The Silkworm (15 page)

‘I’m here,’ she said. ‘I’m downstairs in the lobby. I wanna see you, I made ’em bring me.’

Astonished, with the whisky sitting on his empty stomach, he said the first thing that occurred to him.

‘Who’s looking after Orlando?’

‘Edna,’ said Leonora, taking Strike’s concern for her daughter as a matter of course. ‘When are they gonna let you go?’

‘I’m on my way out now,’ he said.

‘Who’s that?’ asked Anstis when Strike had rung off. ‘Charlotte worrying about you?’

‘Christ, no,’ said Strike as they stepped together into the lift. He had completely forgotten that he had never told Anstis about the break-up. As a friend from the Met, Anstis was sealed off in a compartment on his own where gossip could not travel. ‘That’s over. Ended months ago.’

‘Really? Tough break,’ said Anstis, looking genuinely sorry as the lift began to move downwards. But Strike thought that some of Anstis’s disappointment was for himself. He had been one of the friends most taken with Charlotte, with her extraordinary beauty and her dirty laugh. ‘Bring Charlotte over’ had been Anstis’s frequent refrain when the two men had found themselves free of hospitals and the army, back in the city that was their home.

Strike felt an instinctive desire to shield Leonora from Anstis, but it was impossible. When the lift doors slid open there she was, thin and mousy, with her limp hair in combs, her old coat wrapped around her and an air of still wearing bedroom slippers even though her feet were clad in scuffed black shoes. She was flanked by the two uniformed officers, one female, who had evidently broken the news of Quine’s death and then brought her here. Strike deduced from the guarded glances they gave Anstis that Leonora had given them reason to wonder; that her reaction to the news that her husband was dead had struck them as unusual.

Dry-faced and matter-of-fact, Leonora seemed relieved to see Strike.

‘There you are,’ she said. ‘Why’d they keep you so long?’

Anstis looked at her curiously, but Strike did not introduce them.

‘Shall we go over here?’ he asked her, indicating a bench along the wall. As he limped off beside her he felt the three police officers draw together behind them.

‘How are you?’ he asked her, partly in the hope that she might exhibit some sign of distress, to assuage the curiosity of those watching.

‘Dunno,’ she said, dropping onto the plastic seat. ‘I can’t believe it. I never thought he’d go there, the silly sod. I s’pose some burglar got in and done it. He should’ve gone to a hotel like always, shouldn’t he?’

They had not told her much, then. He thought that she was more shocked than she appeared, more than she knew herself. The act of coming to him seemed the disorientated action of somebody who did not know what else to do, except to turn to the person who was supposed to be helping her.

‘Would you like me to take you home?’ Strike asked her.

‘I ’spect they’ll give me a lift back,’ she said, with the same sense of untroubled entitlement she had brought to the statement that Elizabeth Tassel would pay Strike’s bill. ‘I wanted to see you to check you was all right and I hadn’t got you in trouble, and I wanted to ask you if you’ll keep working for me.’

‘Keep working for you?’ Strike repeated.

For a split-second he wondered whether it was possible that she had not quite grasped what had happened, that she thought Quine was still out there somewhere to be found. Did her faint eccentricity of manner mask something more serious, some fundamental cognitive problem?

‘They think I know something about it,’ said Leonora. ‘I can tell.’

Strike hesitated on the verge of saying ‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ but it would have been a lie. He was only too aware that Leonora, wife of a feckless, unfaithful husband, who had chosen not to contact the police and to allow ten days to elapse before making a show of looking for him, who had a key to the empty house where his body had been found and who would undoubtedly be able to take him by surprise, would be the first and most important suspect. Nevertheless, he asked:

‘Why d’you think that?’

‘I can tell,’ she repeated. ‘Way they were talking to me. And they’ve said they wanna look in our house, in his study.’

It was routine, but he could see how she would feel this to be intrusive and ominous.

‘Does Orlando know what’s happened?’ he asked.

‘I told her but I don’t think she realises,’ said Leonora, and for the first time he saw tears in her eyes. ‘She says, “Like Mr Poop” – he was our cat that was run over – but I don’t know if she understands, not really. You can’t always tell with Orlando. I haven’t told her someone killed him. Can’t get my head around it.’

