Coffee? Tea?' offered Fisher, leading Strike into his own office, a small room off the main area with a pleasant view over the sleepy, foggy street. I can get Jade to nip out for us.' Strike declined, saying truthfully that he had just had coffee, but wondering, too, why Fisher seemed to be settling in for a longer meeting than Strike felt the circumstances justified. Just a latte, then, Jade,' Fisher called through the door.
Have a seat,' Fisher said to Strike, and he began to flit around the bookshelves that lined the walls. Didn't he live in St Michael's Mount, the giant Cormoran?'
Yeah,' said Strike. And Jack's supposed to have killed him. Of beanstalk fame.'
It's here somewhere,' said Fisher, still searching the shelves. Folk Tales of the British Isles. Have you got kids?'
No,' said Strike.
Oh,' said Fisher. Well, I won't bother, then.'
And with a grin he took the chair opposite Strike.
So, am I allowed to ask who's hired you? Am I allowed to guess?'
Feel free,' said Strike, who on principle never forbade speculation.
It's either Daniel Chard or Michael Fancourt,' said Fisher. Am I right?'
The lenses on his glasses gave his eyes a concentrated, beady look. Though giving no outward sign, Strike was taken aback. Michael Fancourt was a very famous writer who had recently won a major literary prize. Why exactly would he be interested in the missing Quine?
Afraid not,' said Strike. It's Quine's wife, Leonora.'
Fisher looked almost comically astonished.
His wife?' he repeated blankly. That mousy woman who looks like Rose West? What's she hired a private detective for?'
Her husband's disappeared. He's been gone eleven days.'
Quine's disappeared? But – but then … '
Strike could tell Fisher had been anticipating a very different conversation, one to which he had been eagerly looking forward.
But why's she sent you to me?'
She thinks you know where Quine is.'
How the hell would I know?' asked Fisher, and he appeared genuinely bewildered. He's not a friend of mine.'
Mrs Quine says she heard you telling her husband about a writer's retreat, at a party-'
Oh,' said Fisher, Bigley Hall, yeah. But Owen won't be there!' When he laughed, he was transformed into a bespectacled Puck: merriment laced with slyness. They wouldn't let Owen Quine in if he paid them. Born shit-stirrer. And one of the women who runs the place hates his guts. He wrote a stinking review of her first novel and she's never forgiven him.'
Could you give me the number anyway?' asked Strike.
I've got it on here,' said Fisher, pulling a mobile out of the back pocket of his jeans. I'll call now … '
And he did so, setting the mobile on the desk between them and switching it on to speakerphone for Strike's benefit. After a full minute of ringing, a breathless female voice answered:
Bigley Hall.'
Hi, is that Shannon? It's Chris Fisher here, from Crossfire.'
Oh, hi Chris, how's it going?'
The door of Fisher's office opened and the scruffy dark girl from outside came in, wordlessly placed a latte in front of Fisher and departed.
I'm phoning, Shan,' Fisher said, as the door clicked shut, to see if you've got Owen Quine staying. He hasn't turned up there, has he?'
Quine?'
Even reduced to a distant and tinny monosyllable, Shannon's dislike echoed scornfully around the book-lined room.
Yeah, have you seen him?'
Not for a year or more. Why? He's not thinking of coming here, is he? He won't be bloody welcome, I can tell you that.'
No worries, Shan, I think his wife's got hold of the wrong end of the stick. Speak soon.'
Fisher cut off her farewells, keen to return to Strike.
See?' he said. Told you. He couldn't go to Bigley Hall if he wanted to.'
Couldn't you have told his wife that, when she phoned you up?'
Oh, that's what she kept calling about!' said Fisher with an air of dawning comprehension. I thought Owen was making her call me.'
Why would he make his wife phone you?'
Oh, come on,' said Fisher, with a grin, and when Strike did not grin back, he laughed shortly and said, Because of Bombyx Mori. I thought it'd be typical of Quine to try to get his wife to call me and sound me out.'
Bombyx Mori,' repeated Strike, trying to sound neither interrogative nor puzzled.
Yeah, I thought Quine was pestering me to see whether there was still a chance I'd publish it. It's the sort of thing he'd do, make his wife ring. But if anyone's going to touch Bombyx Mori now, it won't be me. We're a small outfit. We can't afford court cases.'
Gaining nothing from pretending to know more than he did, Strike changed tack.
Bombyx Mori's Quine's latest novel?'
