The Silkworm (Cormoran Strike, #2)(18)

She picked up the onyx lighter and flicked it absently before looking up at Strike.

‘Well, I panicked. I phoned Christian Fisher, but the call went straight to voicemail, so I left a message telling him that the manuscript that had been sent over was a first draft, that he wasn’t to read it, that I’d made a mistake and would he please return it as soon as – as soon as p-possible. I called Jerry next, but I couldn’t reach him either. He’d told me he was going away for an anniversary weekend with his wife. I hoped he wouldn’t have any time for reading, so I left a message along the lines of the one I’d left for Fisher.

‘Then I called Owen back.’

She lit yet another cigarette. Her large nostrils flared as she inhaled; the lines around her mouth deepened.

‘I could barely get the words out and it wouldn’t have mattered if I had. He talked over me as only Owen can, absolutely delighted with himself. He said we ought to meet to have dinner and celebrate the completion of the book.

‘So I dragged myself into clothes, and I went to the River Café and I waited. And in came Owen.

‘He wasn’t even late. He’s usually late. He was virtually floating on air, absolutely elated. He genuinely thinks he’s done something brave and marvellous. He’d started to talk about film adaptations before I managed to get a word in edgeways.’

When she expelled smoke from her scarlet mouth she looked truly dragonish, with her shining black eyes.

‘When I told him that I think what he’s produced is vile, malicious and unpublishable, he jumped up, sent his chair flying and began screaming. After insulting me both personally and professionally, he told me that if I wasn’t brave enough to represent him any more, he’d self-publish the thing – put it out as an ebook. Then he stormed out, parking me with the bill. N-not,’ she snarled, ‘that that’s anything un-un-unus—’

Her emotion triggered an even worse coughing fit than before. Strike thought she might actually choke. He half-rose out of his chair, but she waved him away. Finally, purple in the face, her eyes streaming, she said in a voice like gravel:

‘I did everything I could to put it right. My whole weekend by the sea ruined; I was on the phone constantly, trying to get hold of Fisher and Waldegrave. Message after message, stuck out on the bloody cliffs at Gwithian trying to get reception—’

‘Is that where you’re from?’ Strike asked, mildly surprised, because he heard no echo of his Cornish childhood in her accent.

‘It’s where one of my authors lives. I told her I hadn’t been out of London in four years and she invited me for the weekend. Wanted to show me all the lovely places where she sets her books. Some of the m-most beautiful scenery I’ve ever seen but all I could think about was b-bloody Bombyx Mori and trying to stop anyone reading it. I couldn’t sleep. I felt dreadful…

‘I finally heard back from Jerry at Sunday lunchtime. He hadn’t gone on his anniversary weekend after all, and he claims he’d never got my messages, so he’d decided to read the bloody book.

‘He was disgusted and furious. I assured Jerry that I’d do everything in my power to stop the damn thing… but I had to admit that I’d also sent it to Christian, at which Jerry slammed the phone down on me.’

‘Did you tell him that Quine had threatened to put the book out over the internet?’

‘No, I did not,’ she said hoarsely. ‘I was praying that was an empty threat, because Owen really doesn’t know one end of a computer from the other. But I was worried…’

Her voice trailed away.

‘You were worried?’ Strike prompted her.

She did not answer.

‘This self-publishing explains something,’ said Strike casually. ‘Leonora says Quine took his own copy of the manuscript and all his notes with him when he disappeared into the night. I did wonder whether he was intending to burn it or throw it in a river, but presumably he took it with a view to turning it into an ebook.’

This information did nothing to improve Elizabeth Tassel’s temper. Through clenched teeth she said:

‘There’s a girlfriend. They met on a writing course he taught. She’s self-published. I know about her because Owen tried to interest me in her bloody awful erotic fantasy novels.’

‘Have you contacted her?’ Strike asked.

‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I have. I wanted to frighten her off, tell her that if Owen tried to rope her in to help him reformat the book or sell it online she’d probably be party to a lawsuit.’

‘What did she say?’

‘I couldn’t get hold of her. I tried several times. Maybe she’s not at that number any more, I don’t know.’

‘Could I take her details?’ Strike asked.

‘Ralph’s got her card. I asked him to keep ringing her for me. Ralph!’ she bellowed.

‘He’s still out with Beau!’ came the girl’s frightened squeak from beyond the door. Elizabeth Tassel rolled her eyes and got heavily to her feet.

‘There’s no point asking her to find it.’

When the door had swung shut behind the agent, Strike got at once to his feet, moved behind the desk and bent down to examine a photograph on the wall that had caught his eye, which necessitated the removal of a double portrait on the bookcase, featuring a pair of Dobermanns.