The Silkworm (7 page)

Robin emerged from the Tube the following morning, clutching a redundant umbrella and feeling sweaty and uncomfortable. After days of downpours, of Tube trains full of the smell of wet cloth, of slippery pavements and rain-speckled windows, the sudden switch to bright, dry weather had taken her by surprise. Other spirits might have lightened in the respite from the deluge and lowering grey clouds, but not Robin’s. She and Matthew had had a bad row.

It was almost a relief, when she opened the glass door engraved with Strike’s name and job title, to find that her boss was already on the telephone in his own office, with the door closed. She felt obscurely that she needed to pull herself together before she faced him, because Strike had been the subject of last night’s argument.

‘You’ve invited him to the wedding?’ Matthew had said sharply.

She had been afraid that Strike might mention the invitation over drinks that evening, and that if she did not warn Matthew first, Strike would bear the brunt of Matthew’s displeasure.

‘Since when are we just asking people without telling each other?’ Matthew had said.

‘I meant to tell you. I thought I had.’

Then Robin had felt angry with herself: she never lied to Matthew.

‘He’s my boss, he’ll expect to be invited!’

Which wasn’t true; she doubted that Strike cared one way or the other.

‘Well, I’d like him there,’ she said, which, at last, was honesty. She wanted to tug the working life that she had never enjoyed so much closer to the personal life that currently refused to meld with it; she wanted to stitch the two together in a satisfying whole and to see Strike in the congregation, approving (approving! Why did he have to approve?) of her marrying Matthew.

She had known that Matthew would not be happy, but she had hoped that by this time the two men would have met and liked each other, and it was not her fault that that had not happened yet.

‘After all the bloody fuss we had when I wanted to invite Sarah Shadlock,’ Matthew had said – a blow, Robin felt, that was below the belt.

‘Invite her then!’ she said angrily. ‘But it’s hardly the same thing – Cormoran’s never tried to get me into bed – what’s that snort supposed to mean?’

The argument had been in full swing when Matthew’s father telephoned with the news that a funny turn Matthew’s mother had suffered the previous week had been diagnosed as a mini-stroke.

After this, she and Matthew felt that squabbling about Strike was in bad taste, so they went to bed in an unsatisfactory state of theoretical reconciliation, both, Robin knew, still seething.

It was nearly midday before Strike finally emerged from his office. He was not wearing his suit today, but a dirty and holey sweater, jeans and trainers. His face was thick with the heavy stubble that accrued if he did not shave every twenty-four hours. Forgetting her own troubles, Robin stared: she had never, even in the days when he was sleeping in the office, known Strike to look like a down-and-out.

‘Been making calls for the Ingles file and getting some numbers for Longman,’ Strike told Robin, handing her the old-fashioned brown card folders, each with a handwritten serial number on the spine, that he had used in the Special Investigation Branch and which remained his favourite way of collating information.

‘Is that a – a deliberate look?’ she asked, staring at what looked like grease marks on the knees of his jeans.

‘Yeah. It’s for Gunfrey. Long story.’

While Strike made them both tea, they discussed details of three current cases, Strike updating Robin on information received and further points to be investigated.

‘And what about Owen Quine?’ Robin asked, accepting her mug. ‘What did his agent say?’

Strike lowered himself onto the sofa, which made its usual farting noises beneath him, and filled her in on the details of his interview with Elizabeth Tassel and his visit to Kathryn Kent.

‘When she first saw me, I could swear she thought I was Quine.’

Robin laughed.

‘You’re not
that
fat.’

‘Cheers, Robin,’ he said drily. ‘When she realised I wasn’t Quine, and before she knew who I was, she said, “I don’t work in that bit.” Does that mean anything to you?’

‘No… but,’ she added diffidently, ‘I did manage to find out a bit about Kathryn Kent yesterday.’

‘How?’ asked Strike, taken aback.

‘Well, you told me she’s a self-published writer,’ Robin reminded him, ‘so I thought I’d look online and see what’s out there and’ – with two clicks of her mouse she brought up the page – ‘she’s got a blog.’

‘Good going!’ said Strike, moving gladly off the sofa and round the desk to read over Robin’s shoulder.

The amateurish web page was called ‘My Literary Life’, decorated with drawings of quills and a very flattering picture of Kathryn that Strike thought must be a good ten years out of date. The blog comprised a list of posts, arranged by date like a diary.

