The Silkworm (Cormoran Strike, #2)(156)

‘Who’s Nick?’ asked Robin, desperately trying to keep up.

‘He’s married to Leonora’s lawyer,’ said Strike, punching buttons on his phone. ‘Old mate… he’s a gastroenterologist…’

He retreated again to his office and slammed the door.

For want of anything else to do, Robin filled the kettle, her heart hammering, and made them both tea. The mugs cooled, untouched, while she waited.

When Strike emerged fifteen minutes later, he seemed calmer.

‘All right,’ he said, seizing his tea and taking a gulp. ‘I’ve got a plan and I’m going to need you. Are you up for it?’

‘Of course!’ said Robin.

He gave her a concise outline of what he wanted to do. It was ambitious and would require a healthy dose of luck.

‘Well?’ Strike asked her finally.

‘No problem,’ said Robin.

‘We might not need you.’

‘No,’ said Robin.

‘On the other hand, you could be key.’

‘Yes,’ said Robin.

‘Sure that’s all right?’ Strike asked, watching her closely.

‘No problem at all,’ said Robin. ‘I want to do it, I really do – it’s just,’ she hesitated, ‘I think he—’

‘What?’ said Strike sharply.

‘I think I’d better have a practice,’ said Robin.

‘Oh,’ said Strike, eyeing her. ‘Yeah, fair enough. Got until Thursday, I think. I’ll check the date now…’

He disappeared for the third time into his inner office. Robin returned to her computer chair.

She desperately wanted to play her part in the capture of Owen Quine’s killer, but what she had been about to say, before Strike’s sharp response panicked her out of it, was: ‘I think he might have seen me.’





47





Ha, ha, ha, thou entanglest thyself in thine own work like a silkworm.



John Webster, The White Devil





By the light of the old-fashioned street lamp the cartoonish murals covering the front of the Chelsea Arts Club were strangely eerie. Circus freaks had been painted on the rainbow-stippled walls of a long low line of ordinarily white houses knocked into one: a four-legged blonde girl, an elephant eating its keeper, an etiolated contortionist in prison stripes whose head appeared to be disappearing up his own anus. The club stood in a leafy, sleepy and genteel street, quiet with the snow that had returned with a vengeance, falling fast and mounting over roofs and pavements as though the brief respite in the arctic winter had never been. All through Thursday the blizzard had grown thicker and now, viewed through a rippling lamp-lit curtain of icy flakes, the old club in its fresh pastel colours appeared strangely insubstantial, pasteboard scenery, a trompe l’?il marquee.

Strike was standing in a shadowy alley off Old Church Street, watching as one by one they arrived for their small party. He saw the aged Pinkelman helped from his taxi by a stone-faced Jerry Waldegrave, while Daniel Chard stood in a fur hat on his crutches, nodding and smiling an awkward welcome. Elizabeth Tassel drew up alone in a cab, fumbling for her fare and shivering in the cold. Lastly, in a car with a driver, came Michael Fancourt. He took his time getting out of the car, straightening his coat before proceeding up the steps to the front door.

The detective, on whose dense curly hair the snow was falling thickly, pulled out his mobile and rang his half-brother.

‘Hey,’ said Al, who sounded excited. ‘They’re all in the dining room.’

‘How many?’

‘’Bout a dozen of them.’

‘Coming in now.’

Strike limped across the street with the aid of his stick. They let him in at once when he gave his name and explained that he was here as Duncan Gilfedder’s guest.

Al and Gilfedder, a celebrity photographer whom Strike was meeting for the first time, stood a short way inside the entrance. Gilfedder seemed confused as to who Strike was, or why he, a member of this eccentric and charming club, had been asked by his acquaintance Al to invite a guest whom he did not know.

‘My brother,’ said Al, introducing them. He sounded proud.

‘Oh,’ said Gilfedder blankly. He wore the same type of glasses as Christian Fisher and his lank hair was cut in a straggly shoulder-length bob. ‘I thought your brother was younger.’

‘That’s Eddie,’ said Al. ‘This is Cormoran. Ex-army. He’s a detective now.’

‘Oh,’ said Gilfedder, looking even more bemused.

‘Thanks for this,’ Strike said, addressing both men equally. ‘Get you another drink?’

The club was so noisy and packed it was hard to see much of it except glimpses of squashy sofas and a crackling log fire. The walls of the low-ceilinged bar were liberally covered in prints, paintings and photographs; it had the feeling of a country house, cosy and a little scruffy. As the tallest man in the room, Strike could see over the crowd’s heads towards the windows at the rear of the club. Beyond lay a large garden lit by exterior lights so that it was illuminated in patches. A thick, pristine layer of snow, pure and smooth as royal icing, lay over verdant shrubbery and the stone sculptures lurking in the undergrowth.

Strike reached the bar and ordered wine for his companions, glancing as he did so into the dining room.