The Silkworm (6 page)

‘And why did you send copies to two publishers?’ asked Strike, although he already knew the answer.

‘Because Jerry Waldegrave might be a blessed saint and the nicest man in publishing,’ she replied, sipping more coffee, ‘but even
he’s
lost patience with Owen and his tantrums lately. Owen’s last book for Roper Chard barely sold. I thought it was only sensible to have a second string to our bow.’

‘When did you realise what the book was really about?’

‘Early that evening,’ she croaked. ‘Ralph called me. He’d sent off the two copies and then had a flick through the original. He phoned me and said, “Liz, have you actually read this?”’

Strike could well imagine the trepidation with which the pale young assistant had made the call, the courage it had taken, the agonised deliberation with his female colleague before he had reached his decision.

‘I had to admit I hadn’t… or not thoroughly,’ she muttered. ‘He read me a few choice excerpts I’d missed and…’

She picked up the onyx lighter and flicked it absently before looking up at Strike.

‘Well, I panicked. I phoned Christian Fisher, but the call went straight to voicemail, so I left a message telling him that the manuscript that had been sent over was a first draft, that he wasn’t to read it, that I’d made a mistake and would he please return it as soon as – as soon as p-possible. I called Jerry next, but I couldn’t reach him either. He’d told me he was going away for an anniversary weekend with his wife. I hoped he wouldn’t have any time for reading, so I left a message along the lines of the one I’d left for Fisher.

‘Then I called Owen back.’

She lit yet another cigarette. Her large nostrils flared as she inhaled; the lines around her mouth deepened.

‘I could barely get the words out and it wouldn’t have mattered if I had. He talked over me as only Owen can, absolutely delighted with himself. He said we ought to meet to have dinner and celebrate the completion of the book.

‘So I dragged myself into clothes, and I went to the River Café and I waited. And in came Owen.

‘He wasn’t even late. He’s usually late. He was virtually floating on air, absolutely elated. He genuinely thinks he’s done something brave and marvellous. He’d started to talk about film adaptations before I managed to get a word in edgeways.’

When she expelled smoke from her scarlet mouth she looked truly dragonish, with her shining black eyes.

‘When I told him that I think what he’s produced is vile, malicious and unpublishable, he jumped up, sent his chair flying and began screaming. After insulting me both personally and professionally, he told me that if I wasn’t brave enough to represent him any more, he’d self-publish the thing – put it out as an ebook. Then he stormed out, parking me with the bill. N-not,’ she snarled, ‘that that’s anything un-un-unus—’

Her emotion triggered an even worse coughing fit than before. Strike thought she might actually choke. He half-rose out of his chair, but she waved him away. Finally, purple in the face, her eyes streaming, she said in a voice like gravel:

‘I did everything I could to put it right. My whole weekend by the sea ruined; I was on the phone constantly, trying to get hold of Fisher and Waldegrave. Message after message, stuck out on the bloody cliffs at Gwithian trying to get reception—’

‘Is that where you’re from?’ Strike asked, mildly surprised, because he heard no echo of his Cornish childhood in her accent.

‘It’s where one of my authors lives. I told her I hadn’t been out of London in four years and she invited me for the weekend. Wanted to show me all the lovely places where she sets her books. Some of the m-most beautiful scenery I’ve ever seen but all I could think about was b-bloody
Bombyx Mori
and trying to stop anyone reading it. I couldn’t sleep. I felt dreadful…

‘I finally heard back from Jerry at Sunday lunchtime. He hadn’t gone on his anniversary weekend after all, and he claims he’d never got my messages, so he’d decided to read the bloody book.

‘He was disgusted and furious. I assured Jerry that I’d do everything in my power to stop the damn thing… but I had to admit that I’d also sent it to Christian, at which Jerry slammed the phone down on me.’

‘Did you tell him that Quine had threatened to put the book out over the internet?’

‘No, I did not,’ she said hoarsely. ‘I was praying that was an empty threat, because Owen really doesn’t know one end of a computer from the other. But I was worried…’

Her voice trailed away.

‘You were worried?’ Strike prompted her.

She did not answer.

‘This self-publishing explains something,’ said Strike casually. ‘Leonora says Quine took his own copy of the manuscript and all his notes with him when he disappeared into the night. I did wonder whether he was intending to burn it or throw it in a river, but presumably he took it with a view to turning it into an ebook.’

This information did nothing to improve Elizabeth Tassel’s temper. Through clenched teeth she said:

‘There’s a girlfriend. They met on a writing course he taught. She’s self-published. I know about her because Owen tried to interest me in her bloody awful erotic fantasy novels.’

‘Have you contacted her?’ Strike asked.

‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I have. I wanted to frighten her off, tell her that if Owen tried to rope her in to help him reformat the book or sell it online she’d probably be party to a lawsuit.’

‘What did she say?’

‘I couldn’t get hold of her. I tried several times. Maybe she’s not at that number any more, I don’t know.’

‘Could I take her details?’ Strike asked.

‘Ralph’s got her card. I asked him to keep ringing her for me.
Ralph!
’ she bellowed.

‘He’s still out with Beau!’ came the girl’s frightened squeak from beyond the door. Elizabeth Tassel rolled her eyes and got heavily to her feet.

‘There’s no point asking
her
to find it.’

When the door had swung shut behind the agent, Strike got at once to his feet, moved behind the desk and bent down to examine a photograph on the wall that had caught his eye, which necessitated the removal of a double portrait on the bookcase, featuring a pair of Dobermanns.

The picture in which he was interested was A4-sized, in colour but very faded. Judging by the fashions of the four people it featured, it had been taken at least twenty-five years previously, outside this very building.

Elizabeth herself was clearly recognisable, the only woman in the group, big and plain with long, windswept dark hair and wearing an unflattering drop-waisted dress of dark pink and turquoise. On one side of her stood a slim, fair-haired young man of extreme beauty; on the other was a short, sallow-skinned, sour-looking man whose head was too large for his body. He looked faintly familiar. Strike thought he might have seen him in the papers or on TV.

Beside the unidentified but possibly well-known man stood a much younger Owen Quine. The tallest of the four, he was wearing a crumpled white suit and a hairstyle best described as a spiky mullet. He reminded Strike irresistibly of a fat David Bowie.

The door swished open on its well-oiled hinges. Strike did not attempt to cover up what he was doing, but turned to face the agent, who was holding a sheet of paper.

‘That’s Fletcher,’ she said, her eyes on the picture of the dogs in his hand. ‘He died last year.’

He replaced the portrait of her dogs on the bookcase.

‘Oh,’ she said, catching on. ‘You were looking at the other one.’

She approached the faded picture; shoulder to shoulder with Strike, he noted that she was nearly six feet tall. She smelled of John Player Specials and Arpège.

‘That’s the day I started my agency. Those are my first three clients.’

‘Who’s he?’ asked Strike of the beautiful blond youth.

‘Joseph North. The most talented of them, by far. Unfortunately, he died young.’

‘And who’s—?’

‘Michael Fancourt, of course,’ she said, sounding surprised.

‘I thought he looked familiar. D’you still represent him?’

‘No! I thought…’

He heard the rest of the sentence, even though she did not say it:
I thought everyone knew that
. Worlds within worlds: perhaps all of literary London
did
know why the famous Fancourt was no longer her client, but he did not.

‘Why don’t you represent him any more?’ he asked, resuming his seat.

She passed the paper in her hand across the desk to him; it was a photocopy of what looked like a flimsy and grubby business card.

‘I had to choose between Michael and Owen, years ago,’ she said. ‘And like a b-bloody fool’ – she had begun to cough again; her voice was disintegrating into a guttural croak – ‘I chose Owen.