There was a short pause in which Strike hoped, irrelevantly, that he was not giving off whisky fumes.

‘Will you keep working for me?’ she asked him directly. ‘You’re better’n them, that’s why I wanted you in the first place. Will you?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Cos I can tell they think I had something to do with it,’ she repeated, standing up, ‘way they was talking to me.’

She drew her coat more tightly around her.

‘I’d better get back to Orlando. I’m glad you’re all right.’

She shuffled off to her escort again. The female police officer looked taken aback to be treated like a taxi driver but after a glance at Anstis acceded to Leonora’s request for a lift home.

‘The hell was that about?’ Anstis asked him after the two women had passed out of earshot.

‘She was worried you’d arrested me.’

‘Bit eccentric, isn’t she?’

‘Yeah, a bit.’

‘You didn’t tell her anything, did you?’ asked Anstis.

‘No,’ said Strike, who resented the question. He knew better than to pass information about a crime scene to a suspect.

‘You wanna be careful, Bob,’ said Anstis awkwardly, as they passed through the revolving doors into the rainy night. ‘Not to get under anyone’s feet. It’s murder now and you haven’t got many friends round these parts, mate.’

‘Popularity’s overrated. Listen, I’ll get a cab – no,’ he said firmly, over Anstis’s protestations, ‘I need to smoke before I go anywhere. Thanks, Rich, for everything.’

They shook hands; Strike turned up his collar against the rain and with a wave of farewell limped off along the dark pavement. He was almost as glad to have shaken off Anstis as to take the first sweet pull on his cigarette.

Strike had completely forgotten that Robin had left the office in what he categorised as a sulk on Friday afternoon. He only knew that she was the one person he wanted to talk to about what had happened, and while he usually avoided telephoning her at weekends, the circumstances felt exceptional enough to justify a text. He sent it from the taxi he found after fifteen minutes tramping wet, cold streets in the dark.

Robin was curled up at home in an armchair with
Investigative Interviewing: Psychology and Practice
, a book she had bought online. Matthew was on the sofa, speaking on the landline to his mother in Yorkshire, who was feeling unwell again. He rolled his eyes whenever Robin reminded herself to look up and smile sympathetically at his exasperation.

When her mobile vibrated, Robin glanced at it irritably; she was trying to concentrate on
Investigative Interviewing
.

She let out a mingled gasp and shriek that made Matthew start. The book slipped out of her lap and fell, disregarded, to the floor. Seizing the mobile, she ran with it to the bedroom.

Matthew talked to his mother for twenty minutes more, then went and listened at the closed bedroom door. He could hear Robin asking questions and being given what seemed to be long, involved answers. Something about the timbre of her voice convinced him that it was Strike on the line. His square jaw tightened.

When Robin finally emerged from the bedroom, shocked and awestruck, she told her fiancé that Strike had found the missing man he had been hunting, and that he had been murdered. Matthew’s natural curiosity tugged him one way, but his dislike of Strike, and the fact that he had dared contact Robin on a Sunday evening, pulled him another.

‘Well, I’m glad something’s happened to interest you tonight,’ he said. ‘I know you’re bored shitless by Mum’s health.’

‘You bloody hypocrite!’ gasped Robin, winded by the injustice.

The row escalated with alarming speed. Strike’s invitation to the wedding; Matthew’s sneering attitude to Robin’s job; what their life together was going to be; what each owed the other: Robin was horrified by how quickly the very fundamentals of their relationship were dragged out for examination and recrimination, but she did not back down. A familiar frustration and anger towards the men in her life had her in its grip – to Matthew, for failing to see why her job mattered to her so much; to Strike, for failing to recognise her potential.

(But he had called her when he had found the body… She had managed to slip in a question – ‘Who else have you told?’ – and he had answered, without any sign that he knew what it would mean to her, ‘No one, only you.’)

Meanwhile, Matthew was feeling extremely hard done by. He had noticed lately something that he knew he ought not to complain about, and which grated all the more for his feeling that he must lump it: before she worked for Strike, Robin had always been first to back down in a row, first to apologise, but her conciliatory nature seemed to have been warped by the stupid bloody job…

They only had one bedroom. Robin pulled spare blankets from on top of the wardrobe, grabbed clean clothes from inside it and announced her intention to sleep on the sofa. Sure that she would cave before long (the sofa was hard and uncomfortable) Matthew did not try to dissuade her.

