The Silkworm(15)

But it was tacit consent to Strike's attendance and, in the absence of genuine enthusiasm, Robin supposed it could have been worse.

Matthew, meanwhile, was brooding in silence on things he would have confessed to nobody. Robin had accurately described her boss's looks  –  the pube-like hair, the boxer's profile  –  but Matthew had not expected Strike to be so big. He had a couple of inches on Matthew, who enjoyed being the tallest man in his office. What was more, while he would have found it distasteful showboating if Strike had held forth about his experiences in Afghanistan and Iraq, or told them how his leg had been blown off, or how he had earned the medal that Robin seemed to find so impressive, his silence on these subjects had been almost more irritating. Strike's heroism, his action-packed life, his experiences of travel and danger had somehow hovered, spectrally, over the conversation.

Beside him on the train, Robin too sat in silence. She had not enjoyed the evening one bit. Never before had she known Matthew quite like that; or at least, never before had she seen him like that. It was Strike, she thought, puzzling over the matter as the train jolted them. Strike had somehow made her see Matthew through his eyes. She did not know quite how he had done it  –  all that questioning Matthew about rugby  –  some people might have thought it was polite, but Robin knew better …  or was she just annoyed that he had been late, and blaming him for things that he had not intended?

And so the engaged couple sped home, united in unexpressed irritation with the man now snoring loudly as he rattled away from them on the Northern line.





11




Let me know

Wherefore I should be thus neglected.

John Webster, The Duchess of Malfi



Is that Cormoran Strike?' asked a girlish upper-middle-class voice at twenty to nine the following morning.

It is,' said Strike.

It's Nina. Nina Lascelles. Dominic gave me your number.'

Oh yeah,' said Strike, who was standing bare-chested in front of the shaving mirror he usually kept beside the kitchen sink, the shower room being both dark and cramped. Wiping shaving foam from around his mouth with his forearm, he said:

Did he tell you what it was about, Nina?'

Yeah, you want to infiltrate Roper Chard's anniversary party.'

"Infiltrate" is a bit strong.'

But it sounds much more exciting if we say "infiltrate".'

Fair enough,' he said, amused. I take it you're up for this?'

Oooh, yes, fun. Am I allowed to guess why you want to come and spy on everyone?'

Again, "spy" isn't really-'

Stop spoiling things. Am I allowed a guess?'

Go on then,' said Strike, taking a sip from his mug of tea, his eyes on the window. It was foggy again; the brief spell of sunshine extinguished.

Bombyx Mori,' said Nina. Am I right? I am, aren't I? Say I'm right.'

You're right,' said Strike and she gave a squeal of pleasure.

I'm not even supposed to be talking about it. There's been a lockdown, emails round the company, lawyers storming in and out of Daniel's office. Where shall we meet? We should hook up somewhere first and turn up together, don't you think?'

Yeah, definitely,' said Strike. Where's good for you?'

Even as he took a pen from the coat hanging behind the door he thought longingly of an evening at home, a good long sleep, an interlude of peace and rest before an early start on Saturday morning, tailing his brunette client's faithless husband.

D'you know Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese?' asked Nina. On Fleet Street? Nobody from work'll be in there, and it's walking distance to the office. I know it's corny but I love it.'

They agreed to meet at seven thirty. As Strike returned to his shaving, he asked himself how likely it was that he would meet anyone who knew Quine's whereabouts at his publisher's party. The trouble is, Strike mentally chided the reflection in the circular mirror as the pair of them strafed stubble from their chins, you keep acting like you're still SIB. The nation's not paying you to be thorough any more, mate.

But he knew no other way; it was part of a short but inflexible personal code of ethics that he had carried with him all his adult life: do the job and do it well.

Strike was intending to spend most of the day in the office, which under normal circumstances he enjoyed. He and Robin shared the paperwork; she was an intelligent and often helpful sounding board and as fascinated now with the mechanics of an investigation as she had been when she had joined him. Today, however, he headed downstairs with something bordering on reluctance and, sure enough, his seasoned antennae detected in her greeting a self-conscious edge that he feared would shortly break through into What did you think of Matthew?'
 
