The Silkworm

9

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 favors 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.

Mr. Gunfrey is asking for another meeting tomorrow at his office at 10, got more to tell you. Rx

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 recognized 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 center. 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 neighbors? 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 neighbors, 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.

Mr. and Mrs. Michael Ellacott

request the pleasure of your company

at the wedding of their daughter

Robin Venetia

to

Mr. Matthew John Cunliffe

at the church of St. Mary the Virgin, Masham

on Saturday 8th January 2011

at two o’clock

and afterwards at

Swinton Park

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 streetlamp, 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 realized 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 defenses.

“You wait—Pippa’s going to fucking kill you—you wait—”

The neighbor’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 redheaded woman staggered backwards, away from him.

“The fuck’s going on?” demanded the neighbor.

“Case of mistaken identity, I think,” said Strike pleasantly.

The neighbor 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 anymore? 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 ball cock’s gone,” she told him fiercely.

And she slammed her door in his face.