The Silkworm (Cormoran Strike, #2)(71)

‘Morning,’ he said, limping into the outer office, where Robin was making two mugs of tea. ‘We’ll have to be quick with these. We’re going out.’

‘Where?’ asked Robin in surprise.

The sleet was sliding wetly down their windows. She could still feel how it had burned her face as she hurried over the slippery pavements, desperate to get inside.

‘Got stuff to do on the Quine case.’

It was a lie. The police had all the power; what could he do that they were not doing better? And yet he knew in his gut that Anstis lacked the nose for the strange and the warped that would be needed to find this killer.

‘You’ve got Caroline Ingles at ten.’

‘Shit. Well, I’ll put her off. Thing is, forensics reckon Quine died very soon after he disappeared.’

He took a mouthful of hot, strong tea. He seemed more purposeful, more energised than she had seen him for a while.

‘That puts the spotlight right back on the people who had early access to the manuscript. I want to find out where they all live, and whether they live alone. Then we’re going to recce their houses. Find out how hard it would’ve been to get in and out carrying a bag of guts. Whether they might have places they could bury or burn evidence.’

It was not much, but it was all he could do today, and he was desperate to do something.

‘You’re coming,’ he added. ‘You’re always good at this stuff.’

‘What, being your Watson?’ she said, apparently indifferent. The anger she had carried with her out of the Cambridge the previous day had not quite burned out. ‘We could find out about their houses online. Look at them on Google Earth.’

‘Yeah, good thinking,’ rejoined Strike. ‘Why case locations when you could just look at out-of-date photos?’

Stung, she said:

‘I’m more than happy—’

‘Good. I’ll cancel Ingles. You get online and find out addresses for Christian Fisher, Elizabeth Tassel, Daniel Chard, Jerry Waldegrave and Michael Fancourt. We’ll nip along to Clem Attlee Court and have another look from the point of view of hiding evidence; from what I saw in the dark there were a lot of bins and bushes… Oh, and call the Bridlington Bookshop in Putney. We can have a word with the old bloke who claims he met Quine there on the eighth.’

He strode back into his office and Robin sat down at her computer. The scarf she had just hung up was dripping icily onto the floor, but she did not care. The memory of Quine’s mutilated body continued to haunt her, yet she was possessed of an urge (concealed from Matthew like a dirty secret) to find out more, to find out everything.

What infuriated her was that Strike, who of all people should have understood, could not see in her what so obviously burned in him.





25





Thus ’tis when a man will be ignorantly officious, do services, and not know his why…



Ben Jonson, Epicoene, or The Silent Woman





They left the office in a sudden flurry of feathery snowflakes, Robin with the various addresses she had taken from an online directory on her mobile phone. Strike wanted to revisit Talgarth Road first, so Robin told him the results of her directory searches while standing in a Tube carriage that, at the tail end of the rush hour, was full but not packed. The smell of wet wool, grime and Gore-Tex filled their nostrils as they talked, holding the same pole as three miserable-looking Italian backpackers.

‘The old man who works in the bookshop’s on holiday,’ she told Strike. ‘Back next Monday.’

‘All right, we’ll leave him till then. What about our suspects?’

She raised an eyebrow at the word, but said:

‘Christian Fisher lives in Camden with a woman of thirty-two – a girlfriend, do you think?’

‘Probably,’ agreed Strike. ‘That’s inconvenient… our killer needed peace and solitude to dispose of bloodstained clothing – not to mention a good stone’s worth of human intestine. I’m looking for somewhere you can get in and out of without being seen.’

‘Well, I looked at pictures of the place on Google Street View,’ said Robin with a certain defiance. ‘The flat’s got a common entrance with three others.’

‘And it’s miles away from Talgarth Road.’

‘But you don’t really think Christian Fisher did it, do you?’ asked Robin.

‘Strains credulity a bit,’ Strike admitted. ‘He barely knew Quine – he’s not in the book – can’t see it.’

They alighted at Holborn, where Robin tactfully slowed her pace to Strike’s, not commenting on his limp or the way he was using his upper body to propel himself along.

‘What about Elizabeth Tassel?’ he asked as he walked.

‘Fulham Palace Road, alone.’

‘Good,’ said Strike. ‘We’ll go and have a look at that, see if she’s got any freshly dug flower beds.’

‘Won’t the police be doing this?’ Robin asked.

Strike frowned. He was perfectly aware that he was a jackal slinking on the periphery of the case, hoping the lions might leave a scrap on a minor bone.

‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘maybe not. Anstis thinks Leonora did it and he doesn’t change his mind easily; I know, I worked with him on a case in Afghanistan. Speaking of Leonora,’ he added casually, ‘Anstis has found out she used to work in a butcher’s.’