The Silkworm (8 page)

‘Got to get going,’ said Strike. ‘See you at eight.’

‘
Six thirty!
’ she bellowed at the closing door.

Strike’s destination that afternoon was a shop that sold electronic accessories in Crouch End. Stolen mobile phones and laptops were unlocked in a back room, the personal information therein extracted, and the purged devices and the information were then sold separately to those who could use them.

The owner of this thriving business was causing Mr Gunfrey, Strike’s client, considerable inconvenience. Mr Gunfrey, who was every bit as crooked as the man whom Strike had tracked to his business headquarters, but on a larger and more flamboyant scale, had made a mistake in treading on the wrong toes. It was Strike’s view that Gunfrey needed to clear out while he was ahead. He knew of what this adversary was capable; they had an acquaintance in common.

The target greeted Strike in an upstairs office that smelled as bad as Elizabeth Tassel’s, while two shell-suited youths lolled around in the background picking their nails. Strike, who was impersonating a thug for hire recommended by their mutual acquaintance, listened as his would-be employer confided that he was intending to target Mr Gunfrey’s teenage son, about whose movements he was frighteningly well informed. He went so far as to offer Strike the job: five hundred pounds to cut the boy. (‘I don’t want no murder, jussa message to his father, you get me?’)

It was gone six before Strike managed to extricate himself from the premises. His first call, once he had made sure he had not been followed, was to Mr Gunfrey himself, whose appalled silence told Strike that he had at last realised what he was up against.

Strike then phoned Robin.

‘Going to be late, sorry,’ he said.

‘Where are you?’ she asked, sounding strained. He could hear the sounds of the pub behind her: conversation and laughter.

‘Crouch End.’

‘Oh God,’ he heard her say under her breath. ‘It’ll take you ages—’

‘I’ll get a cab,’ he assured her. ‘Be as quick as I can.’

Why, Strike wondered, as he sat in the taxi rumbling along Upper Street, had Matthew chosen a pub in Waterloo? To make sure that Strike had to travel a long way? Payback for Strike having chosen pubs convenient to him on their previous attempts to meet? Strike hoped the King’s Arms served food. He was suddenly very hungry.

It took forty minutes to reach his destination, partly because the row of nineteenth-century workers’ cottages where the pub stood was blocked to traffic. Strike chose to get out and end the curmudgeonly taxi driver’s attempt to make sense of the street numbering, which appeared not to follow a logical sequence, and proceeded on foot, wondering whether the difficulty of finding the place had influenced Matthew’s choice.

The King’s Arms turned out to be a picturesque Victorian corner pub the entrances of which were surrounded by a mixture of professional young men in suits and what looked like students, all smoking and drinking. The small crowd parted easily as he approached, giving him a wider berth than was strictly necessary even for a man of his height and breadth. As he crossed the threshold into the small bar Strike wondered, not without a faint hope that it might happen, whether he might be asked to leave on account of his filthy clothes.

Meanwhile, in the noisy back room, which was a glass-ceilinged courtyard self-consciously crammed with bric-a-brac, Matthew was looking at his watch.

‘It’s nearly a quarter past,’ he told Robin.

Clean cut in his suit and tie, he was – as usual – the handsomest man in the room. Robin was used to seeing women’s eyes swivel as he walked past them; she had never quite managed to make up her mind how aware Matthew was of their swift, burning glances. Sitting at the long wooden bench that they had been forced to share with a party of cackling students, six foot one, with a firm cleft chin and bright blue eyes, he looked like a thoroughbred kept in a paddock of Highland ponies.

‘That’s him,’ said Robin, with a surge of relief and apprehension.

Strike seemed to have become larger and rougher-looking since he had left the office. He moved easily towards them through the packed room, his eyes on Robin’s bright gold head, one large hand grasping a pint of Hophead. Matthew stood up. It looked as though he braced himself.

‘Cormoran – hi – you found it.’

‘You’re Matthew,’ said Strike, holding out a hand. ‘Sorry I’m so late, I tried to get away earlier but I was with the sort of bloke you wouldn’t want to turn your back on without permission.’

Matthew returned an empty smile. He had expected Strike to be full of those kinds of comments: self-dramatising, trying to make a mystery of what he did. By the look of him, he’d been changing a tyre.

