The Silkworm

26

It was fortunate that Strike still had the five hundred pounds in cash in his wallet that had been given him to cut up a teenage boy. He told the taxi driver to take him to Fulham Palace Road, home of Elizabeth Tassel, took note of the route as he traveled and would have arrived at her house in a mere four minutes had he not spotted a Boots. He asked the driver to pull up and wait, and reemerged from the chemists shortly afterwards, walking much more easily with the aid of an adjustable stick.

He estimated that a fit woman might make the journey on foot in less than half an hour. Elizabeth Tassel lived further from the murder scene than Kathryn Kent but Strike, who knew the area reasonably well, was sure that she could have made her way through most residential backstreets while avoiding the attention of cameras, and that she might have avoided detection even with a car.

Her home looked drab and dingy on this bleak winter’s day. Another redbrick Victorian house, but with none of the grandeur or whimsy of Talgarth Road, it stood on a corner, fronted by a dank garden overshadowed by overgrown laburnum bushes. Sleet fell again as Strike stood peering over the garden gate, trying to keep his cigarette alight by cupping it in his hand. There were gardens front and back, both well shielded from the public view by the dark bushes quivering with the weight of the icy downpour. The upper windows of the house looked out over the Fulham Palace Road Cemetery, a depressing view one month from midwinter, with bare trees reaching bony arms silhouetted into a white sky, old tombstones marching into the distance.

Could he imagine Elizabeth Tassel in her smart black suit, with her scarlet lipstick and her undisguised fury at Owen Quine, returning here under cover of darkness, stained with blood and acid, carrying a bag full of intestines?

The cold was nipping viciously at Strike’s neck and fingers. He ground out the stub of his cigarette and asked the taxi driver, who had watched with curiosity tinged with suspicion as he scrutinized Elizabeth Tassel’s house, to take him to Hazlitt Road in Kensington. Slumped in the backseat he gulped down painkillers with a bottle of water that he had bought in Boots.

The cab was stuffy and smelled of stale tobacco, ingrained dirt and ancient leather. The windscreen wipers swished like muffled metronomes, rhythmically clearing the blurry view of broad, busy Hammersmith Road, where small office blocks and short rows of terraced houses sat side by side. Strike looked out at Nazareth House Care Home: more red brick, church-like and serene, but with security gates and a lodge keeping a firm separation between those cared for and those who were not.

Blythe House came into view through the misty windows, a grand palace-like structure with white cupolas, looking like a large pinkish cake in the gray sleet. Strike had a vague notion that it was used as a store for one of the big museums these days. The taxi turned right into Hazlitt Road.

“What number?” asked the driver.

“I’ll get out here,” said Strike, who did not wish to descend directly in front of the house, and had not forgotten that he still had to pay back the money he was squandering. Leaning heavily on the stick and grateful for its rubber-coated end, which gripped the slippery pavement well, he paid the driver and walked along the street to take a closer look at the Waldegrave residence.

These were real town houses, four stories high including the basements, golden brick with classical white pediments, carved wreaths beneath the upper windows and wrought-iron balustrades. Most of them had been converted into flats. There were no front gardens, only steps descending to the basements.

A faintly ramshackle flavor had permeated the street, a gentle middle-class dottiness that expressed itself in the random collections of potted plants on one balcony, a bicycle on another and, on a third, limp, wet and possibly soon-to-be-frozen washing forgotten in the sleet.

The house that Waldegrave shared with his wife was one of the very few that had not been converted into flats. As he stared up at it, Strike wondered how much a top editor earned and remembered Nina’s statement that Waldegrave’s wife “came from money.” The Waldegraves’ first-floor balcony (he had to cross the street to see it clearly) sported two sodden deck chairs printed with the covers of old Penguin paperbacks, flanking a tiny iron table of the kind found in Parisian bistros.

He lit another cigarette and recrossed the road to peer down at the basement flat where Waldegrave’s daughter lived, considering as he did so whether Quine might have discussed the contents of Bombyx Mori with his editor before delivering the manuscript. Could he have confided to Waldegrave how he envisaged the final scene of Bombyx Mori? And could that amiable man in horn-rimmed glasses have nodded enthusiastically and helped hone the scene in all its ludicrous gore, knowing that he would one day enact it?

There were black bin bags heaped around the front door of the basement flat. It looked as though Joanna Waldegrave had been having a comprehensive clear-out. Strike turned his back and contemplated the fifty windows, at a conservative estimate, that overlooked the Waldegrave family’s two front doors. Waldegrave would have had to have been very lucky not to be seen coming and going out of this heavily overlooked house.

But the trouble was, Strike reflected gloomily, that even if Jerry Waldegrave had been spotted sneaking into his house at two in the morning with a suspicious, bulging bag under his arm, a jury might take some persuading that Owen Quine had not been alive and well at the time. There was too much doubt about the time of death. The murderer had now had as long as nineteen days in which to dispose of evidence, a long and useful period.

Where could Owen Quine’s guts have gone? What, Strike asked himself, did you do with pounds and pounds of freshly severed human intestine and stomach? Bury them? Dump them in a river? Throw them in a communal bin? They would surely not burn well…

The front door of the Waldegraves’ house opened and a woman with black hair and heavy frown lines walked down the three front steps. She was wearing a short scarlet coat and looked angry.

“I’ve been watching you out of the window,” she called to Strike as she approached and he recognized Waldegrave’s wife, Fenella. “What do you think you’re doing? Why are you so interested in my house?”

“I’m waiting for the agent,” Strike lied at once, showing no sign of embarrassment. “This is the basement flat for rent, right?”

“Oh,” she said, taken aback. “No—that’s three down,” she said, pointing.

He could tell that she teetered on the verge of an apology but decided not to bother. Instead she clattered past him on patent stilettos ill suited to the snowy conditions towards a Volvo parked a short way away. Her black hair revealed gray roots and their brief proximity had brought with it a whiff of bad breath stained with alcohol. Mindful that she could see him in her rearview mirror, he hobbled in the direction she had indicated, waited until she had pulled away—very narrowly missing the Citroën in front of her—then walked carefully to the end of the road and down a side street, where he was able to peer over a wall into a long row of small private back gardens.

There was nothing of note in the Waldegraves’ except an old shed. The lawn was scuffed and scrubby and a set of rustic furniture sat sadly at its far end with a look of having been abandoned long ago. Staring at the untidy plot, Strike reflected gloomily on the possibility of lock-ups, allotments and garages he might not know about.

With an inward groan at the thought of the long, cold, wet walk ahead, he debated his options. He was nearest to Kensington Olympia, but it only opened the District line he needed at weekends. As an overground station, Hammersmith would be easier to navigate than Barons Court, so he decided on the longer journey.

He had just passed into Blythe Road, wincing with every step on his right leg, when his mobile rang: Anstis.

“What are you playing at, Bob?”

“Meaning?” asked Strike, limping along, a stabbing in his knee.

“You’ve been hanging around the crime scene.”

“Went back for a look. Public right of way. Nothing actionable.”

“You were trying to interview a neighbor—”

“He wasn’t supposed to open his front door,” said Strike. “I didn’t say a word about Quine.”

“Look, Strike—”

The detective noticed the reversion to his actual name without regret. He had never been fond of the nickname Anstis had given him.

“I told you, you’ve got to keep out of our way.”

“Can’t, Anstis,” said Strike matter-of-factly. “I’ve got a client—”

“Forget your client,” said Anstis. “She’s looking more and more like a killer with every bit of information we get. My advice is, cut your losses because you’re making yourself a lot of enemies. I warned you—”

“You did,” said Strike. “You couldn’t have been clearer. Nobody’s going to be able to blame you, Anstis.”

“I’m not warning you off because I’m trying to cover my arse,” snapped Anstis.

Strike kept walking in silence, the mobile pressed awkwardly to his ear. After a short pause Anstis said:

“We’ve got the pharmacological report back. Small amount of blood alcohol, nothing else.”

“OK.”

“And we’re sending dogs out to Mucking Marshes this afternoon. Trying to keep ahead of the weather. They say there’s heavy snow on the way.”

Mucking Marshes, Strike knew, was the UK’s biggest landfill site; it serviced London, the municipal and commercial waste of which was floated down the Thames in ugly barges.

“You think the guts were dumped in a dustbin, do you?”

“A skip. There’s a house renovation going on round the corner from Talgarth Road; they had two parked out front until the eighth. In this cold the guts might not have attracted flies. We’ve checked and that’s where everything the builders take away ends up: Mucking Marshes.”

“Well, good luck with that,” said Strike.

“I’m trying to save you time and energy, mate.”

“Yeah. Very grateful.”

And after insincere thanks for Anstis’s hospitality of the previous evening Strike rang off. He then paused, leaning against a wall, the better to dial a new number. A tiny Asian woman with a pushchair, whom he had not heard walking behind him, had to swerve to avoid him, but unlike the man on the West Brompton bridge she did not swear at him. The walking stick, like a burqa, conferred protective status; she gave him a small smile as she passed.

Leonora Quine answered within three rings.

“Bloody police are back,” was her greeting.

“What do they want?”

“They’re asking to look all over the house and garden now,” she said. “Do I have to let ’em?”

Strike hesitated.

“I think it’s sensible to let them do whatever they want. Listen, Leonora,” he felt no compunction about reverting to a military peremptoriness, “have you got a lawyer?”

“No, why? I ain’t under arrest. Not yet.”

“I think you need one.”

There was a pause.

“D’you know any good ones?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Strike. “Call Ilsa Herbert. I’ll send you her number now.”

“Orlando don’t like the police poking—”

“I’m going to text you this number, and I want you to call Ilsa immediately. All right? Immediately.”

“All right,” she said grumpily.

He rang off, found his old school friend’s number on his mobile and sent it to Leonora. He then called Ilsa and explained, with apologies, what he had just done.

“I don’t know why you’re saying sorry,” she said cheerfully. “We love people who are in trouble with the police, it’s our bread and butter.”

“She might qualify for legal aid.”

“Hardly anyone does these days,” said Ilsa. “Let’s just hope she’s poor enough.”

Strike’s hands were numb and he was very hungry. He slid the mobile back into his coat pocket and limped on to Hammersmith Road. There on the opposite pavement was a snug-looking pub, black painted, the round metal sign depicting a galleon in full sail. He headed straight for it, noting how much more patient waiting drivers were when you were using a stick.

Two pubs in two days…but the weather was bad and his knee excruciating; Strike could not muster any guilt. The Albion’s interior was as cozy as its exterior suggested. Long and narrow, an open fire burned at the far end; there was an upper gallery with a balustrade and much polished wood. Beneath a black iron spiral staircase to the first floor were two amps and a microphone stand. Black-and-white photographs of celebrated musicians were hung along one cream wall.

The seats by the fire were taken. Strike bought himself a pint, picked up a bar menu and headed to the tall table surrounded by bar stools next to the window onto the street. As he sat down he noticed, sandwiched between pictures of Duke Ellington and Robert Plant, his own long-haired father, sweaty post-performance, apparently sharing a joke with the bass player whom he had once, according to Strike’s mother, tried to strangle.

(“Jonny was never good on speed,” Leda had confided to her uncomprehending nine-year-old son.)

His mobile rang again. With his eyes on his father’s picture, he answered.

“Hi,” said Robin. “I’m back at the office. Where are you?”

“The Albion on Hammersmith Road.”

“You’ve had an odd call. I found the message when I got back.”

“Go on.”

“It’s Daniel Chard,” said Robin. “He wants to meet you.”

Frowning, Strike turned his eyes away from his father’s leather jumpsuit to gaze down the pub at the flickering fire. “Daniel Chard wants to meet me? How does Daniel Chard even know I exist?”

“For God’s sake, you found the body! It’s been all over the news.”

“Oh yeah—there’s that. Did he say why?”

“He says he’s got a proposition.”

A vivid mental image of a naked, bald man with an erect, suppurating penis flashed in Strike’s mind like a projector slide and was instantly dismissed.

“I thought he was holed up in Devon because he’d broken his leg.”

“He is. He wonders whether you’d mind traveling down to see him.”

“Oh, does he?”

Strike pondered the suggestion, thinking of his workload, the meetings he had during the rest of the week. Finally, he said:

“I could do it Friday if I put off Burnett. What the hell does he want? I’ll need to hire a car. An automatic,” he added, his leg throbbing painfully under the table. “Could you do that for me?”

“No problem,” said Robin. He could hear her scribbling.

“I’ve got a lot to tell you,” he said. “D’you want to join me for lunch? They’ve got a decent menu. Shouldn’t take you more than twenty minutes if you grab a cab.”

“Two days running? We can’t keep getting taxis and buying lunch out,” said Robin, even though she sounded pleased at the idea.

“That’s OK. Burnett loves spending her ex’s money. I’ll charge it to her account.”

Strike hung up, decided on a steak and ale pie and limped to the bar to order.

When he resumed his seat his eyes drifted absently back to his father in skin-tight leathers, with his hair plastered around his narrow, laughing face.

The Wife knows about me and pretends not to…she won’t let him go even if it’s the best thing for everyone.

I know where you’re off to, Owen!

Strike’s gaze slid along the row of black-and-white megastars on the wall facing him.

Am I deluded? he asked John Lennon silently, who looked down at him through round glasses, sardonic, pinch-nosed.

Why did he not believe, even in the face of what he had to admit were suggestive signs to the contrary, that Leonora had murdered her husband? Why did he remain convinced that she had come to his office not as a cover but because she was genuinely angry that Quine had run away like a sulky child? He would have sworn on oath that it had never crossed her mind that her husband might be dead…Lost in thought, he had finished his pint before he knew it.

“Hi,” said Robin.

“That was quick!” said Strike, surprised to see her.

“Not really,” said Robin. “Traffic’s quite heavy. Shall I order?”

Male heads turned to look at her as she walked to the bar, but Strike did not notice. He was still thinking about Leonora Quine, thin, plain, graying, hunted.

When Robin returned with another pint for Strike and a tomato juice for herself she showed him the photographs that she had taken on her phone that morning of Daniel Chard’s town residence. It was a white stucco villa complete with balustrade, its gleaming black front door flanked by columns.

“It’s got an odd little courtyard, sheltered from the street,” said Robin, showing Strike a picture. Shrubs stood in big-bellied Grecian urns. “I suppose Chard could have dumped the guts into one of those,” she said flippantly. “Pulled out the tree and buried them in the earth.”

“Can’t imagine Chard doing anything so energetic or dirty, but that’s the way to keep thinking,” said Strike, remembering the publisher’s immaculate suit and flamboyant tie. “How about Clem Attlee Court—as full of hiding places as I remember?”

“Loads of them,” said Robin, showing him a fresh set of pictures. “Communal bins, bushes, all sorts. The only thing is, I just can’t imagine being able to do it unseen, or that somebody wouldn’t notice them fairly quickly. There are people around all the time and everywhere you go you’re being overlooked by about a hundred windows. You might manage it in the middle of the night, but there are cameras too.

“But I did notice something else. Well…it’s just an idea.”

“Go on.”

“There’s a medical center right in front of the building. Might they not sometimes dispose of—”

“Human waste!” said Strike, lowering his pint. “Bloody hell, that’s a thought.”

“Should I get onto it, then?” asked Robin, trying to conceal the pleasure and pride she felt at Strike’s look of admiration. “Try and find out how and when—?”

“Definitely!” said Strike. “That’s a much better lead than Anstis’s. He thinks,” he explained, answering her look of inquiry, “the guts were dumped in a skip close by Talgarth Road, that the killer just carried them round the corner and chucked them in.”

