The Silkworm(82)

He knew that he was acting as though he were held to a professional standard that had ceased to apply when he had left the Special Investigation Branch. Though legally free to gossip to whomever he pleased about his suspicions, he continued to treat them as confidential. This was partly longstanding habit, but mainly because (much as others might jeer) he took extremely seriously the possibility that the killer might hear what he was thinking and doing. In Strike's opinion, the safest way of ensuring that secret information did not leak was not to tell anybody about it.

On Monday he was visited again by the boss and boyfriend of the faithless Miss Brocklehurst, whose masochism now extended to a wish to know whether she had, as he strongly suspected, a third lover hidden away somewhere. Strike listened with half his mind on the activities of Dave Polworth, who was starting to feel like his last hope. Robin's endeavours remained fruitless, in spite of the hours she was spending pursuing the evidence he had asked her to find.

At half past six that evening, as he sat in his flat watching the forecast, which predicted a return of arctic weather by the end of the week, his phone rang.

Guess what, Diddy?' said Polworth down a crackling line.

You're kidding me,' said Strike, his chest suddenly tight with anticipation.

Got the lot, mate.'

Holy shit,' breathed Strike.

It had been his own theory, but he felt as astonished as if Polworth had done it all unaided.

Bagged up here, waiting for you.'

I'll send someone for it first thing tomorrow-'

And I'm gonna go home and have a nice hot bath,' said Polworth.
 
 

 

Chum, you're a bloody-'

I know I am. We'll talk about my credit later. I'm fucking freezing, Diddy, I'm going home.'

Strike called Robin with the news. Her elation matched his own.

Right, tomorrow!' she said, full of determination. Tomorrow I'm going to get it, I'm going to make sure-'

Don't go getting careless,' Strike talked over her. It's not a competition.'

He barely slept that night.

Robin made no appearance at the office until one in the afternoon, but the instant he heard the glass door bang and heard her calling him, he knew.

You haven't-?'

Yes,' she said breathlessly.

She thought he was going to hug her, which would be crossing a line he had never even approached before, but the lunge she had thought might be meant for her was really for the mobile on his desk.

I'm calling Anstis. We've done it, Robin.'

Cormoran, I think-' Robin started to say, but he did not hear her. He had hurried back into his office and closed the door behind him.

Robin lowered herself into her computer chair, feeling uneasy. Strike's muffled voice rose and fell beyond the door. She got up restlessly to visit the bathroom, where she washed her hands and stared into the cracked and spotted mirror over the sink, observing the inconveniently bright gold of her hair. Returning to the office, she sat down, could not settle to anything, noticed that she had not switched on her tiny tinsel Christmas tree, did so, and waited, absent-mindedly biting her thumbnail, something she had not done for years.

Twenty minutes later, his jaw set and his expression ugly, Strike emerged from the office.

Stupid fucking dickhead!' were his first words.

No!' gasped Robin.

He's having none of it,' said Strike, too wound up to sit, but limping up and down the enclosed space. He's had that bloody rag in the lock-up analysed and it's got Quine's blood on it  –  big effing deal, could've cut himself months ago. He's so in love with his own effing theory-'

Did you say to him, if he just gets a warrant-?'

DICKHEAD!' roared Strike, punching the metal filing cabinet so that it reverberated and Robin jumped.

But he can't deny  –  once forensics are done-'

That's the bleeding point, Robin!' he said, rounding on her. Unless he searches before he gets forensics done, there might be nothing there to find!'

But did you tell him about the typewriter?'

If the simple fact that it's there doesn't hit the prick between the eyes-'

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.