‘Sit down,’ Robin told Strike nervously, moving along the bench so far that she was almost falling off the end. ‘Are you hungry? We were just talking about ordering something.’

‘They do reasonably decent food,’ said Matthew. ‘Thai. It’s not the Mango Tree, but it’s all right.’

Strike smiled without warmth. He had expected Matthew to be like this: name-dropping restaurants in Belgravia to prove, after a single year in London, that he was a seasoned metropolitan.

‘How did it go this afternoon?’ Robin asked Strike. She thought that if Matthew only heard about the sort of things that Strike did, he would become as fascinated as she was by the process of detection and his every prejudice would fall away.

But Strike’s brief description of his afternoon, omitting all identifying details of those involved, met barely concealed indifference on the part of Matthew. Strike then offered them both a drink, as they were holding empty glasses.

‘You could show a bit of interest,’ Robin hissed at Matthew once Strike was out of earshot at the bar.

‘Robin, he met a man in a shop,’ said Matthew. ‘I doubt they’ll be optioning the film rights any time soon.’

Pleased with his own wit, he turned his attention to the blackboard menu on the opposite wall.

When Strike had returned with drinks, Robin insisted on battling her way up to the bar with their food order. She dreaded leaving the two men alone together, but felt that they might, somehow, find their own level without her.

Matthew’s brief increase in self-satisfaction ebbed away in Robin’s absence.

‘You’re ex-army,’ he found himself telling Strike, even though he had been determined not to permit Strike’s life experience to dominate the conversation.

‘That’s right,’ said Strike. ‘SIB.’

Matthew was not sure what that was.

‘My father’s ex-RAF,’ he said. ‘Yeah, he was in same time as Jeff Young.’

‘Who?’

‘Welsh rugby union player? Twenty-three caps?’ said Matthew.

‘Right,’ said Strike.

‘Yeah, Dad made Squadron Leader. Left in eighty-six and he’s run his own property management business since. Done all right for himself. Nothing like your old man,’ said Matthew, a little defensively, ‘but all right.’

Tit
, thought Strike.

‘What are you talking about?’ Robin said anxiously, sitting back down.

‘Just Dad,’ said Matthew.

‘Poor thing,’ said Robin.

‘Why poor thing?’ snapped Matthew.

‘Well – he’s worried about your mum, isn’t he? The mini-stroke?’

‘Oh,’ said Matthew, ‘that.’

Strike had met men like Matthew in the army: always officer class, but with that little pocket of insecurity just beneath the smooth surface that made them overcompensate, and sometimes overreach.

‘So how are things at Lowther-French?’ Robin asked Matthew, willing him to show Strike what a nice man he was, to show the real Matthew, whom she loved. ‘Matthew’s auditing this really odd little publishing company. They’re quite funny, aren’t they?’ she said to her fiancé.

‘I wouldn’t call it “funny”, the shambles they’re in,’ said Matthew, and he talked until their food arrived, littering his chat with references to ‘ninety k’ and ‘a quarter of a mill’, and every sentence was angled, like a mirror, to show him in the best possible light: his cleverness, his quick thinking, his besting of slower, stupider yet more senior colleagues, his patronage of the dullards working for the firm he was auditing.

‘… trying to justify a Christmas party, when they’ve barely broken even in two years; it’ll be more like a wake.’

Matthew’s confident strictures on the small firm were followed by the arrival of their food and silence. Robin, who had been hoping that Matthew would reproduce for Strike some of the kinder, more affectionate things he had found to tell her about the eccentrics at the small press, could think of nothing to say. However, Matthew’s mention of a publishing party had just given Strike an idea. The detective’s jaws worked more slowly. It had occurred to him that there might be an excellent opportunity to seek information on Owen Quine’s whereabouts, and his capacious memory volunteered a small piece of information he had forgotten he knew.

‘Got a girlfriend, Cormoran?’ Matthew asked Strike directly; it was something he was keen to establish. Robin had been vague on the point.

‘No,’ said Strike absently. ‘’Scuse me – won’t be long, got to make a phone call.’

‘Yeah, no problem,’ said Matthew irritably, but only once Strike was once again out of earshot. ‘You’re forty minutes late and then you piss off during dinner. We’ll just sit here waiting till you deign to come back.’

