The Silkworm

38

Miss Brocklehurst, the possibly unfaithful PA, was still claiming to be incapacitated by her cold. Her lover, Strike’s client, found this excessive and the detective was inclined to agree with him. Seven o’clock the following morning found Strike stationed in a shadowy recess opposite Miss Brocklehurst’s Battersea flat, wrapped up in coat, scarf and gloves, yawning widely as the cold penetrated his extremities and enjoying the second of three Egg McMuffins he had picked up from McDonald’s on his way.

There had been a severe weather warning for the whole of the south-east. Thick dark blue snow already lay over the entire street and the first tentative flakes of the day were drifting down from a starless sky as he waited, moving his toes from time to time to check that he could still feel them. One by one the occupants left for work, slipping and sliding off towards the station or clambering into cars whose exhausts sounded particularly loud in the muffled quiet. Three Christmas trees sparkled at Strike from living-room windows, though December would only start the following day, tangerine, emerald and neon blue lights winking garishly as he leaned against the wall, his eyes on the windows of Miss Brocklehurst’s flat, laying bets with himself as to whether she would leave the house at all in this weather. His knee was still killing him, but the snow had slowed the rest of the world to a pace that matched his own. He had never seen Miss Brocklehurst in heels lower than four inches. In these conditions, she might well be more incapacitated than he was.

In the last week the search for Quine’s killer had started to eclipse all his other cases, but it was important to keep up with them unless he wanted to lose business. Miss Brocklehurst’s lover was a rich man who was likely to put plenty more jobs Strike’s way if he liked the detective’s work. The businessman had a predilection for youthful blonds, a succession of whom (as he had freely confessed to Strike at their first meeting) had taken large amounts of money and sundry expensive gifts from him only to leave or betray him. As he showed no sign of developing better judgment of character, Strike anticipated many more lucrative hours spent tailing future Miss Brocklehursts. Perhaps it was the betrayal that thrilled his client, reflected Strike, his breath rising in clouds through the icy air; he had known other such men. It was a taste that found its fullest expression in those who became infatuated with hookers.

At ten to nine the curtains gave a small twitch. Faster than might have been expected from his attitude of casual relaxation, Strike raised the night-vision camera he had been concealing at his side.

Miss Brocklehurst stood briefly exposed to the dim snowy street in bra and pants, though her cosmetically enhanced breasts had no need of support. Behind her in the darkness of the bedroom walked a paunchy, bare-chested man who briefly cupped one breast, earning himself a giggled reproof. Both turned away into the bedroom.

Strike lowered his camera and checked his handiwork. The most incriminating image he had managed to capture showed the clear outline of a man’s hand and arm, Miss Brocklehurst’s face half turned in a laugh, but her embracer’s face was in shadow. Strike suspected that he might be about to leave for work, so he stowed the camera in an inside pocket, ready to give slow and cumbersome chase, and set to work on his third McMuffin.

Sure enough, at five to nine Miss Brocklehurst’s front door opened and the lover emerged; he resembled her boss in nothing except age and a moneyed appearance. A sleek leather messenger bag was slung diagonally across his chest, large enough for a clean shirt and a toothbrush. Strike had seen these so frequently of late that he had come to think of them as Adulterer’s Overnight Bags. The couple enjoyed a French kiss on the doorstep curtailed by the icy cold and the fact that Miss Brocklehurst was wearing less than two ounces of fabric. Then she retreated indoors and Paunchy set off towards Clapham Junction, already speaking on his mobile phone, doubtless explaining that he would be late due to the snow. Strike allowed him twenty yards’ head start then emerged from his hiding place, leaning on the stick that Robin had kindly retrieved from Denmark Place the preceding afternoon.

It was easy surveillance, as Paunchy was oblivious to anything but his telephone conversation. They walked down the gentle incline of Lavender Hill together, twenty yards apart, the snow falling steadily again. Paunchy slipped several times in his handmade shoes. When they reached the station it was easy for Strike to follow him, still gabbling, into the same carriage and, under pretext of reading texts, to take pictures of him on his own mobile.

As he did so, a genuine text arrived from Robin.

Michael Fancourt’s agent just called me back—MF says he’d be delighted to meet you! He’s in Germany but will be back on 6th. Suggests Groucho Club whatever time suits? Rx

It was quite extraordinary, Strike thought, as the train rattled into Waterloo, how much the people who had read Bombyx Mori wanted to talk to him. When before had suspects jumped so eagerly at the chance to sit face to face with a detective? And what did famous Michael Fancourt hope to gain from an interview with the private detective who had found Owen Quine’s body?

Strike got out of the train behind Paunchy, following him through the crowds across the wet, slippery tiles of Waterloo station, beneath the ceiling of cream girders and glass that reminded Strike of Tithebarn House. Out again into the cold, with Paunchy still oblivious and gabbling into his mobile, Strike followed him along slushy, treacherous pavements edged with clods of mucky snow, between square office blocks comprised of glass and concrete, in and out of the swarm of financial workers bustling along, ant-like, in their drab coats, until at last Paunchy turned into the car park of one of the biggest office blocks and headed for what was obviously his own car. Apparently he had felt it wiser to leave the BMW at the office than to park outside Miss Brocklehurst’s flat. As Strike watched, lurking behind a convenient Range Rover, he felt the mobile in his pocket vibrate but ignored it, unwilling to draw attention to himself. Paunchy had a named parking space. After collecting a few items from his boot he headed into the building, leaving Strike free to amble over to the wall where the directors’ names were written and take a photograph of Paunchy’s full name and title for his client’s better information.

Strike then headed back to the office. Once on the Tube he examined his phone and saw that his missed call was from his oldest friend, the shark-mangled Dave Polworth.

Polworth had the ancient habit of calling Strike “Diddy.” Most people assumed this was an ironic reference to his size (all through primary school, Strike had been the biggest boy of the year and usually of the year above), but in fact it derived from the endless comings and goings from school that were due to his mother’s peripatetic lifestyle. These had once, long ago, resulted in a small, shrill Dave Polworth telling Strike he was like a didicoy, the Cornish word for gypsy.

Strike returned the call as soon as he got off the Tube and they were still talking twenty minutes later when he entered his office. Robin looked up and began to speak, but seeing that Strike was on the phone merely smiled and turned back to her monitor.

“Coming home for Christmas?” Polworth asked Strike as he moved through to the inner office and closed his door.

“Maybe,” said Strike.

“Few pints in the Victory?” Polworth urged him. “Shag Gwenifer Arscott again?”

“I never,” said Strike (it was a joke of long standing), “shagged Gwenifer Arscott.”

“Well, have another bash, Diddy, you might strike gold this time. Time someone took her cherry. And speaking of girls neither of us ever shagged…”

The conversation degenerated into a series of salacious and very funny vignettes from Polworth about the antics of the mutual friends they had both left behind in St. Mawes. Strike was laughing so much he ignored the “call waiting” signal and did not bother to check who it was.

“Haven’t got back with Milady Berserko, have you, boy?” Dave asked, this being the name he usually used for Charlotte.

“Nope,” said Strike. “She’s getting married in…four days,” he calculated.

“Yeah, well, you be on the watch, Diddy, for signs of her galloping back over the horizon. Wouldn’t be surprised if she bolts. Breathe a sigh of relief if it comes off, mate.”

“Yeah,” said Strike. “Right.”

“That’s a deal then, yeah?” said Polworth. “Home for Christmas? Beers in the Victory?”

“Yeah, why not,” said Strike.

After a few more ribald exchanges Dave returned to his work and Strike, still grinning, checked his phone and saw that he had missed a call from Leonora Quine.

He wandered back into the outer office while dialing his voice mail.

“I’ve watched Michael Fancourt’s documentary again,” said Robin excitedly, “and I’ve realized what you—”

Strike raised a hand to quiet her as Leonora’s ordinarily deadpan voice spoke in his ear, sounding agitated and disoriented.

“Cormoran, I’ve been bloody arrested. I don’t know why—nobody’s telling me nothing—they’ve got me at the station. They’re waiting for a lawyer or something. I dunno what to do—Orlando’s with Edna, I don’t—anyway, that’s where I am…”

A few seconds of silence and the message ended.

“Shit!” said Strike, so loudly that Robin jumped. “SHIT!”

“What’s the matter?”

“They’ve arrested Leonora—why’s she calling me, not Ilsa? Shit…”

He punched in Ilsa Herbert’s number and waited.

“Hi Corm—”

“They’ve arrested Leonora Quine.”

“What?” cried Ilsa. “Why? Not that bloody old rag in the lockup?”

“They might have something else.”

(Kath’s got proof…)

“Where is she, Corm?”

“Police station…it’ll be Kilburn, that’s nearest.”

“Christ almighty, why didn’t she call me?”

“Fuck knows. She said something about them finding her a lawyer—”

“Nobody’s contacted me—God above, doesn’t she think? Why didn’t she give them my name? I’m going now, Corm, I’ll dump this lot on someone else. I’m owed a favor…”

He could hear a series of thunks, distant voices, Ilsa’s rapid footsteps.

“Call me when you know what’s going on,” he said.

“It might be a while.”

“I don’t care. Call me.”

She hung up. Strike turned to face Robin, who looked appalled.

“Oh no,” she breathed.

“I’m calling Anstis,” said Strike, jabbing again at his phone.

But his old friend was in no mood to dispense favors.

“I warned you, Bob, I warned you this was coming. She did it, mate.”

“What’ve you got?” Strike demanded.

“Can’t tell you that, Bob, sorry.”

“Did you get it from Kathryn Kent?”

“Can’t say, mate.”

Barely deigning to return Anstis’s conventional good wishes, Strike hung up.

“Dickhead!” he said. “Bloody dickhead!”

Leonora was now in a place where he could not reach her. Strike was worried about how her grudging manner and the animosity to the police would appear to interlocutors. He could almost hear her complaining that Orlando was alone, demanding to know when she would be able to return to her daughter, indignant that the police had meddled with the daily grind of her miserable existence. He was afraid of her lack of self-preservation; he wanted Ilsa there, fast, before Leonora uttered innocently self-incriminating comments about her husband’s general neglect and his girlfriends, before she could state again her almost incredible and suspicious claim that she knew nothing about her husband’s books before they had proper covers on, before she attempted to explain why she had temporarily forgotten that they owned a second house where her husband’s remains had lain decaying for weeks.

Five o’clock in the afternoon came and went without news from Ilsa. Looking out at the darkening sky and the snow, Strike insisted Robin go home.

“But you’ll ring me when you hear?” she begged him, pulling on her coat and wrapping a thick woolen scarf around her neck.

“Yeah, of course,” said Strike.

But not until six thirty did Ilsa call him back.

“Couldn’t be worse,” were her first words. She sounded tired and stressed. “They’ve got proof of purchase, on the Quines’ joint credit card, of protective overalls, wellington boots, gloves and ropes. They were bought online and paid for with their Visa. Oh—and a burqa.”

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

“I’m not. I know you think she’s innocent—”

“Yeah, I do,” said Strike, conveying a clear warning not to bother trying to persuade him otherwise.

“All right,” said Ilsa wearily, “have it your own way, but I’ll tell you this: she’s not helping herself. She’s being aggressive as hell, insisting Quine must have bought the stuff himself. A burqa, for God’s sake…The ropes bought on the card are identical to the ones that were found tying the corpse. They asked her why Quine would want a burqa or plastic overalls of a strength to resist chemical spills, and all she said was: ‘I don’t bloody know, do I?’ Every other sentence, she kept asking when she could go home to her daughter; she just doesn’t get it. The stuff was bought six months ago and sent to Talgarth Road—it couldn’t look more premeditated unless they’d found a plan in her handwriting. She’s denying she knew how Quine was going to end his book, but your guy Anstis—”

“There in person, was he?”

“Yeah, doing the interrogation. He kept asking whether she really expected them to believe that Quine never talked about what he was writing. Then she says, ‘I don’t pay much attention.’ ‘So he does talk about his plots?’ On and on it went, trying to wear her down, and in the end she says, ‘Well, he said something about the silkworm being boiled.’ That was all Anstis needed to be convinced she’s been lying all along and she knew the whole plot. Oh, and they’ve found disturbed earth in their back garden.”

“And I’ll lay you odds they’ll find a dead cat called Mr. Poop,” snarled Strike.

“That won’t stop Anstis,” predicted Ilsa. “He’s absolutely sure it’s her, Corm. They’ve got the right to keep her until eleven a.m. tomorrow and I’m sure they’re going to charge her.”

“They haven’t got enough,” said Strike fiercely. “Where’s the DNA evidence? Where are the witnesses?”

“That’s the problem, Corm, there aren’t any and that credit card bill’s pretty damning. Look, I’m on your side,” said Ilsa patiently. “You want my honest opinion? Anstis is taking a punt, hoping it’s going to work out. I think he’s feeling the pressure from all the press interest. And to be frank, he’s feeling agitated about you slinking around the case and wants to take the initiative.”

Strike groaned.

“Where did they get a six-month-old Visa bill? Has it taken them this long to go through the stuff they took out of his study?”

“No,” said Ilsa. “It’s on the back of one of his daughter’s pictures. Apparently the daughter gave it to a friend of his months ago, and this friend went to the police with it early this morning, claiming they’d only just looked at the back and realized what was on there. What did you just say?”

“Nothing,” Strike sighed.

“It sounded like ‘Tashkent.’”

“Not that far off. I’ll let you go, Ilsa…thanks for everything.”

Strike sat for a few seconds in frustrated silence.

“Bollocks,” he said softly to his dark office.

He knew how this had happened. Pippa Midgley, in her paranoia and her hysteria, convinced that Strike had been hired by Leonora to pin the murder on somebody else, had run from his office straight to Kathryn Kent. Pippa had confessed that she had blown Kathryn’s pretense never to have read Bombyx Mori and urged her to use the evidence she had against Leonora. And so Kathryn Kent had ripped down her lover’s daughter’s picture (Strike imagined it stuck, with a magnet, to the fridge) and hurried off to the police station.

“Bollocks,” he repeated, more loudly, and dialed Robin’s number.