The Silkworm (Cormoran Strike, #2)(127)

He can’t, surely, be serious?



‘But why shouldn’t it be published?’ demands Fancourt. ‘Art is supposed to provoke: by that standard alone, Bombyx Mori has more than fulfilled its remit. Yes, why not?’ asks the literary punk, ensconced in his Elizabethan manor.



‘With an introduction by Michael Fancourt?’ I suggest.



‘Stranger things have happened,’ replies Michael Fancourt, with a grin. ‘Much stranger.’





‘Christ almighty,’ muttered Strike, throwing The Times back onto Robin’s desk and narrowly missing the Christmas tree.

‘Did you see he only claims to have read Bombyx Mori the day you found Quine?’

‘Yeah,’ said Strike.

‘He’s lying,’ said Robin.

‘We think he’s lying,’ Strike corrected her.

Holding fast to his resolution not to waste any more money on taxis, but with the snow still falling, Strike took the number 29 bus through the darkening afternoon. It ran north, taking Strike on a twenty-minute journey through recently gritted roads. A haggard woman got on at Hampstead Road, accompanied by a small, grizzling boy. Some sixth sense told Strike that the three of them were headed in the same direction and, sure enough, both he and the woman stood to get out in Camden Road, alongside the bare flank of HMP Holloway.

‘You’re gonna see Mummy,’ she told her charge, whom Strike guessed to be her grandson, though she looked around forty.

Surrounded by bare-limbed trees and grass verges covered in thick snow, the jail might have been a redbrick university faculty but for authoritarian signs in government-issue blue and white, and the sixteen-foot-high doors set into the wall so that prison vans might pass. Strike joined the trickle of visitors, several of them with children who strained to make marks in the untouched snow heaped beside the paths. The line shuffled together past the terracotta walls with their cement frets, past the hanging baskets now balls of snow in the freezing December air. The majority of his fellow visitors were women; Strike was unique among the men not merely for his size but for the fact that he did not look as though life had pummelled him into a quiescent stupor. A heavily tattooed youth in sagging jeans walking ahead of him staggered a little with every step. Strike had seen neurological damage back in Selly Oak, but guessed that this kind had not been sustained under mortar fire.

The stout female prison officer whose job it was to check IDs examined his driver’s licence, then stared up at him.

‘I know who you are,’ she said, with a piercing look.

Strike wondered whether Anstis had asked to be tipped off if he went to see Leonora. It seemed probable.

He had arrived deliberately early, so as not to waste a minute of his allotted time with his client. This foresight permitted him a coffee in the visitors’ centre, which was run by a children’s charity. The room was bright and almost cheerful, and many of the kids greeted the trucks and teddies as old friends. Strike’s haggard companion from the bus watched, gaunt and impassive, as the boy with her played with an Action Man around Strike’s large feet, treating him like a massive piece of sculpture (Tisiphone, the avenger of murder…).

He was called through to the visitors’ hall at six on the dot. Footsteps echoed off the shiny floors. The walls were of concrete blocks but bright murals painted by the prisoners did their best to soften the cavernous space, which echoed with the clang of metal and keys and the murmur of talk. The plastic seats were fixed either side of a small, low central table, similarly immovable, so as to minimise contact between prisoner and visitor, and prevent the passing of contraband. A toddler wailed. Warders stood around the walls, watching. Strike, who had only ever dealt with male prisoners, felt a repugnance for the place unusual in him. The kids staring at gaunt mothers, the subtle signs of mental illness in the fiddling and twitching of bitten fingers, drowsy, over-medicated women curled in their plastic seats were quite unlike the male detention facilities with which he was familiar.

Leonora sat waiting, tiny and fragile, pathetically glad to see him. She was wearing her own clothes, a loose sweatshirt and trousers in which she looked shrunken.

‘Orlando’s been in,’ she said. Her eyes were bright red; he could tell that she had been crying for a long time. ‘Didn’t want to leave me. They dragged her out. Wouldn’t let me calm her down.’

Where she would have shown defiance and anger he could hear the beginnings of institutionalised hopelessness. Forty-eight hours had taught her that she had lost all control and power.

‘Leonora, we need to talk about that credit card statement.’

‘I never had that card,’ she said, her white lips trembling. ‘Owen always kept it, I never had it except sometimes if I needed to go to the supermarket. He always gave me cash.’

Strike remembered that she had come to him in the first place because money was running out.

‘I left all our finances up to Owen, that’s how he liked it, but he was careless, he never used to check his bills nor his bank statements, used to just sling ’em in his office. I used to say to him, “You wanna check those, someone could be diddling you,” but he never cared. He’d give anything to Orlando to draw on, that’s why it had her picture—’

‘Never mind the picture. Somebody other than you or Owen must have had access to that credit card. We’re going to run through a few people, OK?’