“Well, they could have,” began Robin, but Strike frowned exactly the way Matthew did if ever she mentioned an idea or a belief of Strike’s.

“This killing was planned to the hilt. We’re not dealing with a murderer who’d just have dumped a holdall full of human guts round the corner from the corpse.”

They sat in silence while Robin reflected wryly that Strike’s dislike of Anstis’s theories might be due to innate competitiveness more than any objective evaluation. Robin knew something about male pride; quite apart from Matthew, she had three brothers.

“So what were Elizabeth Tassel’s and Jerry Waldegrave’s places like?”

Strike told her about Waldegrave’s wife thinking he had been watching her house.

“Very shirty about it.”

“Odd,” said Robin. “If I saw somebody staring at our place I wouldn’t leap to the conclusion that they were—you know—watching it.”

“She’s a drinker like her husband,” said Strike. “I could smell it on her. Meanwhile, Elizabeth Tassel’s place is as good a murderer’s hideout as I’ve ever seen.”

“What d’you mean?” asked Robin, half amused, half apprehensive.

“Very private, barely overlooked.”

“Well, I still don’t think—”

“—it’s a woman. You said.”

Strike drank his beer in silence for a minute or two, considering a course of action that he knew would irritate Anstis more than any other. He had no right to interrogate suspects. He had been told to keep out of the way of the police.

Picking up his mobile, he contemplated it for a moment, then called Roper Chard and asked to speak to Jerry Waldegrave.

“Anstis told you not to get under their feet!” Robin said, alarmed.

“Yeah,” said Strike, the line silent in his ear, “advice he’s just repeated, but I haven’t told you half what’s been going on. Tell you in—”

“Hello?” said Jerry Waldegrave on the end of the line.

“Mr. Waldegrave,” said Strike and introduced himself, though he had already given his name to Waldegrave’s assistant. “We met briefly yesterday morning, at Mrs. Quine’s.”

“Yes, of course,” said Waldegrave. He sounded politely puzzled.

“As I think Mrs. Quine told you, she’s hired me because she’s worried that the police suspect her.”

“I’m sure that can’t be true,” said Waldegrave at once.

“That they suspect her, or that she killed her husband?”

“Well—both,” said Waldegrave.

“Wives usually come in for close scrutiny when a husband dies,” said Strike.

“I’m sure they do, but I can’t…well, I can’t believe any of it, actually,” said Waldegrave. “The whole thing’s incredible and horrible.”

“Yeah,” said Strike. “I was wondering whether we could meet so I could ask you a few questions? I’m happy,” said the detective, with a glance at Robin, “to come to your house—after work—whatever suits.”

Waldegrave did not answer immediately.

“Naturally I’ll do anything to help Leonora, but what do you imagine I can tell you?”

“I’m interested in Bombyx Mori,” said Strike. “Mr. Quine put a lot of unflattering portraits in the book.”

“Yeah,” said Waldegrave. “He did.”

Strike wondered whether Waldegrave had been interviewed by the police yet; whether he had already been asked to explain the contents of bloody sacks, the symbolism of a drowned dwarf.

“All right,” said Waldegrave. “I don’t mind meeting you. My diary’s quite full this week. Could you make…let’s see…lunch on Monday?”

“Great,” said Strike, reflecting sourly that this would mean him footing the bill, and that he would have preferred to see inside Waldegrave’s house. “Where?”

“I’d rather stick close to the office; I’ve got a full afternoon. Would you mind Simpson’s-in-the-Strand?”

Strike thought it an odd choice but agreed, his eyes on Robin’s. “One o’clock? I’ll get my secretary to book it. See you then.”

“He’s going to meet you?” said Robin as soon as Strike had hung up.

“Yeah,” said Strike. “Fishy.”

She shook her head, half laughing.

“He didn’t seem particularly keen, from all I could hear. And don’t you think the fact that he’s agreed to meet at all looks like he’s got a clear conscience?”

