The Silkworm (Cormoran Strike, #2)(116)
The scarlet fa?ade of the Coach and Horses in Wellington Street constituted a powerful temptation as he approached it, the stick doing heavy duty now, and his knee complaining: warmth, beer and a comfortable chair… but a third lunchtime visit to the pub in a week… not a habit he ought to develop… Jerry Waldegrave was an object lesson in where such behaviour might lead…
He could not resist an envious glance through the window as he passed, towards lights gleaming on brass beer pumps and convivial men with slacker consciences than his own—
He saw her out of the corner of his eye. Tall and stooping in her black coat, hands in her pockets, scurrying along the slushy pavements behind him: his stalker and would-be attacker of Saturday night.
Strike’s pace did not falter, nor did he turn to look at her. He was not playing games this time; there would be no stopping to test her amateurish stalking style, no letting her know that he had spotted her. On he walked without looking over his shoulder, and only a man or woman similarly expert in counter-surveillance would have noticed his casual glances into helpfully positioned windows and reflective brass door plates; only they could have spotted the hyper-alertness disguised as inattentiveness.
Most killers were slapdash amateurs; that was how they were caught. To persist after their encounter on Saturday night argued high-calibre recklessness and it was on this that Strike was counting as he continued up Wellington Street, outwardly oblivious to the woman following him with a knife in her pocket. As he crossed Russell Street she had dodged out of sight, faking entrance to the Marquess of Anglesey, but soon reappeared, dodging in and out of the square pillars of an office block and lurking in a doorway to allow him to pull ahead.
Strike could barely feel his knee now. He had become six foot three of highly concentrated potential. This time she had no advantage; she would not be taking him by surprise. If she had a plan at all, he guessed that it was to profit from any available opportunity. It was up to him to present her with an opportunity she dare not let pass, and to make sure she did not succeed.
Past the Royal Opera House with its classical portico, its columns and statues; in Endell Street she entered an old red telephone box, gathering her nerve, no doubt, double-checking that he was not aware of her. Strike walked on, his pace unchanging, his eyes on the street ahead. She took confidence and emerged again onto the crowded pavement, following him through harried passers-by with carrier bags swinging from their hands, drawing closer to him as the street narrowed, flitting in and out of doorways.
As he drew nearer to the office he made his decision, turning left off Denmark Street into Flitcroft Street, which led to Denmark Place, where a dark passage, plastered with flyers for bands, led back to his office.
Would she dare?
As he entered the alleyway, his footsteps echoing a little off the dank walls, he slowed imperceptibly. Then he heard her coming – running at him.
Wheeling around on his sound left leg he flung out his walking stick – there was a shriek of pain as her arm met it – the Stanley knife was knocked out of her hand, hit the stone wall, rebounded and narrowly missed Strike’s eye – he had her now in a ferocious grip that made her scream.
He was afraid that some hero would come to her aid, but no one appeared, and now speed was essential – she was stronger than he had expected and struggling ferociously, trying to kick him in the balls and claw his face. With a further economical twist of his body he had her in a headlock, her feet skidding and scrambling on the damp alley floor.
As she writhed in his arms, trying to bite him, he stooped to pick up the knife, pulling her down with him so that she almost lost her footing, then, abandoning the walking stick, which he could not carry while managing her, he dragged her out onto Denmark Street.
He was fast, and she so winded by the struggle that she had no breath to yell. The short cold street was empty of shoppers and no passers-by on Charing Cross Road noticed anything amiss as he forced her the short distance to the black street door.
‘Need in, Robin! Quickly!’ he shouted on the intercom, slamming his way through the outer door as soon as Robin had buzzed it open. Up the metal steps he dragged her, his right knee now protesting violently, and she started shrieking, the screams echoing around the stairwell. Strike saw movement behind the glass door of the dour and eccentric graphic designer who worked in the office beneath his.
‘Just messing around!’ he bellowed at the door, heaving his pursuer upstairs.
‘Cormoran? What’s – oh my God!’ said Robin, staring down from the landing. ‘You can’t – what are you playing at? Let her go!’
‘She’s just – tried – to bloody – knife me again,’ panted Strike, and with a gigantic final effort he forced his pursuer over the threshold. ‘Lock the door!’ he shouted at Robin, who had hurried in behind them and obeyed.
Strike threw the woman onto the mock-leather sofa. The hood fell back to reveal a long pale face with large brown eyes and thick dark wavy hair that fell to her shoulders. Her fingers terminated in pointed crimson nails. She looked barely twenty.
‘You bastard! You bastard!’
She tried to get up, but Strike was standing over her looking murderous, so she thought better of it, slumping back onto the sofa and massaging her white neck, which bore dark pink scratch marks where he had seized her.
‘Want to tell me why you’re trying to knife me?’ Strike asked.