The Silkworm (46 page)

Strike had never visited Robin and Matthew’s flat in Ealing before. His insistence that Robin take time off work to recover from mild concussion and attempted strangulation had not gone down well.

‘Robin,’ he had told her patiently over the phone, ‘I’ve had to shut up the office anyway. Press crawling all over Denmark Street… I’m staying at Nick and Ilsa’s.’

But he could not disappear to Cornwall without seeing her. When she opened her front door he was glad to see that the bruising on her neck and forehead had already faded to a faint yellow and blue.

‘How’re you feeling?’ he asked, wiping his feet on the doormat.

‘Great!’ she said.

The place was small but cheerful and it smelled of her perfume, which he had never noticed much before. Perhaps a week without smelling it had made him more sensitive to it. She led him through to the sitting room, which was painted magnolia like Kathryn Kent’s and where he was interested to note the copy of
Investigative Interviewing: Psychology and Practice
lying cover upwards on a chair. A small Christmas tree stood in the corner, the decorations white and silver like the trees in Sloane Square that had formed the background of press photographs of the crashed taxi.

‘Matthew got over it yet?’ asked Strike, sinking down into the sofa.

‘I can’t say he’s the happiest I’ve ever seen him,’ she replied, grinning. ‘Tea?’

She knew how he liked it: the colour of creosote.

‘Christmas present,’ he told her when she returned with the tray, and handed her a nondescript white envelope. Robin opened it curiously and pulled out a stapled sheaf of printed material.

‘Surveillance course in January,’ said Strike. ‘So next time you pull a bag of dog shit out of a bin no one notices you doing it.’

She laughed, delighted.

‘Thank you.
Thank you!
’

‘Most women would’ve expected flowers.’

‘I’m not most women.’

‘Yeah, I’ve noticed that,’ said Strike, taking a chocolate biscuit.

‘Have they analysed it yet?’ she asked. ‘The dog poo?’

‘Yep. Full of human guts. She’d been defrosting them bit by bit. They found traces in the Dobermann’s bowl and the rest in her freezer.’

‘Oh God,’ said Robin, the smile sliding off her face.

‘Criminal genius,’ said Strike. ‘Sneaking into Quine’s study and planting two of her own used typewriter ribbons behind the desk… Anstis has condescended to have them tested now; there’s none of Quine’s DNA on them. He never touched them – ergo, he never typed what’s on there.’

‘Anstis is still talking to you, is he?’

‘Just. Hard for him to cut me off. I saved his life.’

‘I can see how that would make things awkward,’ Robin agreed. ‘So they’re buying your whole theory now?’

‘Open and shut case now they know what they’re looking for. She bought the duplicate typewriter nearly two years ago. Ordered the burqa and the ropes on Quine’s card and got them sent to the house while the workmen were in. Loads of opportunity to get at his Visa over the years. Coat hanging up in the office while he went for a slash… sneak out his wallet while he was asleep, pissed, when she drove him home from parties.

‘She knew him well enough to know he was slapdash on checking things like bills. She’d had access to the key to Talgarth Road – easy to copy. She’d been all over the house, knew the hydrochloric acid was there.

‘Brilliant, but over-elaborate,’ said Strike, sipping his dark brown tea. ‘She’s on suicide watch, apparently. But you haven’t heard the most mental bit.’

‘There’s more?’ said Robin apprehensively.

Much as she had looked forward to seeing Strike, she still felt a little fragile after the events of a week ago. She straightened her back and faced him squarely, braced.

‘She kept the bloody book.’

Robin frowned at him.

‘What do you—?’

‘It was in the freezer with the guts. Bloodstained because she’d carried it away in the bag with the guts. The real manuscript. The
Bombyx Mori
that Quine wrote.’

‘But – why on earth—?’

‘God only knows. Fancourt says—’

‘You’ve seen him?’

‘Briefly. He’s decided he knew it was Elizabeth all along. I’ll lay you odds what his next novel’s going to be about. Anyway, he says she wouldn’t have been able to bring herself to destroy an original manuscript.’

‘For God’s sake – she had no problem destroying its author!’

‘Yeah, but this was
literature
, Robin,’ said Strike, grinning. ‘And get this: Roper Chard are very keen to publish the real thing. Fancourt’s going to write the introduction.’

‘You
are
kidding?’

‘Nope. Quine’s going to have a bestseller at last. Don’t look like that,’ said Strike bracingly as she shook her head in disbelief. ‘Plenty to celebrate. Leonora and Orlando will be rolling in money once
Bombyx Mori
hits the bookshelves.

