The Silkworm (Cormoran Strike, #2)(121)

‘There’s still something odd, though, isn’t there, about what he claims Quine said to him?’ asked Robin.

‘Yeah, there is,’ said Strike. ‘Buying reading matter because he was going away for a break… so he was already planning to go away, four days before he rowed with Elizabeth Tassel? Was he already planning to go to Talgarth Road, after all those years he was supposed to have hated and avoided the place?’

‘Are you going to tell Anstis about this?’ Robin asked.

Strike gave a wry snort of laughter.

‘No, I’m not going to tell Anstis. We’ve got no real proof Quine was in there on the first instead of the eighth. Anyway, Anstis and I aren’t on the best terms just now.’

There was another long pause, and then Strike startled Robin by saying:

‘I’ve got to talk to Michael Fancourt.’

‘Why?’ she asked.

‘A lot of reasons,’ said Strike. ‘Things Waldegrave said to me over lunch. Can you get on to his agent or whatever contact you can find for him?’

‘Yes,’ said Robin, making a note for herself. ‘You know, I watched that interview back just now and I still couldn’t—’

‘Look at it again,’ said Strike. ‘Pay attention. Think.’

He lapsed into silence again, glaring now at the ceiling. Not wishing to break his train of thought, Robin merely set to work on the computer to discover who represented Michael Fancourt.

Finally Strike spoke over the tapping of her keyboard.

‘What does Kathryn Kent think she’s got on Leonora?’

‘Maybe nothing,’ said Robin, concentrating on the results she had uncovered.

‘And she’s withholding it “out of compassion”…’

Robin said nothing. She was perusing the website of Fancourt’s literary agency for a contact number.

‘Let’s hope that was just more hysterical bullshit,’ said Strike.

But he was worried.





38





That in so little paper



Should lie th’ undoing…



John Webster, The White Devil





Miss Brocklehurst, the possibly unfaithful PA, was still claiming to be incapacitated by her cold. Her lover, Strike’s client, found this excessive and the detective was inclined to agree with him. Seven o’clock the following morning found Strike stationed in a shadowy recess opposite Miss Brocklehurst’s Battersea flat, wrapped up in coat, scarf and gloves, yawning widely as the cold penetrated his extremities and enjoying the second of three Egg McMuffins he had picked up from McDonald’s on his way.

There had been a severe weather warning for the whole of the south-east. Thick dark blue snow already lay over the entire street and the first tentative flakes of the day were drifting down from a starless sky as he waited, moving his toes from time to time to check that he could still feel them. One by one the occupants left for work, slipping and sliding off towards the station or clambering into cars whose exhausts sounded particularly loud in the muffled quiet. Three Christmas trees sparkled at Strike from living-room windows, though December would only start the following day, tangerine, emerald and neon blue lights winking garishly as he leaned against the wall, his eyes on the windows of Miss Brocklehurst’s flat, laying bets with himself as to whether she would leave the house at all in this weather. His knee was still killing him, but the snow had slowed the rest of the world to a pace that matched his own. He had never seen Miss Brocklehurst in heels lower than four inches. In these conditions, she might well be more incapacitated than he was.

In the last week the search for Quine’s killer had started to eclipse all his other cases, but it was important to keep up with them unless he wanted to lose business. Miss Brocklehurst’s lover was a rich man who was likely to put plenty more jobs Strike’s way if he liked the detective’s work. The businessman had a predilection for youthful blondes, a succession of whom (as he had freely confessed to Strike at their first meeting) had taken large amounts of money and sundry expensive gifts from him only to leave or betray him. As he showed no sign of developing better judgement of character, Strike anticipated many more lucrative hours spent tailing future Miss Brocklehursts. Perhaps it was the betrayal that thrilled his client, reflected Strike, his breath rising in clouds through the icy air; he had known other such men. It was a taste that found its fullest expression in those who became infatuated with hookers.

At ten to nine the curtains gave a small twitch. Faster than might have been expected from his attitude of casual relaxation, Strike raised the night-vision camera he had been concealing at his side.

Miss Brocklehurst stood briefly exposed to the dim snowy street in bra and pants, though her cosmetically enhanced breasts had no need of support. Behind her in the darkness of the bedroom walked a paunchy, bare-chested man who briefly cupped one breast, earning himself a giggled reproof. Both turned away into the bedroom.

Strike lowered his camera and checked his handiwork. The most incriminating image he had managed to capture showed the clear outline of a man’s hand and arm, Miss Brocklehurst’s face half turned in a laugh, but her embracer’s face was in shadow. Strike suspected that he might be about to leave for work, so he stowed the camera in an inside pocket, ready to give slow and cumbersome chase, and set to work on his third McMuffin.