The Silkworm (Cormoran Strike, #2)(117)

‘Fuck you!’

‘That’s original,’ said Strike. ‘Robin, call the police—’

‘Noooo!’ howled the woman in black like a baying dog. ‘He hurt me,’ she gasped to Robin, tugging down her top with abandoned wretchedness to reveal the marks on the strong white neck. ‘He dragged me, he pulled me—’

Robin looked to Strike, her hand on the receiver.

‘Why have you been following me?’ Strike said, panting as he stood over her, his tone threatening.

She cowered into the squeaking cushions yet Robin, whose fingers had not left the phone, detected a note of relish in the woman’s fear, a whisper of voluptuousness in the way she twisted away from him.

‘Last chance,’ growled Strike. ‘Why—?’

‘What’s happening up there?’ came a querulous enquiry from the landing below.

Robin’s eyes met Strike’s. She hurried to the door, unlocked it and slid out onto the landing while Strike stood guard over his captive, his jaw set and one fist clenched. He saw the idea of screaming for help pass behind the big dark eyes, purple-shadowed like pansies, and fade away. Shaking, she began to cry, but her teeth were bared and he thought there was more rage than misery in her tears.

‘All OK, Mr Crowdy,’ Robin called. ‘Just messing around. Sorry we were so loud.’

Robin returned to the office and locked the door behind her again. The woman was rigid on the sofa, tears tumbling down her face, her talon-like nails gripping the edge of the seat.

‘Fuck this,’ Strike said. ‘You don’t want to talk – I’m calling the police.’

Apparently she believed him. He had taken barely two steps towards the phone when she sobbed:

‘I wanted to stop you.’

‘Stop me doing what?’ said Strike.

‘Like you don’t know!’

‘Don’t play f*cking games with me!’ Strike shouted, bending towards her with two large fists clenched. He could feel his damaged knee only too acutely now. It was her fault he had taken the fall that had damaged the ligaments all over again.

‘Cormoran,’ said Robin firmly, sliding between them and forcing him to take a pace backwards. ‘Listen,’ she told the girl. ‘Listen to me. Tell him why you’re doing this and maybe he won’t call—’

‘You’ve gotta be f*cking joking,’ said Strike. ‘Twice she’s tried to stab—’

‘—maybe he won’t call the police,’ said Robin loudly, undeterred.

The woman jumped up and tried to make a break for it towards the door.

‘No you don’t,’ said Strike, hobbling fast around Robin, catching his assailant round the waist and throwing her none too gently back onto the sofa. ‘Who are you?’

‘You’ve hurt me now!’ she shouted. ‘You’ve really hurt me – my ribs – I’ll get you for assault, you bastard—’

‘I’ll call you Pippa, then, shall I?’ said Strike.

A shuddering gasp and a malevolent stare.

‘You – you – f*ck—’

‘Yeah, yeah, f*ck me,’ said Strike irritably. ‘Your name.’

Her chest was heaving under the heavy overcoat.

‘How will you know if I’m telling the truth, even if I tell you?’ she panted, with a further show of defiance.

‘I’ll keep you here till I’ve checked,’ said Strike.

‘Kidnap!’ she shouted, her voice as rough and loud as a docker’s.

‘Citizen’s arrest,’ said Strike. ‘You tried to f*cking knife me. Now, for the last bloody time—’

‘Pippa Midgley,’ she spat.

‘Finally. Have you got ID?’

With another mutinous obscenity she slid a hand into her pocket and drew out a bus pass, which she threw to him.

‘This says Phillip Midgley.’

‘No shit.’

Watching the implication hit Strike, Robin felt a sudden urge, in spite of the tension in the room, to laugh.

‘Epicoene,’ said Pippa Midgley furiously. ‘Didn’t you get it? Too subtle for you, dickhead?’

Strike looked up at her. The Adam’s apple on her scratched, marked throat was still prominent. She had buried her hands in her pockets again.

‘I’ll be Pippa on all my documents next year,’ she said.

‘Pippa,’ Strike repeated. ‘You’re the author of “I’ll turn the handle on the f*cking rack for you”, are you?’

‘Oh,’ said Robin, on a long drawn-out sigh of comprehension.

‘Oooooh, you’re so clever, Mr Butch,’ said Pippa in spiteful imitation.

‘D’you know Kathryn Kent personally, or are you just cyber-friends?’

‘Why? Is knowing Kath Kent a crime now?’

‘How did you know Owen Quine?’

‘I don’t want to talk about that bastard,’ she said, her chest heaving. ‘What he’s done to me… what he’s done… pretending… he lied… lying f*cking bastard…’

Fresh tears splattered down her cheeks and she dissolved into hysterics. Her scarlet-tipped hands clawed at her hair, her feet drummed on the floor, she rocked backwards and forwards, wailing. Strike watched her with distaste and after thirty seconds said: