The Silkworm (Cormoran Strike, #2)(165)

‘Nope. Quine’s going to have a bestseller at last. Don’t look like that,’ said Strike bracingly as she shook her head in disbelief. ‘Plenty to celebrate. Leonora and Orlando will be rolling in money once Bombyx Mori hits the bookshelves.

‘That reminds me, got something else for you.’

He slid his hand into the inside pocket of the coat lying beside him on the sofa and handed her a rolled-up drawing that he had been keeping safe there. Robin unfurled it and smiled, her eyes filling with tears. Two curly haired angels danced together beneath the carefully pencilled legend To Robin love from Dodo.

‘How are they?’

‘Great,’ said Strike.

He had visited the house in Southern Row at Leonora’s invitation. She and Orlando had met him hand in hand at the door, Cheeky Monkey dangling around Orlando’s neck as usual.

‘Where’s Robin?’ Orlando demanded. ‘I wanted Robin to be here. I drew her a picture.’

‘The lady had an accident,’ Leonora reminded her daughter, backing away into the hall to let Strike in, keeping a tight hold on Orlando’s hand as though frightened that someone might separate them again. ‘I told you, Dodo, the lady did a very brave thing and she had a crash in a car.’

‘Auntie Liz was bad,’ Orlando told Strike, walking backwards down the hall, still hand in hand with her mother but staring at Strike all the way with those limpid green eyes. ‘She was the one who made my daddy die.’

‘Yes, I – er – I know,’ Strike replied, with that familiar feeling of inadequacy that Orlando always seemed to induce in him.

He had found Edna from next door sitting at the kitchen table.

‘Oh, you were clever,’ she told him over and again. ‘Wasn’t it dreadful, though? How’s your poor partner? Wasn’t it terrible, though?’

‘Bless them,’ said Robin after he had described this scene in some detail. She spread Orlando’s picture out on the coffee table between them, beside the details of the surveillance course, where she could admire them both. ‘And how’s Al?’

‘Beside himself with bloody excitement,’ said Strike gloomily. ‘We’ve given him a false impression of the thrill of working life.’

‘I liked him,’ said Robin, smiling.

‘Yeah, well, you were concussed,’ said Strike. ‘And Polworth’s bloody ecstatic to have shown up the Met.’

‘You’ve got some very interesting friends,’ said Robin. ‘How much are you going to have to pay to repair Nick’s dad’s taxi?’

‘Haven’t got the bill in yet,’ he sighed. ‘I suppose,’ he added, several biscuits later, with his eyes on his present to Robin, ‘I’m going to have to get another temp in while you’re off learning surveillance.’

‘Yeah, I suppose you will,’ agreed Robin, and after a slight hesitation she added, ‘I hope she’s rubbish.’

Strike laughed as he got to his feet, picking up his coat.

‘I wouldn’t worry. Lightning doesn’t strike twice.’

‘Doesn’t anyone ever call you that, among all your many nicknames?’ she wondered as they walked back through to the hall.

‘Call me what?’

‘“Lightning” Strike?’

‘Is that likely?’ he asked, indicating his leg. ‘Well, merry Christmas, partner.’

The idea of a hug hovered briefly in the air, but she held out her hand with mock blokeyness, and he shook it.

‘Have a great time in Cornwall.’

‘And you in Masham.’

On the point of relinquishing her hand, he gave it a quick twist. He had kissed the back of it before she knew what had happened. Then, with a grin and a wave, he was gone.





Acknowledgements


Writing as Robert Galbraith has been pure joy and the following people have all helped make it so. My heartfelt thanks go to:

SOBE, Deeby and the Back Door Man, because I’d never have got as far without you. Let’s plan a heist next.

David Shelley, my incomparable editor, stalwart support and fellow INFJ. Thank you for being brilliant at your job, for taking seriously all the things that matter and for finding everything else as funny as I do.

My agent, Neil Blair, who cheerfully agreed to help me achieve my ambition of becoming a first-time author. You are truly one in a million.

Everyone at Little, Brown who worked so hard and enthusiastically on Robert’s first novel without having a clue who he was. My special gratitude to the audiobook team, who took Robert to number one before he was unmasked.

Lorna and Steve Barnes, who enabled me to drink in The Bay Horse, examine the tomb of Sir Marmaduke Wyvill and find out that Robin’s hometown is pronounced ‘Mass-um’ not ‘Mash-em’, saving me much future embarrassment.

Fiddy Henderson, Christine Collingwood, Fiona Shapcott, Angela Milne, Alison Kelly and Simon Brown, without whose hard work I would not have had time to write The Silkworm, or indeed anything else.

Mark Hutchinson, Nicky Stonehill and Rebecca Salt, who can take a great deal of credit for the fact that I still have some marbles left.

My family, especially Neil, for much more than I can express in a few lines, but in this case for being so supportive of bloody murder.