The Silkworm (Cormoran Strike, #2)(110)

It was almost lunchtime and the two women opposite Robin on the train to Waterloo were chatting loudly, carrier bags full of Christmas shopping between their knees. The floor of the Tube was wet and dirty and the air full, again, of damp cloth and stale bodies. Robin spent most of her journey trying without success to view clips of Michael Fancourt’s interview on her mobile phone.

The Bridlington Bookshop stood on a main road in Putney, its old-fashioned paned windows crammed from top to bottom with a mixture of new and second-hand books, all stacked horizontally. A bell tinkled as Robin crossed the threshold into a pleasant, mildewed atmosphere. A couple of ladders stood propped against shelves crammed with more horizontally piled books reaching all the way to the ceiling. Hanging bulbs lit the space, dangling so low that Strike would have banged his head.

‘Good morning!’ said an elderly gentleman in an over-large tweed jacket, emerging with almost audible creaks from an office with a dimpled glass door. As he approached, Robin caught a strong whiff of body odour.

She had already planned her simple line of enquiry and asked at once whether he had any Owen Quine in stock.

‘Ah! Ah!’ he said knowingly. ‘I needn’t ask, I think, why the sudden interest!’

A self-important man in the common fashion of the unworldly and cloistered, he embarked without invitation into a lecture on Quine’s style and declining readability as he led her into the depths of the shop. He appeared convinced, after two seconds’ acquaintance, that Robin could only be asking for a copy of one of Quine’s books because he had recently been murdered. While this was of course the truth, it irritated Robin.

‘Have you got The Balzac Brothers?’ she asked.

‘You know better than to ask for Bombyx Mori, then,’ he said, shifting a ladder with doddery hands. ‘Three young journalists I’ve had in here, asking for it.’

‘Why are journalists coming here?’ asked Robin innocently as he began to climb the ladder, revealing an inch of mustard-coloured sock above his old brogues.

‘Mr Quine shopped here shortly before he died,’ said the old man, now peering at spines some six feet above Robin. ‘Balzac Brothers, Balzac Brothers… should be here… dear, dear, I’m sure I’ve got a copy…’

‘He actually came in here, to your shop?’ asked Robin.

‘Oh yes. I recognised him instantly. I was a great admirer of Joseph North and they once appeared on the same bill at the Hay Festival.’

He was coming down the ladder now, feet trembling with every step. Robin was scared he might fall.

‘I’ll check the computer,’ he said, breathing heavily. ‘I’m sure I’ve got a Balzac Brothers here.’

Robin followed him, reflecting that if the last time the old man had set eyes on Owen Quine had been in the mid-eighties, his reliability in identifying the writer again might be questionable.

‘I don’t suppose you could miss him,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen pictures of him. Very distinctive-looking in his Tyrolean cloak.’

‘His eyes are different colours,’ said the old man, now gazing at the monitor of an early Macintosh Classic that must, Robin thought, be twenty years old: beige, boxy, big chunky keys like cubes of toffee. ‘You see it close up. One hazel, one blue. I think the policeman was impressed by my powers of observation and recall. I was in intelligence during the war.’

He turned upon her with a self-satisfied smile.

‘I was right, we do have a copy – second hand. This way.’

He shuffled towards an untidy bin full of books.

‘That’s a very important bit of information for the police,’ said Robin, following him.

‘Yes, indeed,’ he said complacently. ‘Time of death. Yes, I could assure them that he was alive, still, on the eighth.’

‘I don’t suppose you could remember what he came in here for,’ said Robin with a small laugh. ‘I’d love to know what he read.’

‘Oh yes, I remember,’ said her companion at once. ‘He bought three novels: Jonathan Franzen’s Freedom, Joshua Ferris’s The Unnamed and… and I forget the third… told me he was going away for a break and wanted reading matter. We discussed the digital phenomenon – he more tolerant of reading devices than I… somewhere in here,’ he muttered, raking in the bin. Robin joined the search half-heartedly.

‘The eighth,’ she repeated. ‘How could you be so sure it was the eighth?’

For the days, she thought, must blend quite seamlessly into each other in this dim atmosphere of mildew.

‘It was a Monday,’ he said. ‘A pleasant interlude, discussing Joseph North, of whom he had very fond memories.’

Robin was still none the wiser as to why he believed this particular Monday to have been the eighth, but before she could enquire further he had pulled an ancient paperback from the depths of the bin with a triumphant cry.

‘There we are. There we are. I knew I had it.’

‘I can never remember dates,’ Robin lied as they returned to the till with their trophy. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any Joseph North, while I’m here?’

‘There was only one,’ said the old man. ‘Towards the Mark. Now, I know we’ve got that, one of my personal favourites…’

And he headed, once more, for the ladder.