Yeah,' said Fisher, taking a sip of his takeaway latte, following his own train of thought. So he's disappeared, has he? I'd've thought he'd want to stick around and watch the fun. I'd've thought that was the whole point. Or has he lost his nerve? Doesn't sound like Owen.'
How long have you published Quine?' asked Strike. Fisher looked at him incredulously.
I've never published him!' he said.
I thought-'
He's been with Roper Chard for his last three books – or is it four? No, what happened was, I was at a party with Liz Tassel, his agent, a few months ago, and she told me in confidence – she'd had a few – that she didn't know how much longer Roper Chard were going to put up with him, so I said I'd be happy to have a look at his next one. Quine's in the so-bad-he's-good category these days – we could've done something offbeat with the marketing. Anyway,' said Fisher, there was Hobart's Sin. That was a good book. I figured he might still have something in him.'
Did she send you Bombyx Mori?' asked Strike, feeling his way and inwardly cursing himself for the lack of thoroughness with which he had questioned Leonora Quine the previous day. This was what came of taking on clients when you were three parts dead of exhaustion. Strike was used to coming to interviews knowing more than the interviewee and he felt curiously exposed.
Yeah, she biked me over a copy Friday before last,' said Fisher, his Puckish smirk slyer than ever. Biggest mistake of poor Liz's life.'
Why?'
Because she obviously hadn't read it properly, or not all the way to the end. About two hours after it arrived I got this very panicky message on my phone: "Chris, there's been a mistake, I've sent the wrong manuscript. Please don't read it, could you just send it straight back, I'll be at the office to take it." I've never heard Liz Tassel like that in my life. Very scary woman usually. Makes grown men cower.'
And did you send it back?'
Course not,' said Fisher. I spent most of Saturday reading it.'
And?' asked Strike.
Hasn't anyone told you?'
Told me … ?'
What's in there,' said Fisher. What he's done.'
What has he done?'
Fisher's smile faded. He put down his coffee.
I've been warned,' he said, by some of London's top lawyers not to disclose that.'
Who's employing the lawyers?' asked Strike. When Fisher didn't answer, he added, Anyone apart from Chard and Fancourt?'
It's just Chard,' said Fisher, toppling easily into Strike's trap. Though I'd be more worried about Fancourt if I were Owen. He can be an evil bastard. Never forgets a grudge. Don't quote me,' he added hastily.
And the Chard you're talking about?' said Strike, groping in semi-darkness.
Daniel Chard, CEO of Roper Chard,' said Fisher, with a trace of impatience. I don't understand how Owen thought he'd get away with screwing over the man who runs his publisher, but that's Owen for you. He's the most monumentally arrogant, deluded bastard I've ever met. I suppose he thought he could depict Chard as-'
Fisher broke off with an uneasy laugh.
I'm a danger to myself. Let's just say I'm surprised that even Owen thought he'd get away with it. Maybe he lost his nerve when he realised everyone knew exactly what he was hinting at and that's why he's done a runner.'
It's libellous, is it?' Strike asked.
Bit of a grey area in fiction, isn't it?' asked Fisher. If you tell the truth in a grotesque way – not that I'm suggesting,' he added hastily, that the stuff he's saying is true. It couldn't be literally true. But everyone's recognisable; he's done over quite a few people and in a very clever way … It feels a lot like Fancourt's early stuff, actually. Load of gore and arcane symbolism … you can't see quite what he's getting at in some places, but you want to know, what's in the bag, what's in the fire?'
What's in the-?'
Never mind – it's just stuff in the book. Didn't Leonora tell you any of this?'
No,' said Strike.
Bizarre,' said Christian Fisher, she must know. I'd've thought Quine's the sort of writer who lectures the family on his work at every mealtime.'
Why did you think Chard or Fancourt would hire a private detective, when you didn't know Quine was missing?'
Fisher shrugged.
I dunno. I thought maybe one of them was trying to find out what he's planning to do with the book, so they could stop him, or warn the new publisher they'll sue. Or that they might be hoping to get something on Owen – fight fire with fire.'
Is that why were you so keen to see me?' asked Strike. Have you got something on Quine?'
No,' said Fisher with a laugh. I'm just nosy. Wanted to know what's going on.'
He checked his watch, turned over a copy of a book cover in front of him and pushed out his chair a little. Strike took the hint.
Thanks for your time,' he said, standing up. If you hear from Owen Quine, will you let me know?'
He handed Fisher a card. Fisher frowned at it as he moved around his desk to show Strike out.
Cormoran Strike … Strike … I know that name, don't I … ?'