The Silkworm (Cormoran Strike, #2)(150)

‘I understand that,’ said Robin. ‘We believe you, Kathryn, I promise. Strike wants to find the real killer, he’s not like the police.’ (‘Insinuate, don’t state.’) ‘He’s not interested in just grabbing the next woman Quine might’ve – you know—’

The words let tie him up hung in the air, unspoken.

Pippa was easier to read than Kathryn. Credulous and easily panicked, she looked at Kathryn, who seemed furious.

‘Maybe I don’t care who killed him!’ Kathryn snarled through clenched teeth.

‘But you surely don’t want to be arrest—?’

‘I’ve only got your word for it they’re interested in me! There’s been nothing on the news!’

‘Well… there wouldn’t be, would there?’ said Robin gently. ‘The police don’t hold press conferences to announce that they think they might have the wrong pers—’

‘Who had the credit card? Her.’

‘Quine usually had it himself,’ said Robin, ‘and his wife’s not the only person who had access.’

‘How d’you know what the police are thinking any more than I do?’

‘Strike’s got good contacts at the Met,’ said Robin calmly. ‘He was in Afghanistan with the investigating officer, Richard Anstis.’

The name of the man who had interrogated her seemed to carry weight with Kathryn. She glanced at Pippa again.

‘Why’re you telling me this?’ Kathryn demanded.

‘Because we don’t want to see another innocent woman arrested,’ said Robin, ‘because we think the police are wasting time sniffing around the wrong people and because,’ (‘throw in a bit of self-interest once you’ve baited the hook, it keeps things plausible’) ‘obviously,’ said Robin, with a show of awkwardness, ‘it would do Cormoran a lot of good if he was the one who got the real killer. Again,’ she added.

‘Yeah,’ said Kathryn, nodding vehemently, ‘that’s it, isn’t it? He wants the publicity.’

No woman who had been with Owen Quine for two years was going to believe that publicity wasn’t an unqualified boon.

‘Look, we just wanted to warn you how they’re thinking,’ said Robin, ‘and to ask for your help. But obviously, if you don’t want…’

Robin made to stand.

(‘Once you’ve laid it out for her, act like you can take it or leave it. You’re there when she starts chasing you.’)

‘I’ve told the police everything I know,’ said Kathryn, who appeared disconcerted now that Robin, who was taller than her, had stood up again. ‘I haven’t got anything else to say.’

‘Well, we’re not sure they were asking the right questions,’ said Robin, sinking back onto the sofa. ‘You’re a writer,’ she said, turning suddenly off the piste that Strike had prepared for her, her eyes on the laptop in the corner. ‘You notice things. You understood him and his work better than anyone else.’

The unexpected swerve into flattery caused whatever words of fury Kathryn had been about to fling at Robin (her mouth had been open, ready to deliver them) to die in her throat.

‘So?’ Kathryn said. Her aggression felt a little fake now. ‘What d’you want to know?’

‘Will you let Strike come and hear what you’ve got to say? He won’t if you don’t want him to,’ Robin assured her (an offer unsanctioned by her boss). ‘He respects your right to refuse.’ (Strike had made no such declaration.) ‘But he’d like to hear it in your own words.’

‘I don’t know that I’ve got anything useful to say,’ said Kathryn, folding her arms again, but she could not disguise a ring of gratified vanity.

‘I know it’s a big ask,’ said Robin, ‘but if you help us get the real killer, Kathryn, you’ll be in the papers for the right reasons.’

The promise of it settled gently over the sitting room – Kathryn interviewed by eager and now admiring journalists, asking about her work, perhaps: Tell me about Melina’s Sacrifice…

Kathryn glanced sideways at Pippa, who said:

‘That bastard kidnapped me!’

‘You tried to attack him, Pip,’ said Kathryn. She turned a little anxiously to Robin. ‘I never told her to do that. She was – after we saw what he’d written in the book – we were both… and we thought he – your boss – had been hired to fit us up.’

‘I understand,’ lied Robin, who found the reasoning tortuous and paranoid, but perhaps that was what spending time with Owen Quine did to a person.

‘She got carried away and didn’t think,’ said Kathryn, with a look of mingled affection and reproof at her protégée. ‘Pip’s got temper issues.’

‘Understandable,’ said Robin hypocritically. ‘May I call Cormoran – Strike, I mean? Ask him to meet us here?’

She had already slipped her mobile out of her pocket and glanced down at it. Strike had texted her:



On balcony. Bloody freezing.





She texted back:



Wait 5.





In fact, she needed only three minutes. Softened by Robin’s earnestness and air of understanding, and by the encouragement of the alarmed Pippa to let Strike in and find out the worst, when he finally knocked Kathryn proceeded to the front door with something close to alacrity.