‘Those are the only contact details I’ve got for Kathryn Kent,’ she added firmly, closing down further discussion of Fancourt.

‘Thank you,’ he said, folding the paper and tucking it inside his wallet. ‘How long has Quine been seeing her, do you know?’

‘A while. He brings her to parties while Leonora’s stuck at home with Orlando. Utterly shameless.’

‘No idea where he might be hiding? Leonora says you’ve found him, the other times he’s—’

‘I don’t “find” Owen,’ she snapped. ‘He rings me up after a week or so in a hotel and asks for an advance – which is what he calls a gift of money – to pay the minibar bill.’

‘And you pay, do you?’ asked Strike. She seemed very far from a pushover.

Her grimace seemed to acknowledge a weakness of which she was ashamed, but her response was unexpected.

‘Have you met Orlando?’

‘No.’

She opened her mouth to continue but seemed to think better of it and merely said:

‘Owen and I go back a very long way. We were good friends… once,’ she added, on a note of deep bitterness.

‘Which hotels has he stayed at before this?’

‘I can’t remember all of them. The Kensington Hilton once. The Danubius in St John’s Wood. Big faceless hotels with all the creature comforts he can’t get at home. Owen’s no citizen of Bohemia – except in his approach to hygiene.’

‘You know Quine well. You don’t think there’s any chance that he might have—?’

She finished the sentence for him with a faint sneer.

‘—“done something silly?” Of course not. He’d never dream of depriving the world of the genius of Owen Quine. No, he’s out there plotting his revenge on all of us, thoroughly aggrieved that there isn’t a national manhunt going on.’

‘He’d expect a manhunt, even when he makes such a practice of going missing?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Every time he puts in one of these little vanishing acts he expects it to make the front page. The trouble is that the very first time he did it, years and years ago, after an argument with his first editor, it worked. There
was
a little flurry of concern and a smattering of press. He’s lived in the hope of that ever since.’

‘His wife’s adamant that he’d be annoyed if she called the police.’

‘I don’t know where she gets that idea,’ said Elizabeth, helping herself to yet another cigarette. ‘Owen would think helicopters and sniffer dogs the least the nation could do for a man of his importance.’

‘Well, thanks for your time,’ said Strike, preparing to stand. ‘It was good of you to see me.’

Elizabeth Tassel held up a hand and said:

‘No, it wasn’t. I want to ask you something.’

He waited receptively. She was not used to asking favours, that much was clear. She smoked for a few seconds in silence, which brought on another bout of suppressed coughs.

‘This – this…
Bombyx Mori
business has done me a lot of harm,’ she croaked at last. ‘I’ve been disinvited from Roper Chard’s anniversary party this Friday. Two manuscripts I had on submission with them have been sent back without so much as a thank you. And I’m getting worried about poor Pinkelman’s latest.’ She pointed at the picture of the elderly children’s writer on the wall. ‘There’s a disgusting rumour flying around that I was in cahoots with Owen; that I egged him on to rehash an old scandal about Michael Fancourt, whip up some controversy and try to get a bidding war going for the book.

‘If you’re going to trawl around everyone who knows Owen,’ she said, coming to the point, ‘I’d be very grateful if you could tell them – especially Jerry Waldegrave, if you see him – that I had no idea what was in that novel. I’d never have sent it out, least of all to Christian Fisher, if I hadn’t been so ill. I was,’ she hesitated, ‘
careless
, but no more than that.’

This, then, was why she had been so anxious to meet him. It did not seem an unreasonable request in return for the addresses of two hotels and a mistress.

‘I’ll certainly mention that if it comes up,’ said Strike, getting to his feet.

‘Thank you,’ she said gruffly. ‘I’ll see you out.’

When they emerged from the office, it was to a volley of barks. Ralph and the old Dobermann had returned from their walk. Ralph’s wet hair was slicked back as he struggled to restrain the grey-muzzled dog, which was snarling at Strike.

‘He’s never liked strangers,’ said Elizabeth Tassel indifferently.

‘He bit Owen once,’ volunteered Ralph, as though this might make Strike feel better about the dog’s evident desire to maul him.

‘Yes,’ said Elizabeth Tassel, ‘pity it—’

But she was overtaken by another volley of rattling, wheezing coughs. The other three waited in silence for her to recover.

‘Pity it wasn’t fatal,’ she croaked at last. ‘It would have saved us all a lot of trouble.’

Her assistants looked shocked. Strike shook her hand and said a general goodbye. The door swung shut on the Dobermann’s growling and snarling.

Strike paused at the end of the rain-sodden mews and called Robin, whose number was busy. Leaning against a wet wall with the collar of his overcoat turned up, hitting ‘redial’ every few seconds, his gaze fell on a blue plaque fixed to a house opposite, commemorating the tenancy of Lady Ottoline Morrell, literary hostess. Doubtless scabrous
romans à clef
had once been discussed within those walls, too…

‘Hi Robin,’ said Strike when she picked up at last. ‘I’m running late. Can you ring Gunfrey for me and tell him I’ve got a firm appointment with the target tomorrow. And tell Caroline Ingles there hasn’t been any more activity, but I’ll call her tomorrow for an update.’

When he had finished tweaking his schedule, he gave her the name of the Danubius Hotel in St John’s Wood and asked her to try to find out whether Owen Quine was staying there.

‘How’re the Hiltons going?’

‘Badly,’ said Robin. ‘I’ve only got two left. Nothing. If he’s at any of them he’s either using a different name or a disguise – or the staff are very unobservant, I suppose. You wouldn’t think they could miss him, especially if he’s wearing that cloak.’

‘Have you tried the Kensington one?’

‘Yes. Nothing.’

‘Ah well, I’ve got another lead: a self-published girlfriend called Kathryn Kent. I might visit her later. I won’t be able to pick up the phone this afternoon; I’m tailing Miss Brocklehurst. Text me if you need anything.’

‘OK, happy tailing.’

But it was a dull and fruitless afternoon. Strike was running surveillance on a very well-paid PA who was believed by her paranoid boss and lover to be sharing not only sexual favours but also business secrets with a rival. However, Miss Brocklehurst’s claim that she wanted to take an afternoon off to be better waxed, manicured and fake-tanned for her lover’s delectation appeared to be genuine. Strike waited and watched the front of the spa through a rain-speckled window of the Caffè Nero opposite for nearly four hours, earning himself the ire of sundry women with pushchairs seeking a space to gossip. Finally Miss Brocklehurst emerged, Bisto-brown and presumably almost hairless from the neck down, and after following her for a short distance Strike saw her slide into a taxi. By a near miracle given the rain, Strike managed to secure a second cab before she had moved out of view, but the sedate pursuit through the clogged, rainwashed streets ended, as he had expected from the direction of travel, at the suspicious boss’s own flat. Strike, who had taken photographs covertly all the way, paid his cab fare and mentally clocked off.

It was barely four o’clock and the sun was setting, the endless rain becoming chillier. Christmas lights shone from the window of a trattoria as he passed and his thoughts slid to Cornwall, which he felt had intruded itself on his notice three times in quick succession, calling to him, whispering to him.

How long had it been since he had gone home to that beautiful little seaside town where he had spent the calmest parts of his childhood? Four years? Five? He met his aunt and uncle whenever they ‘came up to London’, as they self-consciously put it, staying at his sister Lucy’s house, enjoying the metropolis. Last time, Strike had taken his uncle to the Emirates to watch a match against Manchester City.

His phone vibrated in his pocket: Robin, following instructions to the letter as usual, had texted him instead of calling.

Thanks
, Strike texted back.

He never added kisses to texts unless to his sister or aunt.