 

 

This, Strike reflected, retiring to the inner office and shutting the door on the pretext of making phone calls, was exactly why it was a bad idea to meet your only member of staff outside working hours.

Hunger forced him to emerge a few hours later. Robin had bought sandwiches as usual, but she had not knocked on the door to let him know that they were there. This, too, seemed to point to feelings of awkwardness after the previous evening. To postpone the moment when it must be mentioned, and in the hope that if he kept off the subject long enough she might never bring it up (although he had never known the tactic to work on a woman before), Strike told her truthfully that he had just got off the phone with Mr Gunfrey.

Is he going to go to the police?' asked Robin.

Er  –  no. Gunfrey isn't the type of bloke who goes to the police if someone's bothering him. He's nearly as bent as the bloke who wants to cut his son. He's realised he's in over his head this time, though.'

Didn't you think of recording what that gangster was paying you to do and taking it to the police yourself?' asked Robin, without thinking.

No, Robin, because it'd be obvious where the tip-off came from and it'll put a strain on business if I've got to dodge hired killers while doing surveillance.'

But Gunfrey can't keep his son at home for ever!'

He won't have to. He's going to take the family off for a surprise holiday in the States, phone our knife-happy friend from LA and tell him he's given the matter some thought and changed his mind about interfering with his business interests. Shouldn't look too suspicious. The bloke's already done enough shitty stuff to him to warrant a cooling off. Bricks through his windscreen, threatening calls to his wife.

S'pose I'll have to go back to Crouch End next week, say the boy never showed up and give his monkey back.' Strike sighed. Not very plausible, but I don't want them to come looking for me.'

He gave you a-?'

Monkey  –  five hundred quid, Robin,' said Strike. What do they call that in Yorkshire?'

Shockingly little to stab a teenager,' said Robin forcefully and then, catching Strike off guard, What did you think of Matthew?'

Nice bloke,' lied Strike automatically.

He refrained from elaboration. She was no fool; he had been impressed before now by her instinct for the lie, the false note. Nevertheless, he could not help hurrying them on to a different subject.

I'm starting to think, maybe next year, if we're turning a proper profit and you've already had your pay rise, we could justify taking someone else on. I'm working flat out here, I can't keep going like this for ever. How many clients have you turned down lately?'

A couple,' Robin responded coolly.

Surmising that he had been insufficiently enthusiastic about Matthew but resolute that he would not be any more hypocritical than he had already been, Strike withdrew shortly afterwards into his office and shut the door again.

However, on this occasion, Strike was only half right.

Robin had indeed felt deflated by his response. She knew that if Strike had genuinely liked Matthew he would never have been as definitive as nice bloke.' He'd have said Yeah, he's all right,' or I s'pose you could do worse.'

What had irritated and even hurt was his suggestion of bringing in another employee. Robin turned back to her computer monitor and started typing fast and furiously, banging the keys harder than usual as she made up this week's invoice for the divorcing brunette. She had thought  –  evidently wrongly  –  that she was here as more than a secretary. She had helped Strike secure the evidence that had convicted Lula Landry's killer; she had even collected some of it alone, on her own initiative. In the months since, she had several times operated way beyond the duties of a PA, accompanying Strike on surveillance jobs when it would look more natural for him to be in a couple, charming doormen and recalcitrant witnesses who instinctively took offence at Strike's bulk and surly expression, not to mention pretending to be a variety of women on the telephone that Strike, with his deep bass voice, had no hope of impersonating.

Robin had assumed that Strike was thinking along the same lines that she was: he occasionally said things like It's good for your detective training' or You could use a counter-surveillance course.' She had assumed that once the business was on a sounder footing (and she could plausibly claim to have helped make it so) she would be given the training she knew she needed. But now it seemed that these hints had been mere throwaway lines, vague pats on the head for the typist. So what was she doing here? Why had she thrown away something much better? (In her temper, Robin chose to forget how little she had wanted that human resources job, however well paid.)

Perhaps the new employee would be female, able to perform these useful jobs, and she, Robin, would become receptionist and secretary to both of them, and never leave her desk again. It was not for that that she had stayed with Strike, given up a much better salary and created a recurring source of tension in her relationship.