The Silkworm (Cormoran Strike, #2)(78)

‘Human waste!’ said Strike, lowering his pint. ‘Bloody hell, that’s a thought.’

‘Should I get onto it, then?’ asked Robin, trying to conceal the pleasure and pride she felt at Strike’s look of admiration. ‘Try and find out how and when—?’

‘Definitely!’ said Strike. ‘That’s a much better lead than Anstis’s. He thinks,’ he explained, answering her look of enquiry, ‘the guts were dumped in a skip close by Talgarth Road, that the killer just carried them round the corner and chucked them in.’

‘Well, they could have,’ began Robin, but Strike frowned exactly the way Matthew did if ever she mentioned an idea or a belief of Strike’s.

‘This killing was planned to the hilt. We’re not dealing with a murderer who’d just have dumped a holdall full of human guts round the corner from the corpse.’

They sat in silence while Robin reflected wryly that Strike’s dislike of Anstis’s theories might be due to innate competitiveness more than any objective evaluation. Robin knew something about male pride; quite apart from Matthew, she had three brothers.

‘So what were Elizabeth Tassel’s and Jerry Waldegrave’s places like?’

Strike told her about Waldegrave’s wife thinking he had been watching her house.

‘Very shirty about it.’

‘Odd,’ said Robin. ‘If I saw somebody staring at our place I wouldn’t leap to the conclusion that they were – you know – watching it.’

‘She’s a drinker like her husband,’ said Strike. ‘I could smell it on her. Meanwhile, Elizabeth Tassel’s place is as good a murderer’s hideout as I’ve ever seen.’

‘What d’you mean?’ asked Robin, half amused, half apprehensive.

‘Very private, barely overlooked.’

‘Well, I still don’t think—’

‘—it’s a woman. You said.’

Strike drank his beer in silence for a minute or two, considering a course of action that he knew would irritate Anstis more than any other. He had no right to interrogate suspects. He had been told to keep out of the way of the police.

Picking up his mobile, he contemplated it for a moment, then called Roper Chard and asked to speak to Jerry Waldegrave.

‘Anstis told you not to get under their feet!’ Robin said, alarmed.

‘Yeah,’ said Strike, the line silent in his ear, ‘advice he’s just repeated, but I haven’t told you half what’s been going on. Tell you in—’

‘Hello?’ said Jerry Waldegrave on the end of the line.

‘Mr Waldegrave,’ said Strike and introduced himself, though he had already given his name to Waldegrave’s assistant. ‘We met briefly yesterday morning, at Mrs Quine’s.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Waldegrave. He sounded politely puzzled.

‘As I think Mrs Quine told you, she’s hired me because she’s worried that the police suspect her.’

‘I’m sure that can’t be true,’ said Waldegrave at once.

‘That they suspect her, or that she killed her husband?’

‘Well – both,’ said Waldegrave.

‘Wives usually come in for close scrutiny when a husband dies,’ said Strike.

‘I’m sure they do, but I can’t… well, I can’t believe any of it, actually,’ said Waldegrave. ‘The whole thing’s incredible and horrible.’

‘Yeah,’ said Strike. ‘I was wondering whether we could meet so I could ask you a few questions? I’m happy,’ said the detective, with a glance at Robin, ‘to come to your house – after work – whatever suits.’

Waldegrave did not answer immediately.

‘Naturally I’ll do anything to help Leonora, but what do you imagine I can tell you?’

‘I’m interested in Bombyx Mori,’ said Strike. ‘Mr Quine put a lot of unflattering portraits in the book.’

‘Yeah,’ said Waldegrave. ‘He did.’

Strike wondered whether Waldegrave had been interviewed by the police yet; whether he had already been asked to explain the contents of bloody sacks, the symbolism of a drowned dwarf.

‘All right,’ said Waldegrave. ‘I don’t mind meeting you. My diary’s quite full this week. Could you make… let’s see… lunch on Monday?’

‘Great,’ said Strike, reflecting sourly that this would mean him footing the bill, and that he would have preferred to see inside Waldegrave’s house. ‘Where?’

‘I’d rather stick close to the office; I’ve got a full afternoon. Would you mind Simpson’s-in-the-Strand?’

Strike thought it an odd choice but agreed, his eyes on Robin’s. ‘One o’clock? I’ll get my secretary to book it. See you then.’

‘He’s going to meet you?’ said Robin as soon as Strike had hung up.

‘Yeah,’ said Strike. ‘Fishy.’

She shook her head, half laughing.

‘He didn’t seem particularly keen, from all I could hear. And don’t you think the fact that he’s agreed to meet at all looks like he’s got a clear conscience?’

‘No,’ said Strike. ‘I’ve told you this before; plenty of people hang around the likes of me to gauge how the investigation’s going. They can’t leave well enough alone, they feel compelled to keep explaining themselves.