‘
Matt!
’

Reaching the dark pavement, Strike pulled out cigarettes and his mobile phone. Lighting up, he walked away from his fellow smokers to the quiet end of the side street to stand in darkness beneath the brick arches that bore the railway line.

Culpepper answered on the third ring.

‘Strike,’ he said. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Good. Calling to ask a favour.’

‘Go on,’ said Culpepper non-committally.

‘You’ve got a cousin called Nina who works for Roper Chard—’

‘How the hell do you know that?’

‘You told me,’ said Strike patiently.

‘When?’

‘Few months ago when I was investigating that dodgy dentist for you.’

‘Your fucking memory,’ said Culpepper, sounding less impressed than unnerved. ‘It’s not normal. What about her?’

‘Couldn’t put me in touch with her, could you?’ asked Strike. ‘Roper Chard have got an anniversary party tomorrow night and I’d like to go.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve got a case,’ said Strike evasively. He never shared with Culpepper details of the high-society divorces and business ruptures he was investigating, in spite of Culpepper’s frequent requests to do so. ‘And I just gave you the scoop of your bloody career.’

‘Yeah, all right,’ said the journalist grudgingly, after a short hesitation. ‘I suppose I could do that for you.’

‘Is she single?’ Strike asked.

‘What, you after a shag, too?’ said Culpepper, and Strike noted that he seemed amused instead of peeved at the thought of Strike trying it on with his cousin.

‘No, I want to know whether it’ll look suspicious if she takes me to the party.’

‘Oh, right. I think she’s just split up with someone. I dunno. I’ll text you the number. Wait till Sunday,’ Culpepper added with barely suppressed glee. ‘A tsunami of shit’s about to hit Lord Porker.’

‘Call Nina for me first, will you?’ Strike asked him. ‘And tell her who I am, so she understands the gig?’

Culpepper agreed to it and rang off. In no particular hurry to return to Matthew, Strike smoked his cigarette down to the butt before moving back inside.

The packed room, he thought, as he made his way across it, bowing his head to avoid hanging pots and street signs, was like Matthew: it tried too hard. The decor included an old-fashioned stove and an ancient till, multiple shopping baskets, old prints and plates: a contrived panoply of junk-shop finds.

Matthew had hoped to have finished his noodles before Strike returned, to underline the length of his absence, but had not quite managed it. Robin was looking miserable and Strike, wondering what had passed between them while he had been gone, felt sorry for her.

‘Robin says you’re a rugby player,’ he told Matthew, determined to make an effort. ‘Could’ve played county, is that right?’

They made laborious conversation for another hour: the wheels turned most easily while Matthew was able to talk about himself. Strike noticed Robin’s habit of feeding Matthew lines and cues, each designed to open up an area of conversation in which he could shine.

‘How long have you two been together?’ he asked.

‘Nine years,’ said Matthew, with a slight return of his former combative air.

‘That long?’ said Strike, surprised. ‘What, were you at university together?’

‘School,’ said Robin, smiling. ‘Sixth form.’

‘Wasn’t a big school,’ said Matthew. ‘She was the only girl with any brains who was fanciable. No choice.’

Tosser
, thought Strike.

Their way home lay together as far as Waterloo station; they walked through the darkness, continuing to make small talk, then parted at the entrance to the Tube.

‘There,’ said Robin hopelessly, as she and Matthew walked away towards the escalator. ‘He’s nice, isn’t he?’

‘Punctuality’s shit,’ said Matthew, who could find no other charge to lay against Strike that did not sound insane. ‘He’ll probably arrive forty minutes bloody late and ruin the service.’

But it was tacit consent to Strike’s attendance and, in the absence of genuine enthusiasm, Robin supposed it could have been worse.

Matthew, meanwhile, was brooding in silence on things he would have confessed to nobody. Robin had accurately described her boss’s looks – the pube-like hair, the boxer’s profile – but Matthew had not expected Strike to be so big. He had a couple of inches on Matthew, who enjoyed being the tallest man in his office. What was more, while he would have found it distasteful showboating if Strike had held forth about his experiences in Afghanistan and Iraq, or told them how his leg had been blown off, or how he had earned the medal that Robin seemed to find so impressive, his silence on these subjects had been almost more irritating. Strike’s heroism, his action-packed life, his experiences of travel and danger had somehow hovered, spectrally, over the conversation.