The Silkworm (Cormoran Strike, #2)(157)

Those eating filled several long wooden tables. There was the Roper Chard party, with a pair of French windows beside them, the garden icy white and ghostly behind the glass. A dozen people, some of whom Strike did not recognise, had gathered to honour the ninety-year-old Pinkelman, who was sitting at the head of the table. Whoever had been in charge of the placement, Strike saw, had sat Elizabeth Tassel and Michael Fancourt well apart. Fancourt was talking loudly into Pinkelman’s ear, Chard opposite him. Elizabeth Tassel was sitting next to Jerry Waldegrave. Neither was speaking to the other.

Strike passed glasses of wine to Al and Gilfedder, then returned to the bar to fetch a whisky for himself, deliberately maintaining a clear view of the Roper Chard party.

‘Why,’ said a voice, clear as a bell but somewhere below him, ‘are you here?’

Nina Lascelles was standing at his elbow in the same strappy black dress she had worn to his birthday dinner. No trace of her former giggly flirtatiousness remained. She looked accusatory.

‘Hi,’ said Strike, surprised. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’

‘Nor I you,’ she said.

He had not returned any of her calls for over a week, not since the night he had slept with her to rid himself of thoughts of Charlotte on her wedding day.

‘So you know Pinkelman,’ said Strike, trying for small talk in the face of what he could tell was animosity.

‘I’m taking over some of Jerry’s authors now he’s leaving. Pinks is one of them.’

‘Congratulations,’ said Strike. Still, she did not smile. ‘Waldegrave still came to the party, though?’

‘Pinks is fond of Jerry. Why,’ she repeated, ‘are you here?’

‘Doing what I was hired to do,’ said Strike. ‘Trying to find out who killed Owen Quine.’

She rolled her eyes, clearly feeling that he was pushing his persistence past a joke.

‘How did you get in here? It’s members only.’

‘I’ve got a contact,’ said Strike.

‘You didn’t think of using me again, then?’ she asked.

He did not much like the reflection of himself he saw in her large mouse-like eyes. There was no denying that he had used her repeatedly. It had become cheap, shameful, and she deserved better.

‘I thought that might be getting old,’ said Strike.

‘Yeah,’ said Nina. ‘You thought right.’

She turned from him and walked back to the table, filling the last vacant seat, between two employees whom he did not know.

Strike was in Jerry Waldegrave’s direct line of vision. Waldegrave caught sight of him and Strike saw the editor’s eyes widen behind his horn-rimmed glasses. Alerted by Waldegrave’s transfixed stare, Chard twisted in his seat and he, too, clearly recognised Strike.

‘How’s it going?’ asked Al excitedly at Strike’s elbow.

‘Great,’ said Strike. ‘Where’s that Gilsomething gone?’

‘Downed his drink and left. Doesn’t know what the hell we’re up to,’ said Al.

Al did not know why they were here either. Strike had told him nothing except that he needed entry to the Chelsea Arts Club tonight and that he might need a lift. Al’s bright red Alfa Romeo Spider sat parked a little down the road. It had been agony on Strike’s knee to get in and out of the low-slung vehicle.

As he had intended, half the Roper Chard table now seemed acutely aware of his presence. Strike was positioned so that he could see them reflected clearly in the dark French windows. Two Elizabeth Tassels were glaring at him over their menus, two Ninas were determinedly ignoring him and two shiny-pated Chards summoned a waiter each and muttered in their ears.

‘Is that the bald bloke we saw in the River Café?’ asked Al.

‘Yeah,’ said Strike, grinning as the solid waiter separated from his reflected wraith and made his way towards them. ‘I think we’re about to be asked whether we’ve got the right to be in here.’

‘Very sorry, sir,’ began the waiter in a mutter as he reached Strike, ‘but could I ask—?’

‘Al Rokeby – my brother and I are here with Duncan Gilfedder,’ said Al pleasantly before Strike could respond. Al’s tone expressed surprise that they had been challenged at all. He was a charming and privileged young man who was welcome everywhere, whose credentials were impeccable and whose casual roping of Strike into the family pen conferred upon him that same sense of easy entitlement. Jonny Rokeby’s eyes looked out of Al’s narrow face. The waiter muttered hasty apologies and retreated.

‘Are you just trying to put the wind up them?’ asked Al, staring over at the publisher’s table.

‘Can’t hurt,’ said Strike with a smile, sipping his whisky as he watched Daniel Chard deliver what was clearly a stilted speech in Pinkelman’s honour. A card and present were brought out from under the table. For every look and smile they gave the old writer, there was a nervous glance towards the large, dark man staring at them from the bar. Michael Fancourt alone had not looked around. Either he remained in ignorance of the detective’s presence, or was untroubled by it.

When starters had been put in front of them all, Jerry Waldegrave got to his feet and moved out from the table towards the bar. Nina and Elizabeth’s eyes followed him. On Waldegrave’s way to the bathroom he merely nodded at Strike, but on the way back, he paused.