“No,” said Strike. “I’ve told you this before; plenty of people hang around the likes of me to gauge how the investigation’s going. They can’t leave well enough alone, they feel compelled to keep explaining themselves.

“Need a pee…hang on…got more to tell you…”

Robin sipped her tomato juice while Strike hobbled away using the new stick.

Another flurry of snow passed the window, swiftly dispersing. Robin looked up at the black-and-white photographs opposite and recognized, with a slight shock, Jonny Rokeby, Strike’s father. Other than the fact that both were over six feet tall, they did not resemble each other in the slightest; it had taken a DNA test to prove paternity. Strike was listed as one of the rock star’s progeny on Rokeby’s Wikipedia entry. They had met, so Strike had told Robin, twice. After staring for a while at Rokeby’s very tight and revealing leather trousers, Robin forced herself to gaze out of the window again, afraid of Strike catching her staring at his father’s groin.

Their food arrived as Strike returned to the table.

“The police are searching the whole of Leonora’s house now,” Strike announced, picking up his knife and fork.

“Why?” asked Robin, fork suspended in midair.

“Why d’you think? Looking for bloody clothing. Checking the garden for freshly dug holes full of her husband’s innards. I’ve put her on to a lawyer. They haven’t got enough to arrest her yet, but they’re determined to find something.”

“You genuinely don’t think she did it?”

“No, I don’t.”

Strike had cleared his plate before he spoke again.

“I’d love to talk to Fancourt. I want to know why he joined Roper Chard when Quine was there and he was supposed to hate him. They’d have been bound to meet.”

“You think Fancourt killed Quine so he wouldn’t have to meet him at office parties?”

“Good one,” said Strike wryly.

He drained his pint glass, picked up his mobile yet again, dialed Directory Inquiries and shortly afterwards was put through to the Elizabeth Tassel Literary Agency.

Her assistant, Ralph, answered. When Strike gave his name, the young man sounded both fearful and excited.

“Oh, I don’t know…I’ll ask. Putting you on hold.”

But he appeared to be less than adept with the telephone system, because after a loud click the line remained open. Strike could hear a distant Ralph informing his boss that Strike was on the telephone and her loud, impatient retort.

“What the bloody hell does he want now?”

“He didn’t say.”

Heavy footsteps, the sound of the receiver being snatched off the desk.

“Hello?”

“Elizabeth,” said Strike pleasantly. “It’s me, Cormoran Strike.”

“Yes, Ralph’s just told me. What is it?”

“I was wondering if we could meet. I’m still working for Leonora Quine. She’s convinced that the police suspect her of her husband’s murder.”

“And what do you want to talk to me for? I can’t tell you whether she did or not.”

Strike could imagine the shocked faces of Ralph and Sally, listening in the smelly old office.

“I’ve got a few more questions about Quine.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” growled Elizabeth. “Well, I suppose I could do lunch tomorrow if it suits. Otherwise I’m busy until—”

“Tomorrow would be great,” said Strike. “But it doesn’t have to be lunch, I could—?”

“Lunch suits me.”

“Great,” said Strike at once.

“Pescatori, Charlotte Street,” she said. “Twelve thirty unless you hear differently.”

She rang off.

“They love their bloody lunches, book people,” Strike said. “Is it too much of a stretch to think they don’t want me at home in case I spot Quine’s guts in the freezer?”

Robin’s smile faded.

“You know, you could lose a friend over this,” she said, pulling on her coat. “Ringing people up and asking to question them.”

Strike grunted.

“Don’t you care?” she asked, as they left the warmth for biting cold, snowflakes burning their faces.

“I’ve got plenty more friends,” said Strike, truthfully, without bombast.

“We should have a beer every lunchtime,” he added, leaning heavily on his stick as they headed off towards the Tube, their heads bowed against the white blur. “Breaks up the working day.”

Robin, who had adjusted her stride to his, smiled. She had enjoyed today more than almost any since she had started work for Strike, but Matthew, still in Yorkshire, helping plan his mother’s funeral, must not know about the second trip to a pub in two days.