‘That reminds me, got something else for you.’

He slid his hand into the inside pocket of the coat lying beside him on the sofa and handed her a rolled-up drawing that he had been keeping safe there. Robin unfurled it and smiled, her eyes filling with tears. Two curly haired angels danced together beneath the carefully pencilled legend
To Robin love from Dodo
.

‘How are they?’

‘Great,’ said Strike.

He had visited the house in Southern Row at Leonora’s invitation. She and Orlando had met him hand in hand at the door, Cheeky Monkey dangling around Orlando’s neck as usual.

‘Where’s Robin?’ Orlando demanded. ‘I wanted Robin to be here. I drew her a picture.’

‘The lady had an accident,’ Leonora reminded her daughter, backing away into the hall to let Strike in, keeping a tight hold on Orlando’s hand as though frightened that someone might separate them again. ‘I told you, Dodo, the lady did a very brave thing and she had a crash in a car.’

‘Auntie Liz was
bad
,’ Orlando told Strike, walking backwards down the hall, still hand in hand with her mother but staring at Strike all the way with those limpid green eyes. ‘She was the one who made my daddy die.’

‘Yes, I – er – I know,’ Strike replied, with that familiar feeling of inadequacy that Orlando always seemed to induce in him.

He had found Edna from next door sitting at the kitchen table.

‘Oh, you were clever,’ she told him over and again. ‘Wasn’t it
dreadful
, though? How’s your poor partner?
Wasn’t
it terrible, though?’

‘Bless them,’ said Robin after he had described this scene in some detail. She spread Orlando’s picture out on the coffee table between them, beside the details of the surveillance course, where she could admire them both. ‘And how’s Al?’

‘Beside himself with bloody excitement,’ said Strike gloomily. ‘We’ve given him a false impression of the thrill of working life.’

‘I liked him,’ said Robin, smiling.

‘Yeah, well, you were concussed,’ said Strike. ‘And Polworth’s bloody ecstatic to have shown up the Met.’

‘You’ve got some very interesting friends,’ said Robin. ‘How much are you going to have to pay to repair Nick’s dad’s taxi?’

‘Haven’t got the bill in yet,’ he sighed. ‘I suppose,’ he added, several biscuits later, with his eyes on his present to Robin, ‘I’m going to have to get another temp in while you’re off learning surveillance.’

‘Yeah, I suppose you will,’ agreed Robin, and after a slight hesitation she added, ‘I hope she’s rubbish.’

Strike laughed as he got to his feet, picking up his coat.

‘I wouldn’t worry. Lightning doesn’t strike twice.’

‘Doesn’t anyone ever call you that, among all your many nicknames?’ she wondered as they walked back through to the hall.

‘Call me what?’

‘“Lightning” Strike?’

‘Is that likely?’ he asked, indicating his leg. ‘Well, merry Christmas, partner.’

The idea of a hug hovered briefly in the air, but she held out her hand with mock blokeyness, and he shook it.

‘Have a great time in Cornwall.’

‘And you in Masham.’

On the point of relinquishing her hand, he gave it a quick twist. He had kissed the back of it before she knew what had happened. Then, with a grin and a wave, he was gone.

Writing as Robert Galbraith has been pure joy and the following people have all helped make it so. My heartfelt thanks go to:

SOBE, Deeby and the Back Door Man, because I’d never have got as far without you. Let’s plan a heist next.

David Shelley, my incomparable editor, stalwart support and fellow INFJ. Thank you for being brilliant at your job, for taking seriously all the things that matter and for finding everything else as funny as I do.

My agent, Neil Blair, who cheerfully agreed to help me achieve my ambition of becoming a first-time author. You are truly one in a million.

Everyone at Little, Brown who worked so hard and enthusiastically on Robert’s first novel without having a clue who he was. My special gratitude to the audiobook team, who took Robert to number one before he was unmasked.

Lorna and Steve Barnes, who enabled me to drink in The Bay Horse, examine the tomb of Sir Marmaduke Wyvill and find out that Robin’s hometown is pronounced ‘Mass-um’ not ‘Mash-em’, saving me much future embarrassment.

Fiddy Henderson, Christine Collingwood, Fiona Shapcott, Angela Milne, Alison Kelly and Simon Brown, without whose hard work I would not have had time to write
The Silkworm
, or indeed anything else.

Mark Hutchinson, Nicky Stonehill and Rebecca Salt, who can take a great deal of credit for the fact that I still have some marbles left.

My family, especially Neil, for much more than I can express in a few lines, but in this case for being so supportive of bloody murder.