The Silkworm (Cormoran Strike, #2)(105)

The cab was gliding beneath the Christmas lights of Oxford Street, large, fragile parcels of silver wrapped with golden bows, and Strike fought his ruffled temper as they travelled, feeling no pleasure at the thought of his imminent dinner date. Again and again Robin called him, but he could not feel the mobile vibrating because it was deep in his coat pocket, which lay beside him on the seat.

‘Hi,’ said Nina with a forced smile when she opened the door to her flat half an hour after the agreed time.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ said Strike, limping over the threshold. ‘I had an accident leaving the house. My leg.’

He had not brought her anything, he realised, standing there in his overcoat. He should have brought wine or chocolates and he felt her notice it as her big eyes roved over him; she had good manners herself and he felt, suddenly, a little shabby.

‘And I’ve forgotten the wine I bought you,’ he lied. ‘This is crap. Chuck me out.’

As she laughed, though unwillingly, Strike felt the phone vibrate in his pocket and automatically pulled it out.

Robin. He could not think why she wanted him on a Saturday.

‘Sorry,’ he told Nina, ‘gotta take this – urgent, it’s my assistant—’

Her smile slipped. She turned and walked out of the hall, leaving him there in his coat.

‘Robin?’

‘Are you all right? What happened?’

‘How did you—?’

‘I’ve got a voicemail that sounds like a recording of you being attacked!’

‘Christ, did I call you? Must’ve been when I dropped the phone. Yeah, that’s exactly what it was—’

Five minutes later, having told Robin what had happened, he hung up his coat and followed his nose to the sitting room, where Nina had laid a table for two. The room was lamp-lit; she had tidied, put fresh flowers around the place. A strong smell of burnt garlic hung in the air.

‘Sorry,’ he repeated as she returned carrying a dish. ‘Wish I had a nine-to-five job sometimes.’

‘Help yourself to wine,’ she said coolly.

The situation was deeply familiar. How often had he sat opposite a woman who was irritated by his lateness, his divided attention, his casualness? But here, at least, it was being played out in a minor key. If he had been late for dinner with Charlotte and taken a call from another woman as soon as he had arrived he might have expected a face full of wine and flying crockery. That thought made him feel more kindly towards Nina.

‘Detectives make shit dates,’ he told her as he sat down.

‘I wouldn’t say “shit”,’ she replied, softening. ‘I don’t suppose it’s the sort of job you can leave behind.’

She was watching him with her huge mouse-like eyes.

‘I had a nightmare about you last night,’ she said.

‘Getting off to a flying start, aren’t we?’ said Strike, and she laughed.

‘Well, not really about you. We were together looking for Owen Quine’s intestinal tract.’

She took a big swig of wine, gazing at him.

‘Did we find it?’ Strike asked, trying to keep things light.

‘Yes.’

‘Where? I’ll take any leads at this point.’

‘In Jerry Waldegrave’s bottom desk drawer,’ said Nina and he thought he saw her repress a shudder. ‘It was horrible, actually. Blood and guts when I opened it… and you hit Jerry. It woke me up, it was so real.’

She drank more wine, not touching her food. Strike, who had already taken several hearty mouthfuls (far too much garlic, but he was hungry), felt he was being insufficiently sympathetic. He swallowed hastily and said:

‘Sounds creepy.’

‘It’s because of what was on the news yesterday,’ she said, watching him. ‘Nobody realised, nobody knew he’d – he’d been killed like that. Like Bombyx Mori. You didn’t tell me,’ she said, and a whiff of accusation reached him through the garlic fumes.

‘I couldn’t,’ said Strike. ‘It’s up to the police to release that kind of information.’

‘It’s on the front page of the Daily Express today. He’d have liked that, Owen. Being a headline. But I wish I hadn’t read it,’ she said, with a furtive look at him.

He had met these qualms before. Some people recoiled once they realised what he had seen, or done, or touched. It was as though he carried the smell of death on him. There were always women who were attracted by the soldier, the policeman: they experienced a vicarious thrill, a voluptuous appreciation at the violence a man might have seen or perpetrated. Other women were repelled. Nina, he suspected, had been one of the former, but now that the reality of cruelty, sadism and sickness had been forced on her she was discovering that she might, after all, belong in the second camp.

‘It wasn’t fun at work yesterday,’ she said. ‘Not after we heard that. Everyone was… It’s just, if he was killed that way, if the killer copied the book… It limits the possible suspects, doesn’t it? Nobody’s laughing about Bombyx Mori any more, I can tell you that. It’s like one of Michael Fancourt’s old plots, back when the critics said he was too grisly… And Jerry’s resigned.’

‘I heard.’

‘I don’t know why,’ she said restlessly. ‘He’s been at Roper Chard ages. He’s not being himself at all. Angry all the time, and he’s usually so lovely. And he’s drinking again. A lot.’