At the Tube, he deliberated his next moves. The whereabouts of Owen Quine felt like an itch in his brain; he was half irritated, half intrigued that the writer was proving so elusive. He pulled the piece of paper that Elizabeth Tassel had given him out of his wallet. Beneath the name Kathryn Kent was the address of a tower block in Fulham and a mobile number. Printed along the bottom edge were two words:
indie author
.

Strike’s knowledge of certain patches of London was as detailed as any cabbie’s. While he had never penetrated truly upmarket areas as a child, he had lived in many other addresses around the capital with his late, eternally nomadic mother: usually squats or council accommodation, but occasionally, if her boyfriend of the moment could afford it, in more salubrious surroundings. He recognised Kathryn Kent’s address: Clement Attlee Court comprised old council blocks, many of which had now been sold off into private hands. Ugly square brick towers with balconies on every floor, they sat within a few hundred yards of million-pound houses in Fulham.

There was nobody waiting for him at home and he was full of coffee and pastries after his long afternoon in Caffè Nero. Instead of boarding the Northern line, he took the District line to West Kensington and set out in the dark along North End Road, past curry houses and a number of small shops with boarded windows, folding under the weight of the recession. By the time Strike had reached the tower blocks he sought, night had fallen.

Stafford Cripps House was the block nearest the road, set just behind a low, modern medical centre. The optimistic architect of the council flats, perhaps giddy with socialist idealism, had given each one its own small balcony space. Had they imagined the happy inhabitants tending window boxes and leaning over the railings to call cheery greetings to their neighbours? Virtually all of these exterior areas had been used by the occupants for storage: old mattresses, prams, kitchen appliances, what looked like armfuls of dirty clothes sat exposed to the elements, as though cupboards full of junk had been cross-sectioned for public view.

A gaggle of hooded youths smoking beside large plastic recycling bins eyed him speculatively as he passed. He was taller and broader than any of them.

‘Big fucker,’ he caught one of them saying as he passed out of their sight, ignoring the inevitably out-of-order lift and heading for the concrete stairs.

Kathryn Kent’s flat was on the third floor and was reached via a windswept brick balcony that ran the width of the building. Strike noted that, unlike her neighbours, Kathryn had hung real curtains in the windows, before rapping on the door.

There was no response. If Owen Quine was inside, he was determined not to give himself away: there were no lights on, no sign of movement. An angry-looking woman with a cigarette jammed in her mouth stuck her head out of the next door with almost comical haste, gave Strike one brief searching stare, then withdrew.

The chilly wind whistled along the balcony. Strike’s overcoat was glistening with raindrops but his uncovered head, he knew, would look the same as ever; his short, tightly curling hair was impervious to the effects of rain. He drove his hands deep inside his pockets and there found a stiff envelope he had forgotten. The exterior light beside Kathryn Kent’s front door was broken, so Strike ambled two doors along to reach a functioning bulb and opened the silver envelope.

The invitation exuded the authority of military orders: this wedding will take place in the manner described hereon. He and Charlotte had never got as far as the issuing of stiff cream invitations engraved with shining black cursive.

Strike pushed the card back into his pocket and returned to wait beside Kathryn’s dark door, digging into himself, staring out over dark Lillie Road with its swooshing double lights, headlamps and reflections sliding along, ruby and amber. Down on the ground the hooded youths huddled, split apart, were joined by others and regrouped.

At half past six the expanded gang loped off together in a pack. Strike watched them until they were almost out of sight, at which point they passed a woman coming in the opposite direction. As she moved through the light puddle of a street lamp, he saw a thick mane of bright red hair flying from beneath a black umbrella.

Her walk was lopsided, because the hand not holding the umbrella was carrying two heavy carrier bags, but the impression she gave from this distance, regularly tossing back her thick curls, was not unattractive; her windblown hair was eye-catching and her legs beneath the loose overcoat were slender. Closer and closer she moved, unaware of his scrutiny from three floors up, across the concrete forecourt and out of sight.

