envelope. There was a scribbled name on this one.

The editor looked up at Strike, who raised his eyebrows.

Jerry Waldegrave hesitated, then turned to Elizabeth Tassel and passed her the envelope. She read what was written on it, frowning. Her eyes flew to Strike’s. He smiled and toasted her with his glass.

She seemed uncertain as to what to do for a moment; then she nudged the girl beside her and passed the envelope on.

It travelled up the table and across it, into the hands of Michael Fancourt.

‘There we are,’ said Strike. ‘Al, I’m going into the garden for a fag. Stay here and keep your phone on.’

‘They don’t allow mobiles—’

But Al caught sight of Strike’s expression and amended hastily:

‘Will do.’

48

Does the silkworm expend her yellow labours

For thee? For thee does she undo herself?

Thomas Middleton, The Revenger’s Tragedy

The garden was deserted and bitterly cold. Strike sank up to his ankles in snow, unable to feel the cold seeping through his right trouser leg. All the smokers who would ordinarily have congregated on the smooth lawns had chosen the street instead. He ploughed a solitary trench through the frozen whiteness, surrounded by silent beauty, coming to a halt beside a small round pond that had become a disc of thick grey ice. A plump bronze cupid sat in the middle on an oversized clam shell. It wore a wig of snow and pointed its bow and arrow, not anywhere that it might hit a human being, but straight up at the dark heavens.

Strike lit a cigarette and turned back to look at the blazing windows of the club. The diners and waiters looked like paper cutouts moving against a lit screen.

If Strike knew his man, he would come. Wasn’t this an irresistible situation to a writer, to the compulsive spinner of experience into words, to a lover of the macabre and the strange?

And sure enough, after a few minutes Strike heard a door open, a snatch of conversation and music hastily muffled, then the sound of deadened footsteps.

‘Mr Strike?’

Fancourt’s head looked particularly large in the darkness.

‘Would it not be easier to go on to the street?’

‘I’d rather do this in the garden,’ said Strike.

‘I see.’

Fancourt sounded vaguely amused, as though he intended, at least in the short term, to humour Strike. The detective suspected that it appealed to the writer’s sense of theatre that he should be the one summoned from the table of anxious people to talk to the man who was making them all so nervous.

‘What’s this about?’ asked Fancourt.

‘Value your opinion,’ said Strike. ‘Question of critical analysis of Bombyx Mori.’

‘Again?’ said Fancourt.

His good humour was cooling with his feet. He pulled his coat more closely around him and said, the snow falling thick and fast:

‘I’ve said everything I want to say about that book.’

‘One of the first things I was told about Bombyx Mori,’ said Strike, ‘was that it was reminiscent of your early work. Gore and arcane symbolism, I think were the words used.’

>

‘So?’ said Fancourt, hands in his pockets.

‘So, the more I’ve talked to people who knew Quine, the clearer it’s become that the book that everyone’s read bears only a vague resemblance to the one he claimed to be writing.’

Fancourt’s breath rose in a cloud before him, obscuring the little that Strike could see of his heavy features.

‘I’ve even met a girl who says she heard part of the book that doesn’t appear in the final manuscript.’

‘Writers cut,’ said Fancourt, shuffling his feet, his shoulders hunched up around his ears. ‘Owen would have done well to cut a great deal more. Several novels, in fact.’

‘There are also all the duplications from his earlier work,’ said Strike. ‘Two hermaphrodites. Two bloody bags. All that gratuitous sex.’

‘He was a man of limited imagination, Mr Strike.’

‘He left behind a scribbled note with what looks like a bunch of possible character names on it. One of those names appears on a used typewriter cassette that came out of his study before the police sealed it off, but it’s nowhere in the finished manuscript.’

‘So he changed his mind,’ said Fancourt irritably.

‘It’s an everyday name, not symbolic or archetypal like the names in the finished manuscript,’ said Strike.

His eyes becoming accustomed to the darkness, Strike saw a look of faint curiosity on Fancourt’s heavy-featured face.

‘A restaurant full of people witnessed what I think is going to turn out to be Quine’s last meal and his final public performance,’ Strike went on. ‘A credible witness says that Quine shouted for the whole restaurant to hear that one of the reasons Tassel was too cowardly to represent the book was “Fancourt’s limp dick”.’

He doubted that he and Fancourt were clearly visible to the jittery people at the publisher’s table. Their figures would blend with the trees and statuary, but the determined or desperate might still be able to make out their location by the tiny luminous eye of Strike’s glowing cigarette: a marksman’s bead.

‘Thing is, there’s nothing in Bombyx Mori about your dick,’ continued Strike. ‘There’s nothing in there about Quine’s mistress and his young transgendered friend being “beautiful lost souls”, which is how he told them he was going to describe them. And you don’t pour acid on silkworms; you boil them to get their cocoons.’