‘A lot of it’s about how traditional publishers wouldn’t know good books if they were hit over the head with them,’ said Robin, scrolling slowly down the web page so he could look at it. ‘She’s written three novels in what she calls an erotic fantasy series, called the Melina Saga. They’re available for download on Kindle.’

‘I don’t want to read any more bad books; I had enough with the Brothers Ballsache,’ said Strike. ‘Anything about Quine?’

‘Loads,’ said Robin, ‘assuming he’s the man she calls The Famous Writer. TFW for short.’

‘I doubt she’s sleeping with two authors,’ said Strike. ‘It must be him. “Famous” is stretching it a bit, though. Had you heard of Quine before Leonora walked in?’

‘No,’ admitted Robin. ‘Here he is, look, on the second of November.’

‘Scroll up,’ said Strike, ‘see what else there is about Quine.’

Robin obliged, pausing on a post from 21 October.

There was an exchange of comments below.

‘Interesting,’ said Strike. ‘Very interesting. When Kent attacked me last night, she assured me that someone called Pippa wanted to kill me.’

‘Look at this, then!’ said Robin in excitement, scrolling down to 9 November.

‘Where’s that quotation from?’ asked Strike.

Robin’s nimble fingers danced across the keyboard.

‘
The Beggar’s Opera
, by John Gay.’

‘Erudite, for a woman who confuses “you’re” and “your” and goes in for random capitalisation.’

‘We can’t all be literary geniuses,’ said Robin reproachfully.

‘Thank Christ for that, from all I’m hearing about them.’

‘But look at the comment under the quotation,’ said Robin, returning to Kathryn’s blog. She clicked on the link and a single sentence was revealed.

This comment, too, had been made by Pippa2011.

‘Pippa sounds a handful, doesn’t she?’ commented Strike. ‘Anything about what Kent does for a living on here? I’m assuming she’s not paying the bills with her erotic fantasies.’

‘That’s a bit odd, too. Look at this bit.’

On 28 October, Kathryn had written:

‘Mysterious,’ said Strike. ‘Tightened security… women’s prison? Psychiatric hospital? Or are we talking industrial secrets?’

‘And look at this, on the thirteenth of November.’

Robin scrolled right down to the most recent post on the blog, which was the only entry after that in which Kathryn claimed to have been fatally stabbed.

Two comments had been added below this, which Robin opened.

Pippa2011 had written:

Kathryn had replied:

Kathryn’s advance thanks for multiple messages of support sat very sadly above the short exchange.

‘Why?’ asked Strike heavily.

‘Why what?’ said Robin, looking up at him.

‘Why do people do this?’

‘Blog, you mean? I don’t know… didn’t someone once say the unexamined life isn’t worth living?’

‘Yeah, Plato,’ said Strike, ‘but this isn’t examining a life, it’s exhibiting it.’

‘Oh God!’ said Robin, slopping tea down herself as she gave a guilty start. ‘I forgot, there’s something else! Christian Fisher called just as I was walking out the door last night. He wants to know if you’re interested in writing a book.’

‘He
what
?’

‘A book,’ said Robin, fighting the urge to laugh at the expression of disgust on Strike’s face. ‘About your life. Your experiences in the army and solving the Lula Landry—’

‘Call him back,’ Strike said, ‘and tell him no, I’m not interested in writing a book.’

He drained his mug and headed for the peg where an ancient leather jacket now hung beside his black overcoat.

‘You haven’t forgotten tonight?’ Robin said, with the knot that had temporarily dissolved tight in her stomach again.

‘Tonight?’

‘Drinks,’ she said desperately. ‘Me. Matthew. The King’s Arms.’

‘No, haven’t forgotten,’ he said, wondering why she looked so tense and miserable. ‘’Spect I’ll be out all afternoon, so I’ll see you there. Eight, was it?’

‘Six thirty,’ said Robin, tenser than ever.

‘Six thirty. Right. I’ll be there… Venetia.’

She did a double-take.

‘How did you know—?’

‘It’s on the invitation,’ said Strike. ‘Unusual. Where did that come from?’

‘I was – well, I was conceived there, apparently,’ she said, pink in the face. ‘In Venice. What’s your middle name?’ she asked over his laughter, half amused, half cross. ‘C. B. Strike – what’s the B?’