The Silkworm (Cormoran Strike, #2)(106)

She was still not eating.

‘Was he close to Quine?’ Strike asked.

‘I think he was closer than he thought he was,’ said Nina slowly. ‘They’d worked together quite a long time. Owen drove him mad – Owen drove everyone mad – but Jerry’s really upset, I can tell.’

‘I can’t imagine Quine enjoying being edited.’

‘I think he was tricky sometimes,’ said Nina, ‘but Jerry won’t hear a word against Owen now. He’s obsessed by his breakdown theory. You heard him at the party, he thinks Owen was mentally ill and Bombyx Mori wasn’t really his fault. And he’s still raging against Elizabeth Tassel for letting the book out. She came in the other day to talk about one of her other authors—’

‘Dorcus Pengelly?’ Strike asked, and Nina gave a little gasp of laughter.

‘You don’t read that crap! Heaving bosoms and shipwrecks?’

‘The name stuck in my mind,’ said Strike, grinning. ‘Go on about Waldegrave.’

‘He saw Liz coming and slammed his office door as she walked past. You’ve seen it, it’s glass and he nearly broke it. Really unnecessary and obvious, it made everyone jump out of their skins. She looks ghastly,’ added Nina. ‘Liz Tassel. Awful. If she’d been on form, she’d have stormed into Jerry’s office and told him not to be so bloody rude—’

‘Would she?’

‘Are you crazy? Liz Tassel’s temper is legendary.’

Nina glanced at her watch.

‘Michael Fancourt’s being interviewed on the telly this evening; I’m recording it,’ she said, re-filling both their glasses. She still had not touched her food.

‘Wouldn’t mind watching that,’ said Strike.

She threw him an oddly calculating look and Strike guessed that she was trying to assess how much his presence was due to a desire to pick her brains, how much designs on her slim, boyish body.

His mobile rang again. For several seconds he weighed the offence he might cause if he answered it, versus the possibility that it might herald something more useful than Nina’s opinions about Jerry Waldegrave.

‘Sorry,’ he said and pulled it out of his pocket. It was his brother, Al.

‘Corm!’ said the voice over a noisy line. ‘Great to hear from you, bruv!’

‘Hi,’ said Strike repressively. ‘How are you?’

‘Great! I’m in New York, only just got your message. What d’you need?’

He knew that Strike would only call if he wanted something, but unlike Nina, Al did not seem to resent the fact.

‘Wondering if you fancied dinner this Friday,’ said Strike, ‘but if you’re in New York—’

‘I’m coming back Wednesday, that’d be cool. Want me to book somewhere?’

‘Yeah,’ said Strike. ‘It’s got to be the River Café.’

‘I’ll get on it,’ said Al without asking why: perhaps he assumed that Strike merely had a yen for good Italian. ‘Text you the time, yeah? Look forward to it!’

Strike hung up, the first syllable of an apology already on his lips, but Nina had left for the kitchen. The atmosphere had undoubtedly curdled.





34





O Lord! what have I said? my unlucky tongue!



William Congreve, Love for Love





‘Love is a mirage,’ said Michael Fancourt on the television screen. ‘A mirage, a chimera, a delusion.’

Robin was sitting between Matthew and her mother on the faded, sagging sofa. The chocolate Labrador lay on the floor in front of the fire, his tail thumping lazily on the rug in his sleep. Robin felt drowsy after two nights of very little sleep and days of unexpected stresses and emotion, but she was trying hard to concentrate on Michael Fancourt. Beside her Mrs Ellacott, who had expressed the optimistic hope that Fancourt might let drop some bons mots that would help with her essay on Webster, had a notebook and pen on her lap.

‘Surely,’ began the interviewer, but Fancourt talked over him.

‘We don’t love each other; we love the idea we have of each other. Very few humans understand this or can bear to contemplate it. They have blind faith in their own powers of creation. All love, ultimately, is self-love.’

Mr Ellacott was asleep, his head back in the armchair closest to the fire and the dog. Gently he snored, with his spectacles halfway down his nose. All three of Robin’s brothers had slid discreetly from the house. It was Saturday night and their mates were waiting in the Bay Horse on the square. Jon had come home from university for the funeral but did not feel he owed it to his sister’s fiancé to forgo a few pints of Black Sheep with his brothers, sitting at the dimpled copper tables by the open fire.

Robin suspected that Matthew had wanted to join them but that he had felt it would be unseemly. Now he was stuck watching a literary programme he would never have tolerated at home. He would have turned over without asking her, taking it for granted that she could not possibly be interested in what this sour-looking, sententious man was saying. It was not easy to like Michael Fancourt, thought Robin. The curve of both his lip and his eyebrows implied an ingrained sense of superiority. The presenter, who was well known, seemed a little nervous.