The Silkworm (Cormoran Strike, #2)(79)

‘Need a pee… hang on… got more to tell you…’

Robin sipped her tomato juice while Strike hobbled away using the new stick.

Another flurry of snow passed the window, swiftly dispersing. Robin looked up at the black-and-white photographs opposite and recognised, with a slight shock, Jonny Rokeby, Strike’s father. Other than the fact that both were over six feet tall, they did not resemble each other in the slightest; it had taken a DNA test to prove paternity. Strike was listed as one of the rock star’s progeny on Rokeby’s Wikipedia entry. They had met, so Strike had told Robin, twice. After staring for a while at Rokeby’s very tight and revealing leather trousers, Robin forced herself to gaze out of the window again, afraid of Strike catching her staring at his father’s groin.

Their food arrived as Strike returned to the table.

‘The police are searching the whole of Leonora’s house now,’ Strike announced, picking up his knife and fork.

‘Why?’ asked Robin, fork suspended in mid-air.

‘Why d’you think? Looking for bloody clothing. Checking the garden for freshly dug holes full of her husband’s innards. I’ve put her on to a lawyer. They haven’t got enough to arrest her yet, but they’re determined to find something.’

‘You genuinely don’t think she did it?’

‘No, I don’t.’

Strike had cleared his plate before he spoke again.

‘I’d love to talk to Fancourt. I want to know why he joined Roper Chard when Quine was there and he was supposed to hate him. They’d have been bound to meet.’

‘You think Fancourt killed Quine so he wouldn’t have to meet him at office parties?’

‘Good one,’ said Strike wryly.

He drained his pint glass, picked up his mobile yet again, dialled Directory Enquiries and shortly afterwards was put through to the Elizabeth Tassel Literary Agency.

Her assistant, Ralph, answered. When Strike gave his name, the young man sounded both fearful and excited.

‘Oh, I don’t know… I’ll ask. Putting you on hold.’

But he appeared to be less than adept with the telephone system, because after a loud click the line remained open. Strike could hear a distant Ralph informing his boss that Strike was on the telephone and her loud, impatient retort.

‘What the bloody hell does he want now?’

‘He didn’t say.’

Heavy footsteps, the sound of the receiver being snatched off the desk.

‘Hello?’

‘Elizabeth,’ said Strike pleasantly. ‘It’s me, Cormoran Strike.’

‘Yes, Ralph’s just told me. What is it?’

‘I was wondering if we could meet. I’m still working for Leonora Quine. She’s convinced that the police suspect her of her husband’s murder.’

‘And what do you want to talk to me for? I can’t tell you whether she did or not.’

Strike could imagine the shocked faces of Ralph and Sally, listening in the smelly old office.

‘I’ve got a few more questions about Quine.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ growled Elizabeth. ‘Well, I suppose I could do lunch tomorrow if it suits. Otherwise I’m busy until—’

‘Tomorrow would be great,’ said Strike. ‘But it doesn’t have to be lunch, I could—?’

‘Lunch suits me.’

‘Great,’ said Strike at once.

‘Pescatori, Charlotte Street,’ she said. ‘Twelve thirty unless you hear differently.’

She rang off.

‘They love their bloody lunches, book people,’ Strike said. ‘Is it too much of a stretch to think they don’t want me at home in case I spot Quine’s guts in the freezer?’

Robin’s smile faded.

‘You know, you could lose a friend over this,’ she said, pulling on her coat. ‘Ringing people up and asking to question them.’

Strike grunted.

‘Don’t you care?’ she asked, as they left the warmth for biting cold, snowflakes burning their faces.

‘I’ve got plenty more friends,’ said Strike, truthfully, without bombast.

‘We should have a beer every lunchtime,’ he added, leaning heavily on his stick as they headed off towards the Tube, their heads bowed against the white blur. ‘Breaks up the working day.’

Robin, who had adjusted her stride to his, smiled. She had enjoyed today more than almost any since she had started work for Strike, but Matthew, still in Yorkshire, helping plan his mother’s funeral, must not know about the second trip to a pub in two days.





27





That I should trust a man, whom I had known betray his friend!



William Congreve, The Double-Dealer





An immense carpet of snow was rolling down over Britain. The morning news showed the north-east of England already buried in powdery whiteness, cars stranded like so many hapless sheep, headlamps feebly glinting. London waited its turn beneath an increasingly ominous sky and Strike, glancing at the weather map on his TV as he dressed, wondered whether his drive to Devon the next day would be possible, whether the M5 would even be navigable. Determined though he was to meet the incapacitated Daniel Chard, whose invitation struck him as highly peculiar, he dreaded driving even an automatic with his leg in this condition.