The Silkworm (Cormoran Strike, #2)(96)

Manny stalked away on rubber-soled shoes.

‘He’s sulking,’ Chard told Strike, with an uncomfortable half-laugh. ‘They don’t like it down here. They prefer London.’

He retrieved his crutches from the floor and pushed himself back up into a standing position. Strike, with more effort, imitated him.

‘And how is – er – Mrs Quine?’ Chard said, with an air of belatedly ticking off the proprieties as they swung, like strange three-legged animals, back towards the front door. ‘Big red-headed woman, yes?’

‘No,’ said Strike. ‘Thin. Greying hair.’

‘Oh,’ said Chard, without much interest. ‘I met someone else.’

Strike paused beside the swing doors that led to the kitchen. Chard halted too, looking aggrieved.

‘I’m afraid I need to get on, Mr Strike—’

‘So do I,’ said Strike pleasantly, ‘but I don’t think my assistant would thank me for leaving her behind.’

Chard had evidently forgotten the existence of Robin, whom he had so peremptorily dismissed.

‘Oh, yes, of course – Manny! Nenita!’

‘She’s in the bathroom,’ said the stocky woman, emerging from the kitchen holding the linen bag containing Robin’s shoes.

The wait passed in a faintly uncomfortable silence. At last Robin appeared, her expression stony, and slipped her feet back into her shoes.

The cold air bit their warm faces as the front door swung open while Strike shook hands with Chard. Robin moved directly to the car and climbed into the driver’s seat without speaking to anyone.

Manny reappeared in his thick coat.

‘I’ll come down with you,’ he told Strike. ‘To check the gates.’

‘They can buzz the house if they’re stuck, Manny,’ said Chard, but the young man paid no attention, clambering into the car as before.

The three of them rode in silence back down the black-and-white drive, through the falling snow. Manny pressed the remote control he had brought with him and the gates slid open without difficulty.

‘Thanks,’ said Strike, turning to look at him in the back seat. ‘’Fraid you’ve got a cold walk back.’

Manny sniffed, got out of the car and slammed the door. Robin had just shifted into first gear when Manny appeared at Strike’s window. She applied the brake.

‘Yeah?’ said Strike, winding the window down.

‘I didn’t push him,’ said Manny fiercely.

‘Sorry?’

‘Down the stairs,’ said Manny. ‘I didn’t push him. He’s lying.’

Strike and Robin stared at him.

‘You believe me?’

‘Yeah,’ said Strike.

‘OK then,’ said Manny, nodding at them. ‘OK.’

He turned and walked, slipping a little in his rubber-soled shoes, back up to the house.





30





… as an earnest of friendship and confidence, I’ll acquaint you with a design that I have. To tell truth, and speak openly one to another…



William Congreve, Love for Love





At Strike’s insistence, they stopped for lunch at the Burger King at Tiverton Services.

‘You need to eat something before we go up the road.’

Robin accompanied him inside with barely a word, making no reference even to Manny’s recent, startling assertion. Her cold and slightly martyred air did not entirely surprise Strike, but he was impatient with it. She queued for their burgers, because he could not manage both tray and crutches, and when she had set down the loaded tray at the small Formica table he said, trying to defuse the tension:

‘Look, I know you expected me to tell Chard off for treating you like staff.’

‘I didn’t,’ Robin contradicted him automatically. (Hearing him say it aloud made her feel petulant, childish.)

‘Have it your own way,’ said Strike with an irritable shrug, taking a large bite of his first burger.

They ate in disgruntled silence for a minute or two, until Robin’s innate honesty reasserted itself.

‘All right, I did, a bit,’ she said.

Mellowed by greasy food and touched by her admission, Strike said:

‘I was getting good stuff out of him, Robin. You don’t start picking arguments with interviewees when they’re in full flow.’

‘Sorry for my amateurishness,’ she said, stung all over again.

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ he said. ‘Who’s calling you—?’

‘What were you intending, when you took me on?’ she demanded suddenly, letting her unwrapped burger fall back onto the tray.

The latent resentment of weeks had suddenly burst its bounds. She did not care what she heard; she wanted the truth. Was she a typist and a receptionist, or was she something more? Had she stayed with Strike, and helped him climb out of penury, merely to be shunted aside like domestic staff?

‘Intending?’ repeated Strike, staring at her. ‘What d’you mean, intend—?’

‘I thought you meant me to be – I thought I was going to get some – some training,’ said Robin, pink-cheeked and unnaturally bright-eyed. ‘You’ve mentioned it a couple of times, but then lately you’ve been talking about getting someone else in. I took a pay cut,’ she said tremulously. ‘I turned down better-paid jobs. I thought you meant me to be—’