But he had been wrong in expecting her to soften. When he woke the following morning it was to find an empty sofa and Robin gone. His anger increased exponentially. She had doubtless headed for work an hour earlier than usual, and his imagination – Matthew was not usually imaginative – showed him that big, ugly bastard opening the door of his flat, not the office below…

Strike had set his alarm for an early hour, with the intention of securing some peaceful, uninterrupted time without clients or telephone. He rose at once, showered and breakfasted, took great care over the fastening of the prosthesis onto a definitely swollen knee and, forty-five minutes after waking, limped into his office with the unread portion of
Bombyx Mori
under his arm. A suspicion that he had not confided to Anstis was driving him to finish the book as a matter of urgency.

After making himself a mug of strong tea he sat down at Robin’s desk, where the light was best, and began to read.

Having escaped the Cutter and entered the city that had been his destination, Bombyx decided to rid himself of the companions of his long journey, Succuba and the Tick. This he did by taking them to a brothel where both appeared satisfied to work. Bombyx departed alone in search of Vainglorious, a famous writer and the man whom he hoped would be his mentor.

Halfway along a dark alleyway, Bombyx was accosted by a woman with long red hair and a demonic expression, who was taking a handful of dead rats home for supper. When she learned Bombyx’s identity Harpy invited him to her house, which turned out to be a cave littered with animal skulls. Strike skim-read the sex, which took up four pages and involved Bombyx being strung up from the ceiling and whipped. Then, like the Tick, Harpy attempted to breast-feed from Bombyx, but in spite of being tied up he managed to beat her off. While his nipples leaked a dazzling supernatural light, Harpy wept and revealed her own breasts, from which leaked something dark brown and glutinous.

Strike scowled over this image. Not only was Quine’s style starting to seem parodic, giving Strike a sense of sickened surfeit, the scene read like an explosion of malice, an eruption of pent-up sadism. Had Quine devoted months, perhaps years, of his life to the intention of causing as much pain and distress as possible? Was he sane? Could a man in such masterly control of his style, little though Strike liked it, be classified as mad?

He took a drink of tea, reassuringly hot and clean, and read on. Bombyx was on the point of leaving Harpy’s house in disgust when another character burst in through her door: Epicoene, whom the sobbing Harpy introduced as her adopted daughter. A young girl, whose open robes revealed a penis, Epicoene insisted that she and Bombyx were twin souls, understanding, as they did, both the male and the female. She invited him to sample her hermaphrodite’s body, but first to hear her sing. Apparently under the impression that she had a beautiful voice, she emitted barks like a seal until Bombyx ran from her with his ears covered.

Now Bombyx saw for the first time, high on a hill in the middle of the city, a castle of light. He climbed the steep streets towards it until hailed from a dark doorway by a male dwarf, who introduced himself as the writer Vainglorious. He had Fancourt’s eyebrows, Fancourt’s surly expression and sneering manner, and offered Bombyx a bed for the night, ‘having heard of your great talent’.

To Bombyx’s horror, a young woman was chained up inside the house, writing at a roll-top desk. Burning brands lay white hot in the fire, to which were attached phrases in twisted metal such as
pertinacious gudgeon
and
chrysostomatic intercourse
. Evidently expecting Bombyx to be amused, Vainglorious explained that he had set his young wife Effigy to write her own book, so that she would not bother him while he created his next masterpiece. Unfortunately, Vainglorious explained, Effigy had no talent, for which she must be punished. He removed one of the brands from the fire, at which Bombyx fled the house, pursued by Effigy’s shrieks of pain.

Bombyx sped on towards the castle of light where he imagined he would find his refuge. Over the door was the name
Phallus Impudicus
, but nobody answered Bombyx’s knock. He therefore skirted the castle, peering in through windows until he saw a naked bald man standing over the corpse of a golden boy whose body was covered in stab wounds, each of which emitted the same dazzling light that issued from Bombyx’s own nipples. Phallus’s erect penis appeared to be rotting.

‘Hi.’

Strike started and looked up. Robin was standing there in her trench coat, her face pink, long red-gold hair loose, tousled and gilded in the early sunlight streaming through the window. Just then, Strike found her beautiful.

‘Why are you so early?’ he heard himself ask.

‘Wanted to know what’s going on.’

She stripped off her coat and Strike looked away, mentally castigating himself. Naturally she looked good, appearing unexpectedly when his mind had been full of the image of a naked bald man, displaying a diseased penis…

‘D’you want another tea?’

‘That’d be great, thanks,’ he said without lifting his eyes from the manuscript. ‘Give me five, I want to finish this…’

And with a feeling that he was diving again into contaminated water, he re-immersed himself in the grotesque world of
Bombyx Mori
.

As Bombyx stared through the window of the castle, transfixed by the horrible sight of Phallus Impudicus and the corpse, he found himself roughly seized by a crowd of hooded minions, dragged inside the castle and stripped naked in front of Phallus Impudicus. By this time, Bombyx’s belly was enormous and he appeared ready to give birth. Phallus Impudicus gave ominous directions to his minions, which left the naive Bombyx convinced that he was to be the guest of honour at a feast.

Six of the characters that Strike had recognised – Succuba, the Tick, the Cutter, Harpy, Vainglorious and Impudicus – were now joined by Epicoene. The seven guests sat down at a large table on which stood a large jug, the contents of which were smoking, and a man-sized empty platter.

When Bombyx arrived in the hall, he found that there was no seat for him. The other guests rose, moved towards him with ropes and overpowered him. He was trussed up, placed on the platter and slit open. The mass that had been growing inside him was revealed to be a ball of supernatural light, which was ripped out and locked in a casket by Phallus Impudicus.

The contents of the smoking jug were revealed to be vitriol, which the seven attackers poured gleefully over the still-living, shrieking Bombyx. When at last he fell silent, they began to eat him.

The book ended with the guests filing out of the castle, discussing their memories of Bombyx without guilt, leaving behind them an empty hall, the still-smoking remains of the corpse on the table and the locked casket of light hanging, lamp-like, above him.

‘Shit,’ said Strike quietly.

He looked up. Robin had placed a fresh tea beside him without his noticing. She was perched on the sofa, waiting quietly for him to finish.

‘It’s all in here,’ said Strike. ‘What happened to Quine. It’s here.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘The hero of Quine’s book dies exactly the way Quine died. Tied up, guts torn out, something acidic poured over him. In the book they eat him.’

Robin stared at him.

‘The plates. Knives and forks…’

‘Exactly,’ said Strike.

Without thinking, he pulled his mobile out of his pocket and brought up the photos he had taken, then caught sight of her frightened expression.

‘No,’ he said, ‘sorry, forgot you’re not—’

‘Give it to me,’ she said.

What had he forgotten? That she was not trained or experienced, not a policewoman or a soldier? She wanted to live up to his momentary forgetfulness. She wanted to step up, to be more than she was.

‘I want to see,’ she lied.

He handed over the telephone with obvious misgivings.

Robin did not flinch, but as she stared at the open hole in the cadaver’s chest and stomach her own insides seemed to shrink in horror. Raising her mug to her lips, she found that she did not want to drink. The worst was the angled close-up of the face, eaten away by whatever had been poured on it, blackened and with that burned-out eye socket…

The plates struck her as an obscenity. Strike had zoomed in on one of them; the place setting had been meticulously arranged.

‘My God,’ she said numbly, handing the phone back.

‘Now read this,’ said Strike, handing her the relevant pages.

She did so in silence. When she had finished, she looked up at him with eyes that seemed to have doubled in size.

‘My
God
,’ she said again.

Her mobile rang. She pulled it out of the handbag on the sofa beside her and looked at it. Matthew. Still furious at him, she pressed ‘ignore’.

‘How many people,’ she asked Strike, ‘d’you think have read this book?’

‘Could be a lot of them by now. Fisher emailed bits of it all over town; between him and the lawyers’ letters, it’s become hot property.’

And a strange, random thought crossed Strike’s mind as he spoke: that Quine could not have arranged better publicity if he had tried… but he could not have poured acid over himself while tied up, or cut out his own guts…

‘It’s been kept in a safe at Roper Chard that half the company seems to know the code for,’ he went on. ‘That’s how I got hold of it.’