Five minutes later she had emerged onto the balcony where Strike stood waiting. As she drew nearer, the straining buttons on the coat betrayed a heavy, apple-shaped torso. She did not notice Strike until she was ten yards away, because her head was bowed, but when she looked up he saw a lined and puffy face much older than he had expected. Coming to an abrupt halt, she gasped.

‘
You!
’

Strike realised that she was seeing him in silhouette because of the broken lights.

‘You fucking
bastard
!’

The bags hit the concrete floor with a tinkle of breaking glass: she was running full tilt at him, hands balled into fists and flailing.

‘You bastard, you
bastard
, I’ll never forgive you,
never
, you get away from me!’

Strike was forced to parry several wild punches. He stepped backwards as she screeched, throwing ineffectual blows and trying to break past his ex-boxer’s defences.

‘You wait – Pippa’s going to fucking kill you – you wait—’

The neighbour’s door opened again: there stood the same woman with a cigarette in her mouth.

‘Oi!’ she said.

Light from the hall flooded onto Strike, revealing him. With a half gasp, half yelp, the red-headed woman staggered backwards, away from him.

‘The fuck’s going on?’ demanded the neighbour.

‘Case of mistaken identity, I think,’ said Strike pleasantly.

The neighbour slammed her door, plunging the detective and his assailant back into darkness.

‘Who are you?’ she whispered. ‘What do you want?’

‘Are you Kathryn Kent?’

‘
What do you want?
’

Then, with sudden panic, ‘If it’s what I think it is, I don’t work in that bit!’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Who are you, then?’ she demanded, sounding more frightened than ever.

‘My name’s Cormoran Strike and I’m a private detective.’

He was used to the reactions of people who found him unexpectedly on their doorsteps. Kathryn’s response – stunned silence – was quite typical. She backed away from him and almost fell over her own abandoned carrier bags.

‘Who’s set a private detective on me? It’s
her
, is it?’ she said ferociously.

‘I’ve been hired to find the writer Owen Quine,’ said Strike. ‘He’s been missing for nearly a fortnight. I know you’re a friend of his—’

‘No, I’m not,’ she said and bent to pick up her bags again; they clinked heavily. ‘You can tell her that from me. She’s welcome to him.’

‘You’re not his friend any more? You don’t know where he is?’

‘I don’t give a shit where he is.’

A cat stalked arrogantly along the edge of the stone balcony.

‘Can I ask when you last—?’

‘No, you can’t,’ she said with an angry gesture; one of the bags in her hand swung and Strike flinched, thinking that the cat, which had drawn level with her, would be knocked off the ledge into space. It hissed and leapt down. She aimed a swift, spiteful kick at it.

‘Damn thing!’ she said. The cat streaked away. ‘Move, please. I want to get into my house.’

He took a few steps back from the door to let her approach it. She could not find her key. After a few uncomfortable seconds of trying to pat her own pockets while carrying the bags she was forced to set them down at her feet.

‘Mr Quine’s been missing since he had a row with his agent about his latest book,’ said Strike, as Kathryn fumbled in her coat. ‘I was wondering whether—’

‘I don’t give a shit about his book. I haven’t read it,’ she added. Her hands were shaking.

‘Mrs Kent—’

‘Ms,’ she said.

‘Ms Kent, Mr Quine’s wife says a woman called at his house looking for him. By the description, it sounded—’

Kathryn Kent had found the key but dropped it. Strike bent to pick it up for her; she snatched it from his grasp.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘You didn’t go looking for him at his house last week?’

‘I told you, I don’t know where he is, I don’t know anything,’ she snapped, ramming the key into the lock and turning it.

She caught up the two bags, one of which clinked heavily again. It was, Strike saw, from a local hardware store.

‘That looks heavy.’

‘My ballcock’s gone,’ she told him fiercely.

And she slammed her door in his face.