The Silkworm (Cormoran Strike, #2)(8)

All of this Robin hoped to fix with a face-to-face meeting, but repeated cancellations by Strike had merely deepened Matthew’s dislike. On the last occasion, Strike had simply failed to turn up. His excuse – that he had been forced to take a detour to shake off a tail set on him by his client’s suspicious spouse – had been accepted by Robin, who knew the intricacies of that particularly bloody divorce case, but it had reinforced Matthew’s view of Strike as attention-seeking and arrogant.

She had had some difficulty in persuading Matthew to commit to a fourth attempt at drinks. Time and venue had both been picked by Matthew, but now, after Robin had secured Strike’s agreement all over again, Matthew was changing the night and it was impossible not to feel that he was doing it to make a point, to show Strike that he too had other commitments; that he too (Robin could not help herself thinking it) could piss people around.

‘Fine,’ she sighed into the phone, ‘I’ll check with Cormoran and see whether Thursday’s OK.’

‘You don’t sound like it’s fine.’

‘Matt, don’t start. I’ll ask him, OK?’

‘I’ll see you later, then.’

Robin replaced the receiver. Strike was now in full throat, snoring like a traction engine with his mouth open, legs wide apart, feet flat on the floor, arms folded.

She sighed, looking at her sleeping boss. Strike had never shown any animosity towards Matthew, had never passed comment on him in any way. It was Matthew who brooded over the existence of Strike, who rarely lost an opportunity to point out that Robin could have earned a great deal more if she had taken any of the other jobs she had been offered before deciding to stay with a rackety private detective, deep in debt and unable to pay her what she deserved. It would ease her home life considerably if Matthew could be brought to share her opinion of Cormoran Strike, to like him, even admire him. Robin was optimistic: she liked both of them, so why could they not like each other?

With a sudden snort, Strike was awake. He opened his eyes and blinked at her.

‘I was snoring,’ he stated, wiping his mouth.

‘Not much,’ she lied. ‘Listen, Cormoran, would it be all right if we move drinks from Friday to Thursday?’

‘Drinks?’

‘With Matthew and me,’ she said. ‘Remember? The King’s Arms, Roupell Street. I did write it down for you,’ she said, with a slightly forced cheeriness.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Yeah. Friday.’

‘No, Matt wants – he can’t do Friday. Is it OK to do Thursday instead?’

‘Yeah, fine,’ he said groggily. ‘I think I’m going to try and get some sleep, Robin.’

‘All right. I’ll make a note about Thursday.’

‘What’s happening on Thursday?’

‘Drinks with – oh, never mind. Go and sleep.’

She sat staring blankly at her computer screen after the glass door had closed, then jumped as it opened again.

‘Robin, could you call a bloke called Christian Fisher,’ said Strike. ‘Tell him who I am, tell him I’m looking for Owen Quine and that I need the address of the writer’s retreat he told Quine about?’

‘Christian Fisher… where does he work?’

‘Bugger,’ muttered Strike. ‘I never asked. I’m so knackered. He’s a publisher… trendy publisher.’

‘No problem, I’ll find him. Go and sleep.’

When the glass door had closed a second time, Robin turned her attention to Google. Within thirty seconds she had discovered that Christian Fisher was the founder of a small press called Crossfire, based in Exmouth Market.

As she dialled the publisher’s number, she thought of the wedding invitation that had been sitting in her handbag for a week now. Robin had not told Strike the date of her and Matthew’s wedding, nor had she told Matthew that she wished to invite her boss. If Thursday’s drinks went well…

‘Crossfire,’ said a shrill voice on the line. Robin focused her attention on the job in hand.





5





There’s nothing of so infinite vexation



As man’s own thoughts.



John Webster, The White Devil





Twenty past nine that evening found Strike lying in a T-shirt and boxers on top of his duvet, with the remnants of a takeaway curry on the chair beside him, reading the sports pages while the news played on the TV he had set up facing the bed. The metal rod that served as his right ankle gleamed silver in the light from the cheap desk lamp he had placed on a box beside him.

There was to be an England–France friendly at Wembley on Wednesday night, but Strike was much more interested in Arsenal’s home derby against Spurs the following Saturday. He had been an Arsenal fan since his earliest youth, in imitation of his Uncle Ted. Why Uncle Ted supported the Gunners, when he had lived all his life in Cornwall, was a question Strike had never asked.

A misty radiance, through which stars were struggling to twinkle, filled the night sky beyond the tiny window beside him. A few hours’ sleep in the middle of the day had done virtually nothing to alleviate his exhaustion, but he did not feel quite ready to turn in yet, not after a large lamb biryani and a pint of beer. A note in Robin’s handwriting lay beside him on the bed; she had given it to him as he had left the office that evening. Two appointments were noted there. The first read: