The Silkworm (16 page)

Late that evening Strike sat alone at his desk while the traffic rumbled through the rain outside, eating Singapore noodles with one hand and scribbling a list for himself with the other. The rest of the day’s work over, he was free to turn his attention fully to the murder of Owen Quine and in his spiky, hard-to-read handwriting was jotting down those things that must be done next. Beside some of them he had jotted the letter A for Anstis, and if it had crossed Strike’s mind that it might be considered arrogant or deluded of a private detective with no authority in the investigation to imagine he had the power to delegate tasks to the police officer in charge of the case, the thought did not trouble him.

Having worked with Anstis in Afghanistan, Strike did not have a particularly high opinion of the police officer’s abilities. He thought Anstis competent but unimaginative, an efficient recogniser of patterns, a reliable pursuer of the obvious. Strike did not despise these traits – the obvious was usually the answer and the methodical ticking of boxes the way to prove it – but this murder was elaborate, strange, sadistic and grotesque, literary in inspiration and ruthless in execution. Was Anstis capable of comprehending the mind that had nurtured a plan of murder in the fetid soil of Quine’s own imagination?

Strike’s mobile rang, piercing in the silence. Only when he had put it to his ear and heard Leonora Quine did he realise that he had been hoping it would be Robin.

‘How are you?’ he asked.

‘I’ve had the police here,’ she said, cutting through the social niceties. ‘They’ve been all through Owen’s study. I didn’t wanna, but Edna said I should let ’em. Can’t we be left in peace after what just happened?’

‘They’ve got grounds for a search,’ said Strike. ‘There might be something in Owen’s study that’ll give them a lead on his killer.’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Strike patiently, ‘but I think Edna’s right. It was best to let them in.’

There was a silence.

‘Are you still there?’ he asked.

‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘and now they’ve left it locked up so I can’t get in it. And they wanna come back. I don’t like them being here. Orlando don’t like it. One of ’em,’ she sounded outraged, ‘asked if I wanted to move out of the house for a bit. I said, “No, I bloody don’t.” Orlando’s never stayed anywhere else, she couldn’t deal with it. I’m not going anywhere.’

‘The police haven’t said they want to question you, have they?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Only asked if they can go in the study.’

‘Good. If they want to ask you questions—’

‘I should get a lawyer, yeah. That’s what Edna said.’

‘Would it be all right if I come and see you tomorrow morning?’ he asked.

‘Yeah.’ She sounded glad. ‘Come round ten, I need to go shopping first thing. Couldn’t get out all day. I didn’t wanna leave them in the house without me here.’

Strike hung up, reflecting again that Leonora’s manner was unlikely to be standing her in good stead with the police. Would Anstis see, as Strike did, that Leonora’s slight obtuseness, her failure to produce what others felt was appropriate behaviour, her stubborn refusal to look at what she did not wish to look at – arguably the very qualities that had enabled her to endure the ordeal of living with Quine – would have made it impossible for her to kill him? Or would her oddities, her refusal to show normal grief reactions because of an innate though perhaps unwise honesty, cause the suspicion already lying in Anstis’s mundane mind to swell, obliterating other possibilities?

There was an intensity, almost a feverishness, about the way Strike returned to his scribbling, left hand still shovelling food into his mouth. Thoughts came fluently, cogently: jotting down the questions he wanted answered, locations he wanted cased, the trails he wanted followed. It was a plan of action for himself and a means of nudging Anstis in the right direction, of helping open his eyes to the fact that it was not
always
the wife when a husband was killed, even if the man had been feckless, unreliable and unfaithful.

At last Strike cast his pen down, finished the noodles in two large mouthfuls and cleared his desk. His notes he put into the cardboard folder with Owen Quine’s name on the spine, having first crossed out ‘Missing Person’ and substituted the word ‘Murder’. He turned off the lights and was on the point of locking the glass door when he thought of something and returned to Robin’s computer.

And there it was, on the BBC website. Not headline news, of course, because whatever Quine might have thought, he had not been a very famous man. It came three stories below the main news that the EU had agreed a bailout for the Irish Republic.

There was no photograph of Quine in his Tyrolean cloak, nor were there details of the horrors to which the body had been subjected. But it was early days; there was time.

Upstairs in his flat, some of Strike’s energy deserted him. He dropped onto his bed and rubbed his eyes wearily, then fell backwards and lay there, fully dressed, his prosthesis still attached. Thoughts he had managed to keep at bay now pressed in upon him…

Why had he not alerted the police to the fact that Quine had been missing for nearly two weeks? Why had he not suspected that Quine might be dead? He had had answers to these questions when DI Rawlins had put them to him, reasonable answers, sane answers, but he found it much more difficult to satisfy himself.

He did not need to take out his phone to see Quine’s body. The vision of that bound, decaying corpse seemed imprinted on his retinas. How much cunning, how much hatred, how much perversity had it taken to turn Quine’s literary excrescence into reality? What kind of human being could bring themselves to slit a man open and pour acid over him, to gut him and lay plates around his empty corpse?

Strike could not rid himself of the unreasonable conviction that he ought somehow to have smelled the scene from afar, like the carrion bird he had trained to be. How had he – with his once-notorious instinct for the strange, the dangerous, the suspicious – not realised that the noisy, self-dramatising, self-publicising Quine had been gone too long, that he was too silent?

Because the silly bastard kept crying wolf
…
and because I’m knackered
.

He rolled over, heaved himself off the bed and headed for the bathroom, but his thoughts kept scurrying back to the body: the gaping hole in the torso, the burned-out eye sockets. The killer had moved around that monstrosity while it was still bleeding, when Quine’s screams had perhaps barely stopped echoing through the great vaulted space, and gently straightened forks… and there was another question for his list: what, if anything, had the neighbours heard of Quine’s final moments?

Strike got into bed at last, covered his eyes with a large, hairy forearm and listened to his own thoughts, which were gabbling at him like a workaholic twin who would not pipe down. Forensics had already had more than twenty-four hours. They would have formed opinions, even if all tests were not yet in. He must call Anstis, find out what they were saying…

Enough
, he told his tired, hyperactive brain.
Enough.

And by the same power of will that in the army had enabled him to fall instantly asleep on bare concrete, on rocky ground, on lumpy camp beds that squeaked rusty complaints about his bulk whenever he moved, he slid smoothly into sleep like a warship sliding out on dark water.

At a quarter to nine the next morning Strike made his way slowly down the metal stairs, asking himself, not for the first time, why he did not do something about getting the birdcage lift fixed. His knee was still sore and puffy after his fall, so he was allowing over an hour to get to Ladbroke Grove, because he could not afford to keep taking taxis.

A gust of icy air stung his face as he opened the door, then everything went white as a flash went off inches from his eyes. He blinked – the outlines of three men danced in front of him – he threw up his hand against another volley of flashes.

‘Why didn’t you inform the police that Owen Quine was missing, Mr Strike?’

‘Did you know he was dead, Mr Strike?’

For a split-second he considered retreat, slamming the door on them, but that meant being trapped and having to face them later.

‘No comment,’ he said coolly and walked into them, refusing to alter his course by a hair’s breadth, so that they were forced to step out of his path, two asking questions and one running backwards, snapping and snapping. The girl who so often joined Strike for smoking breaks in the doorway of the guitar shop was gaping at the scene through the window.

‘Why didn’t you tell anyone he’d been missing for more than a fortnight, Mr Strike?’

‘Why didn’t you notify the police?’

Strike strode in silence, his hands in his pockets and his expression grim. They scurried along beside him, trying to make him talk, a pair of razor-beaked seagulls dive-bombing a fishing trawler.

‘Trying to show them up again, Mr Strike?’

‘Get one over on the police?’

‘Publicity good for business, Mr Strike?’

He had boxed in the army. In his imagination he wheeled around and delivered a left hook to the floating rib area, so that the little shit crumpled…

‘Taxi!’ he shouted.

Flash, flash, flash went the camera as he got into it; thankfully the lights ahead turned green, the taxi moved smoothly away from the kerb and they gave up running after a few steps.

Fuckers
, Strike thought, glancing over his shoulder as the taxi rounded a corner. Some bastard at the Met must have tipped them off that he had found the body. It would not have been Anstis, who had held back the information from the official statement, but one of the embittered bastards who had not forgiven him for Lula Landry.

‘You famous?’ asked the cabbie, staring at him in the rear-view mirror.

‘No,’ said Strike shortly. ‘Drop me at Oxford Circus, will you?’

Disgruntled at such a short fare, the cabbie muttered under his breath.

Strike took out his mobile and texted Robin again.

Then he called Anstis.

‘Bob.’

‘I’ve just been doorstepped. They know I found the body.’

‘How?’

‘You’re asking me?’

A pause.

‘It was always going to come out, Bob, but I didn’t give it to them.’

‘Yeah, I saw the “family friend” line. They’re trying to make out I didn’t tell you lot because I wanted the publicity.’

‘Mate, I never—’

‘Be good to have that rebutted by an official source, Rich. Mud sticks and I’ve got a livelihood to make here.’

‘I’ll get it done,’ promised Anstis. ‘Listen, why don’t you come over for dinner tonight? Forensics have got back with their first thoughts; be good to talk it over.’

‘Yeah, great,’ said Strike as the taxi approached Oxford Circus. ‘What time?’

He remained standing on the Tube train, because sitting meant having to get up again and that put more strain on his sore knee. As he was going through Royal Oak he felt his mobile buzz and saw two texts, the first from his sister Lucy.

He had completely forgotten that today was his birthday. He opened the second text.

Grateful that the day was temporarily dry, Strike reached the Quine house just before ten. It looked just as dingy and depressing in weak sunlight as it had the last time he had visited, but with a difference: there was a police officer standing in front of it. He was a tall young copper with a pugnacious-looking chin and when he saw Strike walking towards him with the ghost of a limp, his eyebrows contracted.

‘Can I ask who you are, sir?’

‘Yeah, I expect so,’ said Strike, walking past him and ringing the doorbell. Anstis’s dinner invitation notwithstanding, he was not feeling sympathetic to the police just now. ‘Should be just about within your capabilities.’

The door opened and Strike found himself face to face with a tall, gangling girl with sallow skin, a mop of curly light brown hair, a wide mouth and an ingenuous expression. Her eyes, which were a clear, pale green, were large and set far apart. She was wearing what was either a long sweatshirt or a short dress that ended above bony knees and fluffy pink socks, and she was cradling a large plush orang-utan to her flat chest. The toy ape had Velcro attachments on its paws and was hanging around her neck.

‘Hullo,’ she said. She swayed very gently, side to side, putting weight first on one foot, then on the other.

‘Hello,’ said Strike. ‘Are you Orlan—?’

‘Can I have your name, please, sir?’ asked the young policeman loudly.

‘Yeah, all right – if I can ask why you’re standing outside this house,’ said Strike with a smile.

‘There’s been press interest,’ said the young policeman.

‘A man came,’ said Orlando, ‘and with a camera and Mum said—’

‘Orlando!’ called Leonora from inside the house. ‘What are you doing?’

She came stumping down the hall behind her daughter, gaunt and white-faced in an ancient navy blue dress with its hem hanging down.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘it’s you. Come in.’

As he stepped over the threshold, Strike smiled at the policeman, who glared back.

‘What’s your name?’ Orlando asked Strike as the front door closed behind them.

‘Cormoran,’ he said.

‘That’s a funny name.’

‘Yeah, it is,’ said Strike and something made him add, ‘I was named after a giant.’

‘That’s funny,’ said Orlando, swaying.

‘Go in,’ said Leonora curtly, pointing Strike towards the kitchen. ‘I need the loo. Be with you in a mo.’

Strike proceeded down the narrow hallway. The door of the study was closed and, he suspected, still locked.

On reaching the kitchen he discovered to his surprise that he was not the only visitor. Jerry Waldegrave, the editor from Roper Chard, was sitting at the kitchen table, clutching a bunch of flowers in sombre purples and blues, his pale face anxious. A second bunch of flowers, still in its cellophane, protruded from a sink half filled with dirty crockery. Supermarket bags of food sat unpacked on the sides.

‘Hi,’ said Waldegrave, scrambling to his feet and blinking earnestly at Strike through his horn-rimmed glasses. Evidently he did not recognise the detective from their previous meeting on the dark roof garden because he asked, as he held out his hand, ‘Are you family?’

‘Family friend,’ said Strike as they shook hands.

‘Terrible thing,’ said Waldegrave. ‘Had to come and see if I could do anything. She’s been in the bathroom ever since I arrived.’

‘Right,’ said Strike.

Waldegrave resumed his seat. Orlando edged crabwise into the dark kitchen, cuddling her furry orang-utan. A very long minute passed while Orlando, clearly the most at ease, unabashedly stared at both of them.

‘You’ve got nice hair,’ she announced at last to Jerry Waldegrave. ‘It’s like a hairstack.’

‘I suppose it is,’ said Waldegrave and he smiled at her. She edged out again.

Another brief silence followed, during which Waldegrave fidgeted with the flowers, his eyes darting around the kitchen.

‘Can’t believe it,’ he said at last.

They heard the loud flushing of a toilet upstairs, a thumping on the stairs, and Leonora returned with Orlando at her heels.

‘Sorry,’ she said to the two men. ‘I’m a bit upset.’

It was obvious that she was referring to her stomach.

‘Look, Leonora,’ said Jerry Waldegrave in an agony of awkwardness, getting to his feet, ‘I don’t want to intrude when you’ve got your friend here—’

‘Him? He’s not a friend, he’s a detective,’ said Leonora.

‘Sorry?’

Strike remembered that Waldegrave was deaf in one ear.

‘He’s called a name like a giant,’ said Orlando.

‘He’s a detective,’ said Leonora loudly, over her daughter.

‘Oh,’ said Waldegrave, taken aback. ‘I didn’t – why—?’

‘Cos I need one,’ said Leonora shortly. ‘The police think I done it to Owen.’

There was a silence. Waldegrave’s discomfort was palpable.

‘My daddy died,’ Orlando informed the room. Her gaze was direct and eager, seeking a reaction. Strike, who felt that something was required of one of them, said:

‘I know. It’s very sad.’

‘Edna said it was sad,’ replied Orlando, as though she had hoped for something more original, and she slid out of the room again.

‘Sit down,’ Leonora invited the two men. ‘They for me?’ she added, indicating the flowers in Waldegrave’s hand.

‘Yes,’ he said, fumbling a little as he handed them over but remaining on his feet. ‘Look, Leonora, I don’t want to take up any of your time just now, you must be so busy with – with arrangements and—’

‘They won’t let me have his body,’ said Leonora with devastating honesty, ‘so I can’t make no arrangements yet.’

‘Oh, and there’s a card,’ said Waldegrave desperately, feeling in his pockets. ‘Here… well, if there’s anything we can do, Leonora, anything—’

‘Can’t see what anyone can do,’ said Leonora shortly, taking the envelope he proffered. She sat down at the table where Strike had already pulled up a chair, glad to take the weight off his leg.

‘Well, I think I’ll be off, leave you to it,’ said Waldegrave. ‘Listen, Leonora, I hate to ask at a time like this, but
Bombyx Mori
…
have you got a copy here?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Owen took it with him.’

‘I’m so sorry, but it would help us if… could I have a look and see if any of it’s been left behind?’

She peered up at him through those huge, outdated glasses.

‘Police’ve taken anything he left,’ she said. ‘They went through the study like a dose of salts yesterday. Locked it up and taken the key – I can’t even go in there myself now.’

‘Oh, well, if the police need… no,’ said Waldegrave, ‘fair enough. No, I’ll see myself out, don’t get up.’

He walked up the hall and they heard the front door close behind him.

‘Dunno why he came,’ said Leonora sullenly. ‘Make him feel like he’s done something nice, I suppose.’

She opened the card he had given her. There was a watercolour of violets on the front. Inside were many signatures.

‘Being all nice now, because they feel guilty,’ said Leonora, throwing the card down on the Formica-topped table.

‘Guilty?’

‘They never appreciated him. You got to market books,’ she said, surprisingly. ‘You got to promote ’em. It’s up to the publishers to give ’em a push. They wouldn’t never get him on TV or anything like he needed.’

Strike guessed that these were complaints she had learned from her husband.

‘Leonora,’ he said, taking out his notebook. ‘Is it all right if I ask you a couple of questions?’

‘I s’pose. I don’t know nothing, though.’

‘Have you heard from anyone who spoke to Owen or saw him after he left here on the fifth?’

She shook her head.

‘No friends, no family?’

‘No one,’ she said. ‘D’you want a cup of tea?’

‘Yeah, that’d be great,’ said Strike, who did not much fancy anything made in this grubby kitchen, but wanted to keep her talking.

‘How well d’you know the people at Owen’s publisher?’ he asked over the noisy filling of the kettle.

She shrugged.

‘Hardly at all. Met that Jerry when Owen done a book signing once.’

‘You’re not friendly with anyone at Roper Chard?’

‘No. Why would I be? It was Owen worked with them, not me.’

‘And you haven’t read
Bombyx Mori
, have you?’ Strike asked her casually.

‘I’ve told you that already. I don’t like reading ’em till they’re published. Why’s everyone keep asking me that?’ she said, looking up from the plastic bag in which she had been rummaging for biscuits.

‘What was the matter with the body?’ she demanded suddenly. ‘What happened to him? They won’t tell me. They took his toothbrush for DNA to identify him. Why won’t they let me see him?’

He had dealt with this question before, from other wives, from distraught parents. He fell back, as so often before, on partial truth.

‘He’d been lying there for a while,’ he said.

‘How long?’

‘They don’t know yet.’

‘How was it done?’

‘I don’t think they know that exactly, yet.’

‘But they must…’

She fell silent as Orlando shuffled back into the room, clutching not just her plush orang-utan but also a sheaf of brightly coloured drawings.

‘Where’s Jerry gone?’

‘Back to work,’ said Leonora.

‘He’s got nice hair. I don’t like your hair,’ she told Strike. ‘It’s fuzzy.’

‘I don’t like it much, either,’ he said.

‘He don’t want to look at pictures now, Dodo,’ said her mother impatiently, but Orlando ignored her mother and spread her paintings out on the table for Strike to see.

‘I did them.’