‘But don’t you think the killer’s likely to be someone who’s
in
the—?’

Robin’s mobile rang again. She glanced down at it: Matthew. Again, she pressed ‘ignore’.

‘Not necessarily,’ said Strike, answering her unfinished question. ‘But the people he’s written about are going to be high on the list when the police start interviewing. Of the characters I recognise, Leonora claims not to have read it, so does Kathryn Kent—’

‘Do you believe them?’ asked Robin.

‘I believe Leonora. Not sure about Kathryn Kent. How did the line go? “To see thee tortur’d would give me pleasure”?’

‘I can’t believe a woman would have done that,’ said Robin at once, glancing at Strike’s mobile now lying on the desk between them.

‘Did you never hear about the Australian woman who skinned her lover, decapitated him, cooked his head and buttocks and tried to serve him up to his kids?’

‘You’re not serious.’

‘I’m totally serious. Look it up on the net. When women turn, they really turn,’ said Strike.

‘He was a big man…’

‘If it was a woman he trusted? A woman he met for sex?’

‘Who do we know for sure has read it?’

‘Christian Fisher, Elizabeth Tassel’s assistant Ralph, Tassel herself, Jerry Waldegrave, Daniel Chard – they’re all characters, except Ralph and Fisher. Nina Lascelles—’

‘Who are Waldegrave and Chard? Who’s Nina Lascelles?’

‘Quine’s editor, the head of his publisher and the girl who helped me nick this,’ said Strike, giving the manuscript a slap.

Robin’s mobile rang for the third time.

‘Sorry,’ she said impatiently, and picked it up. ‘Yes?’

‘Robin.’

Matthew’s voice sounded strangely congested. He never cried and he had never before shown himself particularly overcome by remorse at an argument.

‘Yes?’ she said, a little less sharply.

‘Mum’s had another stroke. She’s – she’s—’

An elevator drop in the pit of her stomach.

‘Matt?’

He was crying.

‘Matt?’ she repeated urgently.

‘’S dead,’ he said, like a little boy.

‘I’m coming,’ said Robin. ‘Where are you? I’ll come now.’

Strike was watching her face. He saw tidings of death there and hoped it was nobody she loved, neither of her parents, none of her brothers…

‘All right,’ she was saying, already on her feet. ‘Stay there. I’m coming.

‘It’s Matt’s mother,’ she told Strike. ‘She’s died.’

It felt utterly unreal. She could not believe it.

‘They were only talking on the phone last night,’ she said. Remembering Matt’s rolling eyes and the muffled voice she had just heard, she was overwhelmed with tenderness and sympathy. ‘I’m so sorry but—’

‘Go,’ said Strike. ‘Tell him I’m sorry, will you?’

‘Yes,’ said Robin, trying to fasten her handbag, her fingers grown clumsy in her agitation. She had known Mrs Cunliffe since primary school. She slung her raincoat over her arm. The glass door flashed and closed behind her.

Strike’s eyes remained fixed for a few seconds on the place where Robin had vanished. Then he looked down at his watch. It was barely nine o’clock. The brunette divorcée whose emeralds lay in his safe was due at the office in just over half an hour.

He cleared and washed the mugs, then took out the necklace he had recovered, locked up the manuscript of
Bombyx Mori
in the safe instead, refilled the kettle and checked his emails.

They’ll postpone the wedding.
 

He did not want to feel glad about it. Pulling out his mobile, he called Anstis, who answered almost at once.

‘Bob?’

‘Anstis, I don’t know whether you’ve already got this, but there’s something you should know. Quine’s last novel describes his murder.’

‘Say that again?’

Strike explained. It was clear from the brief silence after he had finished speaking that Anstis had not yet had the information.

‘Bob, I need a copy of that manuscript. If I send someone over—?’

‘Give me three quarters of an hour,’ said Strike.

He was still photocopying when his brunette client arrived.

‘Where’s your secretary?’ were her first words, turning to him with a coquettish show of surprise, as though she was sure he had arranged for them to be alone.

‘Off sick. Diarrhoea and vomiting,’ said Strike repressively. ‘Shall we go through?’