The Silkworm (Cormoran Strike, #2)(123)

He wandered back into the outer office while dialling his voicemail.

‘I’ve watched Michael Fancourt’s documentary again,’ said Robin excitedly, ‘and I’ve realised what you—’

Strike raised a hand to quiet her as Leonora’s ordinarily deadpan voice spoke in his ear, sounding agitated and disorientated.

‘Cormoran, I’ve been bloody arrested. I don’t know why – nobody’s telling me nothing – they’ve got me at the station. They’re waiting for a lawyer or something. I dunno what to do – Orlando’s with Edna, I don’t – anyway, that’s where I am…’

A few seconds of silence and the message ended.

‘Shit!’ said Strike, so loudly that Robin jumped. ‘SHIT!’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘They’ve arrested Leonora – why’s she calling me, not Ilsa? Shit…’

He punched in Ilsa Herbert’s number and waited.

‘Hi Corm—’

‘They’ve arrested Leonora Quine.’

‘What?’ cried Ilsa. ‘Why? Not that bloody old rag in the lock-up?’

‘They might have something else.’

(Kath’s got proof…)

‘Where is she, Corm?’

‘Police station… it’ll be Kilburn, that’s nearest.’

‘Christ almighty, why didn’t she call me?’

‘Fuck knows. She said something about them finding her a lawyer—’

‘Nobody’s contacted me – God above, doesn’t she think? Why didn’t she give them my name? I’m going now, Corm, I’ll dump this lot on someone else. I’m owed a favour…’

He could hear a series of thunks, distant voices, Ilsa’s rapid footsteps.

‘Call me when you know what’s going on,’ he said.

‘It might be a while.’

‘I don’t care. Call me.’

She hung up. Strike turned to face Robin, who looked appalled.

‘Oh no,’ she breathed.

‘I’m calling Anstis,’ said Strike, jabbing again at his phone.

But his old friend was in no mood to dispense favours.

‘I warned you, Bob, I warned you this was coming. She did it, mate.’

‘What’ve you got?’ Strike demanded.

‘Can’t tell you that, Bob, sorry.’

‘Did you get it from Kathryn Kent?’

‘Can’t say, mate.’

Barely deigning to return Anstis’s conventional good wishes, Strike hung up.

‘Dickhead!’ he said. ‘Bloody dickhead!’

Leonora was now in a place where he could not reach her. Strike was worried about how her grudging manner and the animosity to the police would appear to interlocutors. He could almost hear her complaining that Orlando was alone, demanding to know when she would be able to return to her daughter, indignant that the police had meddled with the daily grind of her miserable existence. He was afraid of her lack of self-preservation; he wanted Ilsa there, fast, before Leonora uttered innocently self-incriminating comments about her husband’s general neglect and his girlfriends, before she could state again her almost incredible and suspicious claim that she knew nothing about her husband’s books before they had proper covers on, before she attempted to explain why she had temporarily forgotten that they owned a second house where her husband’s remains had lain decaying for weeks.

Five o’clock in the afternoon came and went without news from Ilsa. Looking out at the darkening sky and the snow, Strike insisted Robin go home.

‘But you’ll ring me when you hear?’ she begged him, pulling on her coat and wrapping a thick woollen scarf around her neck.

‘Yeah, of course,’ said Strike.

But not until six thirty did Ilsa call him back.

‘Couldn’t be worse,’ were her first words. She sounded tired and stressed. ‘They’ve got proof of purchase, on the Quines’ joint credit card, of protective overalls, wellington boots, gloves and ropes. They were bought online and paid for with their Visa. Oh – and a burqa.’

‘You’re f*cking kidding me.’

‘I’m not. I know you think she’s innocent—’

‘Yeah, I do,’ said Strike, conveying a clear warning not to bother trying to persuade him otherwise.

‘All right,’ said Ilsa wearily, ‘have it your own way, but I’ll tell you this: she’s not helping herself. She’s being aggressive as hell, insisting Quine must have bought the stuff himself. A burqa, for God’s sake… The ropes bought on the card are identical to the ones that were found tying the corpse. They asked her why Quine would want a burqa or plastic overalls of a strength to resist chemical spills, and all she said was: “I don’t bloody know, do I?” Every other sentence, she kept asking when she could go home to her daughter; she just doesn’t get it. The stuff was bought six months ago and sent to Talgarth Road – it couldn’t look more premeditated unless they’d found a plan in her handwriting. She’s denying she knew how Quine was going to end his book, but your guy Anstis—’

‘There in person, was he?’

‘Yeah, doing the interrogation. He kept asking whether she really expected them to believe that Quine never talked about what he was writing. Then she says, “I don’t pay much attention.” “So he does talk about his plots?” On and on it went, trying to wear her down, and in the end she says, “Well, he said something about the silkworm being boiled.” That was all Anstis needed to be convinced she’s been lying all along and she knew the whole plot. Oh, and they’ve found disturbed earth in their back garden.’