PraiseforTheCuckoo’sCalling

‘AbrilliantdepictionofLondonlife…atheartit’sanengrossingandwell-craftedwho-dunnit.Unsurprisingly

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appreciatehisrelianceondeductionandobservation

alongwithGalbraith’sskilledstorytelling’Booklist

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andtold’MarkLawson,Guardian

‘Ilovedit’

PeterJames

‘Ascintillatingnovelsetintheworldofmodels,rappers,fashiondesigners,druggies

andillicitliaisons’TheTimes

‘Inararefeat,Galbraithcombinesacomplexandcompellingsleuthandanequallywell-formedandunlikelyassistantwitha

bafflingcrime…Readerswill

hopetoseealotmoreofthismemorablesleuthingteam’

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year’DailyMail

‘[The]descriptionsof

contemporaryLondonareexcellent’

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book…itsnarrativemovesforwardwithpropulsive

suspense’NewYorkTimes

‘Ladenwithplentyoftwistsanddistractions,thisdebutensuresthatreaderswillbe

puzzledandtotallyengrossed’

LibraryJournal

‘Utterlycompelling…ateammadeinheaven’SagaMagazine

‘Agripping,finelycrafted

andatmosphericmystery,anditscharismatichero,ex-soldier-turned-private-eye

CormoranStrike,isabrilliantcreation’

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TheSilkwormTableofContents

Praise for TheCuckoo’sCallingCOPYRIGHTDedication

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49Oneweeklater50Acknowledgements

ToJenkins,withoutwhom…heknowstherest

…bloodandvengeancethescene,deaththestory,aswordimbruedwithblood,thepenthatwrites,andthepoetaterriblebuskinedtragicalfellow,withawreathabouthisheadofburningmatchinsteadofbays.

TheNobleSpanishSoldier

ThomasDekker

1

QUESTIONWhatdostthoufeedon?ANSWERBrokensleep.ThomasDekker,TheNoble

SpanishSoldier

‘Someone bloody famous,’said the hoarse voice on the

end of the line, ‘better’vedied,Strike.’The large unshaven man

tramping through thedarkness of pre-dawn, withhis telephone clamped to hisear,grinned.‘It’sinthatballpark.’‘It’s six o’clock in the

fuckingmorning!’‘It’s half past, but if you

want what I’ve got, you’llneedtocomeandgetit,’saidCormoranStrike.‘I’mnotfar

away from your place.There’sa—’‘Howd’youknowwhere I

live?’demandedthevoice.‘You toldme,’saidStrike,

stifling a yawn. ‘You’resellingyourflat.’‘Oh,’ said the other,

mollified.‘Goodmemory.’‘There’s a twenty-four-

hourcaff—’‘Fuck that. Come into the

officelater—’‘Culpepper, I’ve got

another client this morning,he pays better than you doand I’ve been up all night.You need this now if you’regoingtouseit.’Agroan.Strike couldhear

therustlingofsheets.‘Ithadbetterbeshit-hot.’‘Smithfield Café on Long

Lane,’ said Strike and rangoff.The slight unevenness in

his gait became morepronounced as he walked

down the slope towardsSmithfield Market,monolithic in the winterdarkness, a vast rectangularVictorian temple to meat,where from four everyweekday morning animalfleshwasunloaded, as it hadbeen for centuries past, cut,parcelledandsoldtobutchersand restaurants acrossLondon. Strike could hearvoices through the gloom,shouted instructions and the

growl and beep of reversinglorries unloading thecarcasses.AsheenteredLongLane, he becamemerely oneamongmanyheavilymuffledmen moving purposefullyabout their Monday-morningbusiness.A huddle of couriers in

fluorescent jackets cuppedmugs of tea in their glovedhands beneath a stone griffinstanding sentinel on thecornerofthemarketbuilding.

Acrosstheroad,glowinglikean open fireplace against thesurrounding darkness, wasthe Smithfield Café, opentwenty-four hours a day, acupboard-sized cache ofwarmthandgreasyfood.Thecaféhadnobathroom,

but an arrangement with thebookies a few doors along.Ladbrokes would not openfor another three hours, soStrikemadeadetourdownaside alley and in a dark

doorwayrelievedhimselfofabladder bulging with weakcoffeedrunk in thecourseofa night’s work. Exhaustedandhungry,heturnedat last,with the pleasure that only amanwhohaspushedhimselfpast his physical limits canever experience, into the fat-laden atmosphere of fryingeggsandbacon.Two men in fleeces and

waterproofs had just vacateda table. Strike manoeuvered

his bulk into the small spaceand sank, with a grunt ofsatisfaction, onto the hardwoodandsteelchair.Almostbefore he asked, the Italianowner placed tea in front ofhim in a tall white mug,whichcamewith trianglesofwhite buttered bread. Withinfive minutes a full Englishbreakfastlaybeforehimonalargeovalplate.Strike blended well with

the strongmen banging their

wayinandoutofthecafé.Hewas large and dark, withdense, short, curly hair thathad receded a little from thehigh, domed forehead thattopped a boxer’s broad noseand thick, surly brows. Hisjaw was grimy with stubbleand bruise-coloured shadowsenlargedhisdarkeyes.Heategazingdreamilyatthemarketbuilding opposite. Thenearest arched entrance,numbered two, was taking

substance as the darknessthinned: a stern stone face,ancient and bearded, staredback at him from over thedoorway.Hadthereeverbeenagodofcarcasses?He had just started on his

sausages when DominicCulpepper arrived. Thejournalist was almost as tallas Strike but thin, with achoirboy’s complexion. Astrangeasymmetry,asthoughsomebodyhadgivenhis face

a counterclockwise twist,stopped him being girlishlyhandsome.‘This better be good,’

Culpepper said as he satdown, pulled off his glovesand glanced almostsuspiciouslyaroundthecafé.‘Want some food?’ asked

Strike through amouthful ofsausage.‘No,’saidCulpepper.‘Rather wait till you can

getacroissant?’askedStrike,

grinning.‘Fuckoff,Strike.’It was almost pathetically

easytowinduptheex-publicschoolboy, who ordered teawith an air of defiance,calling the indifferent waiter(as Strike noted withamusement)‘mate’.‘Well?’ demanded

Culpepper,with the hotmuginhislongpalehands.Strike fished in his

overcoat pocket, brought out

anenvelopeandsliditacrossthe table. Culpepper pulledoutthecontentsandbegantoread.‘Fucking hell,’ he said

quietly, after a while. Heshuffled feverishly throughthe bits of paper, some ofwhich were covered inStrike’sownwriting. ‘Wherethehelldidyougetthis?’Strike, whose mouth was

full of sausage, jabbed afinger at one of the bits of

paper, on which an officeaddresswasscribbled.‘His very fucked-off PA,’

he said, when he had finallyswallowed. ‘He’s beenshagging her, as well as thetwo you know about. She’sonly just realised she’s notgoing to be the next LadyParker.’‘Howthehelldidyoufind

that out?’ asked Culpepper,staring up at Strike over thepapers trembling in his

excitedhands.‘Detective work,’ said

Strike thickly, throughanother bit of sausage.‘Didn’t your lot used to dothis, before you startedoutsourcing to the likes ofme? But she’s got to thinkabout her future employmentprospects, Culpepper, so shedoesn’twant toappear in thestory,allright?’Culpeppersnorted.‘She should’ve thought

about that before she nicked—’With a deft movement,

Striketweakedthepapersoutofthejournalist’sfingers.‘She didn’t nick them. He

gothertoprintthislotoffforhim this afternoon. The onlything she’s done wrong isshow it to me. But if you’regoing to splash her privatelife all over the papers,Culpepper, I’ll take ’emback.’

‘Piss off,’ said Culpepper,making a grab for theevidence of wholesale taxevasion clutched in Strike’shairy hand. ‘All right, we’llleave her out of it. But he’llknow where we got it. He’snotacompletetit.’‘What’s he going to do,

dragherintocourtwhereshecan spill the beans abouteveryotherdodgythingshe’switnessed over the last fiveyears?’

‘Yeah, all right,’ sighedCulpepper after a moment’sreflection. ‘Give ’em back.I’llleaveheroutofthestory,but I’ll need to speak to her,won’tI?Checkshe’skosher.’‘Those are kosher. You

don’t need to speak to her,’saidStrikefirmly.The shaking, besotted,

bitterly betrayed womanwhomhe had just leftwouldnot be safe left alone withCulpepper. In her savage

desireforretributionagainstaman who had promised hermarriage and children shewoulddamageherselfandherprospects beyond repair. Ithad not taken Strike long togainhertrust.Shewasnearlyforty-two; she had thoughtthat she was going to haveLordParker’schildren;nowakind of bloodlust had her inits grip. Strike had sat withher for several hours,listening to the story of her

infatuation, watching herpacehersittingroomintears,rockbackwardsandforwardson her sofa, knuckles to herforehead. Finally she hadagreed to this:abetrayal thatrepresented the funeral of allherhopes.‘You’regoing to leaveher

outofit,’saidStrike,holdingthepapersfirmlyinafistthatwas nearly twice the size ofCulpepper’s. ‘Right? This isstill a fucking massive story

withouther.’After a moment’s

hesitationandwithagrimace,Culpeppercavedin.‘Yeah, all right. Give me

them.’The journalist shoved the

statements into an insidepocket and gulped his tea,and his momentarydisgruntlement at Strikeseemedtofadeinthegloriousprospect of dismantling thereputationofaBritishpeer.

‘Lord Parker ofPennywell,’ he said happilyunder his breath, ‘you arewell and truly screwed,mate.’‘I take ityourproprietor’ll

getthis?’Strikeasked,asthebilllandedbetweenthem.‘Yeah,yeah…’Culpepper threw a ten-

pound note down onto thetableandthetwomenleftthecafé together. Strike lit up acigarette as soon as the door

had swung closed behindthem.‘How did you get her to

talk?’ Culpepper asked asthey set off together throughthe cold, past themotorbikesandlorriesstillarrivingatanddepartingthemarket.‘Ilistened,’saidStrike.Culpepper shot him a

sidewaysglance.‘Alltheotherprivatedicks

Iusespendtheirtimehackingphonemessages.’

‘Illegal,’ said Strike,blowing smoke into thethinningdarkness.‘Sohow—?’‘You protect your sources

andI’llprotectmine.’Theywalked fiftyyards in

silence, Strike’s limp moremarkedwitheverystep.‘This is going to be

massive. Massive,’ saidCulpepper gleefully. ‘Thathypocritical old shit’s beenbleating on about corporate

greed and he’s had twentymill’ stashed in the CaymanIslands…’‘Glad to give satisfaction,’

saidStrike.‘I’llemailyoumyinvoice.’Culpepper threw him

anothersidewayslook.‘See Tom Jones’s son in

the paper last week?’ heasked.‘TomJones?’‘Welsh singer,’ said

Culpepper.

‘Oh, him,’ said Strike,withoutenthusiasm.‘IknewaTomJonesinthearmy.’‘Didyouseethestory?’‘No.’‘Nice long interview he

gave.Hesayshe’snevermethis father, never had a wordfrom him. I bet he got morethanyourbillisgoingtobe.’‘You haven’t seen my

invoiceyet,’saidStrike.‘Justsaying.Onenicelittle

interviewandyoucould take

a few nights off frominterviewingsecretaries.’‘You’re going to have to

stop suggesting this,’ saidStrike, ‘or I’mgoing to haveto stop working for you,Culpepper.’‘Course,’ said Culpepper,

‘Icouldrunthestoryanyway.Rockstar’sestrangedsonisawar hero, never knew hisfather, working as a private—’‘Instructingpeople tohack

phonesisillegalaswell,I’veheard.’At the top of Long Lane

they slowed and turned toface each other. Culpepper’slaughwasuneasy.‘I’ll wait for your invoice,

then.’‘Suitsme.’They set off in different

directions, Strike headingtowardstheTubestation.‘Strike!’Culpepper’svoice

echoed through the darkness

behind him. ‘Did you fuckher?’‘Looking forward to

reading it,Culpepper,’ Strikeshouted wearily, withoutturninghishead.He limped into the

shadowy entrance of thestation and was lost toCulpepper’ssight.

2

How long must wefight?forIcannotstay,Norwillnotstay!Ihavebusiness.FrancisBeaumontand

PhilipMassinger,TheLittleFrenchLawyer

The Tube was filling up

already. Monday-morningfaces:sagging,gaunt,braced,resigned. Strike found a seatopposite a puffy-eyed youngblonde whose head keptsinking sideways into sleep.Again and again she jerkedherselfbackupright,scanningthe blurred signs of thestationsfranticallyincaseshehadmissedherstop.The train rattled and

clattered, speeding Strikebacktowardsthemeagretwo

and a half rooms under apoorly insulated roof that hecalledhome.Inthedepthsofhis tiredness, surrounded bythese blank, sheep-likevisages, he found himselfpondering the accidents thathad brought all of them intobeing. Every birth was,viewed properly, merechance. With a hundredmillion sperm swimmingblindly through the darkness,the odds against a person

becoming themselves werestaggering.HowmanyofthisTube-full had been planned,he wondered, light-headedwith tiredness. And howmany, like him, wereaccidents?Therehadbeena littlegirl

in his primary school classwho had a port-wine stainacrossherfaceandStrikehadalways felt a secret kinshipwith her, because both ofthem had carried something

indelibly different with themsince birth, something thatwas not their fault. Theycouldn’tseeit,buteverybodyelse could, and had the badmanners to keep mentioningit.Theoccasional fascinationof total strangers, which atfiveyearsoldhehadthoughthadsomething todowithhisown uniqueness, heeventually realised wasbecause they saw him as nomore than a famous singer’s

zygote, the incidentalevidence of a celebrity’sunfaithful fumble. Strike hadonlymethisbiologicalfathertwice. It had taken a DNAtest to make Jonny Rokebyacceptpaternity.Dominic Culpepper was a

walking distillation of theprurience and presumptionsthat Strike met on the veryrareoccasionsthesedaysthatanybodyconnected thesurly-looking ex-soldier with the

ageing rock star. Theirthoughtsleaptatoncetotrustfunds and handsome hand-outs, to private flights andVIP lounges, to a multi-millionaire’s largesse on tap.Agog at the modesty ofStrike’s existence and thepunishing hours he worked,they asked themselves: whatmust Strike have done toalienate his father? Was hefaking penury to wheedlemoremoney out of Rokeby?

What had he done with themillions his mother hadsurely squeezed out of herrichparamour?And at such times, Strike

would think nostalgically ofthearmy,oftheanonymityofa career in which yourbackground and yourparentage counted for almostnothingbesideyourabilitytodo the job. Back in theSpecial InvestigationBranch,themostpersonalquestionhe

hadfacedonintroductionwasa request to repeat the oddpairofnameswithwhichhisextravagantly unconventionalmotherhadsaddledhim.Trafficwas already rolling

busily along Charing CrossRoad by the time Strikeemerged from the Tube. TheNovember dawn wasbreakingnow,grey andhalf-hearted, full of lingeringshadows. He turned intoDenmark Street feeling

drained and sore, lookingforward to the short sleep hemight be able to squeeze inbefore his next client arrivedatninethirty.Withawaveatthe girl in the guitar shop,with whom he often tookcigarettebreakson thestreet,Strike let himself in throughthe black outer door besidethe12BarCaféandbegantoclimb themetalstaircase thatcurled around the brokenbirdcage lift inside. Up past

the graphic designer on thefirstfloor,pasthisownofficewith its engraved glass dooronthesecond;uptothethirdand smallest landing wherehishomenowlay.The previous occupant,

manager of the bardownstairs, hadmoved on tomore salubrious quarters andStrike,whohadbeensleepinginhisofficeforafewmonths,hadleaptatthechancetorenttheplace,gratefulforsuchan

easy solution to the problemof his homelessness. Thespace under the eaves wassmall by any standards, andespecially for a man of sixfoot three. He scarcely hadroom to turn around in theshower; kitchen and livingroomwereuneasilycombinedand the bedroomwas almostentirely filled by the doublebed. Some of Strike’spossessions remained boxedupon the landing, inspiteof

the landlord’s injunctionagainstthis.His smallwindows looked

out across rooftops, withDenmark Street far below.Theconstantthrobofthebassfrom the bar below wasmuffled to the point thatStrike’s own music oftenobliteratedit.Strike’s innate orderliness

wasmanifest throughout: thebed was made, the crockeryclean,everythinginitsplace.

He needed a shave andshower, but that could wait;afterhanginguphisovercoat,he set his alarm for ninetwenty and stretched out onthebedfullyclothed.He fell asleep within

seconds and within a fewmore – or so it seemed – hewas awake again. Somebodywasknockingonhisdoor.‘I’m sorry, Cormoran, I’m

reallysorry—’His assistant, a tall young

womanwithlongstrawberry-blonde hair, lookedapologetic as he opened thedoor, but at the sight of himher expression becameappalled.‘Areyouallright?’‘Wuzassleep. Been ’wake

allnight–twonights.’‘I’m really sorry,’ Robin

repeated, ‘but it’s nine fortyandWilliamBaker’shereandgetting—’‘Shit,’ mumbled Strike.

‘Can’t’vesetthealarmright–gimmefivemin—’‘That’snotall,’saidRobin.

‘There’s a woman here. Shehasn’t got an appointment.I’ve toldheryouhaven’t gotroom for another client, butshe’srefusingtoleave.’Strikeyawned, rubbinghis

eyes.‘Five minutes. Make them

teaorsomething.’Six minutes later, in a

clean shirt, smelling of

toothpaste and deodorant butstill unshaven, Strike enteredthe outer officewhereRobinwassittingathercomputer.‘Well, better late than

never,’ said William Bakerwith a rigid smile. ‘Luckyyou’ve got such a good-looking secretary, or I mighthavegotboredandleft.’Strike saw Robin flush

angrily as she turned away,ostensibly organising thepost. There had been

something inherentlyoffensive in the way thatBaker had said ‘secretary’.Immaculate in his pinstripedsuit, the company directorwas employing Strike toinvestigate two of his fellowboardmembers.‘Morning, William,’ said

Strike.‘No apology?’ murmured

Baker,hiseyesontheceiling.‘Hello, who are you?’

Strike asked, ignoring him

and addressing instead theslight,middle-agedwomaninan old brown overcoat whowasperchedonthesofa.‘Leonora Quine,’ she

replied, in what sounded, toStrike’s practised ear, like aWestCountryaccent.‘I’ve got a very busy

morning ahead, Strike,’ saidBaker.He walked without

invitation into the inneroffice. When Strike did not

follow, he lost a little of hissuavity.‘Idoubtyougotawaywith

shoddy time-keeping in thearmy,MrStrike.Comealong,please.’Strikedidnotseemtohear

him.‘What exactly is it you

were wanting me to do foryou, Mrs Quine?’ he askedthe shabby woman on thesofa.‘Well,it’smyhusband—’

‘Mr Strike, I’ve got anappointment in just over anhour,’ said William Baker,moreloudly.‘—your secretary said you

didn’t have no appointmentsbutIsaidI’dwait.’‘Strike!’ barked William

Baker,callinghisdogtoheel.‘Robin,’ snarled the

exhausted Strike, losing histemper at last. ‘Make upMrBaker’sbillandgivehimthefile;it’suptodate.’

‘What?’ said WilliamBaker, thrown. He re-emergedintotheouteroffice.‘He’s sacking you,’ said

Leonora Quine withsatisfaction.‘You haven’t finished the

job,’ Baker told Strike. ‘Yousaidtherewasmore—’‘Someone else can finish

the job for you. Someonewho doesn’t mind tossers asclients.’The atmosphere in the

office seemed to becomepetrified. Wooden-faced,Robin retrieved Baker’s filefrom the outer cabinet andhandedittoStrike.‘Howdare—’‘There’salotofgoodstuff

in that file that’ll standup incourt,’saidStrike,handing itto the director. ‘Well worththemoney.’‘Youhaven’tfinished—’‘He’s finished with you,’

interjectedLeonoraQuine.

‘Will you shut up, youstupid wom—’ WilliamBaker began, then took asudden step backwards asStrike took a half-stepforwards. Nobody saidanything. The ex-servicemanseemedsuddenlytobefillingtwice as much space as hehadjustsecondsbefore.‘Take a seat in my office,

Mrs Quine,’ said Strikequietly.Shedidasshewastold.

‘Youthinkshe’llbeabletoafford you?’ sneered aretreatingWilliamBaker, hishandnowonthedoorhandle.‘My fees are negotiable,’

said Strike, ‘if I like theclient.’He followed Leonora

Quine into his office andclosed the door behind himwithasnap.

3

… left alone to bear upalltheseills…ThomasDekker,TheNoble

SpanishSoldier

‘He’s a right one, isn’t he?’commentedLeonoraQuineasshe sat down in the chairfacingStrike’sdesk.

‘Yeah,’ agreed Strike,sinking heavily into the seatoppositeher.‘Heis.’In spite of a barely

crumpled pink-and-whitecomplexion and the clearwhites of her pale blue eyes,shelookedaroundfifty.Fine,limp, greying hair was heldoff her face by two plasticcombs and she was blinkingat him through old-fashionedglasseswithover-largeplasticframes. Her coat, though

clean,hadsurelybeenboughtin the eighties. It hadshoulder pads and largeplasticbuttons.‘Soyou’rehereaboutyour

husband,MrsQuine?’‘Yeah,’ said Leonora.

‘He’smissing.’‘How long’s he been

gone?’askedStrike,reachingautomaticallyforanotebook.‘Tendays,’saidLeonora.‘Have you been to the

police?’

‘I don’t need the police,’she said impatiently, asthough she was tired ofexplaining this to people. ‘Icalled them once before andeveryone was angry at mebecause he was only with afriend. Owen just goes offsometimes. He’s a writer,’she said, as though thisexplainedeverything.‘He’sdisappearedbefore?’‘He’s emotional,’ she said,

her expression glum. ‘He’s

always going off on one, butit’sbeentendaysandIknowhe’s really upset but I needhim home now. There’sOrlandoandI’vegotthingstodoandthere’s—’‘Orlando?’repeatedStrike,

his tiredmind on theFloridaresort. He did not have timetogotoAmericaandLeonoraQuine, in her ancient coat,certainly did not look asthough she could afford aticketforhim.

‘Our daughter, Orlando,’said Leonora. ‘She needslooking after. I’ve got aneighbour in to sit with herwhileI’mhere.’There was a knock on the

doorandRobin’sbrightgoldheadappeared.‘Wouldyoulikecoffee,Mr

Strike?You,MrsQuine?’When they had given

Robin their orders and shehadwithdrawn,Leonorasaid:‘It won’t take you long,

becauseIthinkIknowwhereheis,onlyIcan’tgetholdofthe address and nobody’lltake my calls. It’s been tendays,’ she repeated, ‘and weneedhimhome.’It seemed toStrike agreat

extravagance to resort to aprivate detective in thiscircumstance, especially asher appearance exhaledpoverty.‘Ifit’sasimplequestionof

makingaphonecall,’hesaid

gently, ‘haven’t you got afriendora—?’‘Ednacan’tdoit,’shesaid

and he found himselfdisproportionately touched(exhaustion sometimes laidhim raw in this way) at hertacit admission that she hadone friend in the world.‘Owen’stoldthemnot tosaywhereheis. Ineed,’shesaidsimply,‘amantodoit.Forcethemtosay.’‘Your husband’s name’s

Owen,isit?’‘Yeah,’shereplied,‘Owen

Quine. He wrote Hobart’sSin.’Neither name nor title

meantanythingtoStrike.‘And you think you know

whereheis?’‘Yeah. We was at this

party with a load ofpublishers and people – hedidn’twant to takeme,but Isays, “I got a babysitteralready, I’m coming” – so I

hears Christian Fisher tellingOwen about this place, thiswriter’s retreat place. Andafterwards I says to Owen,“Whatwas thatplacehewastellingyouabout?”andOwensays, “I’m not telling you,that’sthewholebloodypoint,getting away from the wifeandkids.”’She almost invited Strike

to join her husband inlaughing at her; proud, asmotherssometimespretendto

be,oftheirchild’sinsolence.‘Who’s Christian Fisher?’

asked Strike, forcing himselftoconcentrate.‘Publisher. Young, trendy

bloke.’‘Have you tried phoning

Fisherandaskinghimfortheaddressofthisretreat?’‘Yeah, I’ve called him

everydayforaweekandtheysaid they’d taken a messageandhe’dgetback tome,buthehasn’t.IthinkOwen’stold

him not to say where he is.But you’ll be able to get theaddressoutofFisher.Iknowyou’re good,’ she said. ‘Yousolved that Lula Landrything,whenthepolicenever.’A mere eight months

previously,Strikehadhadbuta single client, his businesshad been moribund and hisprospects desperate. Then hehadproven,tothesatisfactionof the Crown ProsecutionService, that a famousyoung

woman had not committedsuicide but had been pushedto her death from a fourth-floor balcony. The ensuingpublicity had brought a tideof business; he had been, fora fewweeks, thebest-knownprivate detective in themetropolis. Jonny Rokebyhad become a mere footnoteto his story; Strike hadbecome a name in his ownright, albeit a name mostpeoplegotwrong…

‘Iinterruptedyou,’hesaid,trying hard to hold on to thethreadofhisthoughts.‘Didyou?’‘Yeah,’ said Strike,

squinting at his own crabbedwriting on the notebook.‘You said, “There’sOrlando,I’ve got things to do andthere’s—”’‘Oh yeah,’ she said,

‘there’s funny stuffhappeningsinceheleft.’‘Whatkindoffunnystuff?’

‘Shit,’ saidLeonoraQuinematter-of-factly, ‘throughourletterbox.’‘Someone’s put excrement

through your letter box?’Strikesaid.‘Yeah.’‘Since your husband

disappeared?’‘Yeah.Dog,’saidLeonora,

and it was a split-secondbefore Strike deduced thatthisappliedtotheexcrement,not her husband. ‘Three or

fourtimesnow,atnight.Nicethingtofindinthemorning,Idon’t think.And therewas awomancometothedoorandall,whowasweird.’She paused, waiting for

Strike to prompt her. Sheseemed to enjoy beingquestioned. Many lonelypeople,Strikeknew, found itpleasant to be the focus ofsomebody’s undividedattention and sought toprolongthenovelexperience.

‘When did this womancometothedoor?’‘Lastweek itwas,andshe

asks for Owen and when Isays, “He’s not here,” shesays,“TellhimAngeladied,”andwalksoff.’‘And you didn’t know

her?’‘Neverseenherbefore.’‘DoyouknowanAngela?’‘No. But he gets women

fans going funny over him,sometimes,’ said Leonora,

suddenlyexpansive.‘Like,hehad this woman once thatwrote him letters and senthimphotosofherselfdressedup likeoneofhis characters.Some of these women whowrite to him think heunderstands them orsomething because of hisbooks.Silly, innit?’ she said.‘It’sallmadeup.’‘Do fans usually know

whereyourhusbandlives?’‘No,’ said Leonora. ‘But

shecould’vebina studentorsomething. He teacheswritingaswell,sometimes.’The door opened and

Robin entered with a tray.After putting black coffee infront of Strike and a tea infront of Leonora Quine, shewithdrew again, closing thedoorbehindher.‘Is that everything strange

that’s happened?’ Strikeasked Leonora. ‘Theexcrement through the door,

andthiswomancomingtothehouse?’‘And I think I’ve been

followed.Tall,darkgirlwithround shoulders,’ saidLeonora.‘This is adifferentwoman

totheone—?’‘Yeah,theonethatcometo

the house was dumpy. Longredhair.Thisone’sdark andbentover,like.’‘You’re sure she was

followingyou?’

‘Yeah, I think so. I seenher behind me two, threetimes now. She isn’t local,I’ve never seen her beforeand I’ve lived in LadbrokeGrovethirty-oddyears.’‘OK,’ said Strike slowly.

‘You said your husband’supset? What happened toupsethim?’‘He had a massive row

withhisagent.’‘What about, do you

know?’

‘Hisbook,his latest.Liz–that’shisagent–tellshimit’sthebestthinghe’severdone,andthen,like,adaylater,shetakes him out to dinner andsaysit’sunpublishable.’‘Why did she change her

mind?’‘Ask her,’ said Leonora,

showing anger for the firsttime. ‘Course he was upsetafter that. Anyone would be.He’sworkedonthatbookfortwoyears.Hecomeshomein

a right stateandhegoes intohisstudyandgrabsitall—’‘Grabswhat?’‘His book, the manuscript

andhisnotesandeverything,swearinghisheadoff,andheshoves them in a bag and hegoes off and I haven’t seenhimsince.’‘Has he got a mobile?

Haveyoutriedcallinghim?’‘Yeahandhe’snotpicking

up. He never does, when hegoesofflikethis.Hechucked

hisphoneoutthecarwindowonce,’ she said, again withthat faintnoteofprideatherhusband’sspirit.‘Mrs Quine,’ said Strike,

whose altruism necessarilyhad its limits, whatever hehad toldWilliamBaker, ‘I’llbe honest with you: I don’tcomecheap.’‘That’s all right,’ said

Leonora implacably. ‘Liz’llpay.’‘Liz?’

‘Liz – Elizabeth Tassel.Owen’s agent. It’s her faulthe’sgoneaway.Shecantakeit out of her commission.He’s her best client. She’llwanthimbackallright,oncesherealiseswhatshe’sdone.’Strike did not set asmuch

store by this assurance asLeonora herself seemed to.He added three sugars to thecoffee and gulped it down,trying to think how best toproceed. He felt vaguely

sorryforLeonoraQuine,whoseemed inured to her erratichusband’s tantrums, whoacceptedthefact thatnobodywould deign to return hercalls, who was sure that theonly help she could expectmust be paid for. Her slighteccentricity of manner aside,therewasa truculenthonestyabout her. Nevertheless, hehadbeenruthlessintakingononlyprofitablecasessincehisbusiness had received its

unexpected boost. Those fewpeoplewhohadcometohimwithhard-luckstories,hopingthat his own personaldifficulties (reported andembellished in the press)would predispose him tohelping them free of charge,hadleftdisappointed.But Leonora Quine, who

had drunk her tea quite asquicklyasStrikehaddownedhiscoffee,wasalreadyonherfeet, as though they had

agreed terms and everythingwassettled.‘I’d better get going,’ she

said, ‘I don’t like leavingOrlando too long. She’smissing her daddy. I’ve toldher I’m getting a man to gofindhim.’Strike had recently helped

several wealthy youngwomenridthemselvesofCityhusbands who had becomemuch less attractive to themsince the financial crash.

There was somethingappealing about restoring ahusband to a wife, for achange.‘All right,’ he said,

yawning as he pushed hisnotebook towards her. ‘I’llneedyourcontactdetails,MrsQuine.Aphotographofyourhusbandwouldbehandytoo.’Shewrote her address and

telephonenumberoutforhiminaround,childishhand,buthis request for a photo

seemedtosurpriseher.‘Whatd’youneedapicture

for? He’s at that writer’sretreat. Just make ChristianFishertellyouwhereitis.’She was through the door

before Strike, tired and sore,couldemergefrombehindhisdesk. He heard her saybriskly to Robin: ‘Ta for thetea,’ then theglassdoorontothe landing opened with aflashandclosedwithagentlejudder,andhisnewclienthad

gone.

4

Well, ’tisa rare thing tohave an ingeniousfriend…WilliamCongreve,The

Double-Dealer

Strike dropped onto the sofain the outer office. It wasalmost new, an essential

expenseashehadbrokenthesecond-hand one with whichhe had initially furnished theoffice. Covered in mockleather that he had thoughtsmart in the showroom, itmade farting noises if youmoved on it in the wrongway. His assistant – tall,curvaceous, with a clear,brilliant complexion andbright blue-grey eyes –scrutinised him over hercoffeecup.

‘Youlookterrible.’‘Spent all night weaseling

details of a peer of therealm’s sexual irregularitiesandfinancialmalfeasanceoutof a hysterical woman,’ saidStrike,onamassiveyawn.‘Lord Parker?’ gasped

Robin.‘That’s the one,’ said

Strike.‘He’sbeen—?’‘Shagging three women

simultaneously and salting

millions away offshore,’ saidStrike.‘Ifyou’vegotastrongstomach, try theNews of theWorldthisSunday.’‘Howonearthdidyoufind

allthatout?’‘Contact of a contact of a

contact,’intonedStrike.He yawned again, so

widelythatitlookedpainful.‘You should go to bed,’

saidRobin.‘Yeah, I should,’ said

Strike,buthedidnotmove.

‘You haven’t got anyoneelse till Gunfrey thisafternoonattwo.’‘Gunfrey,’ sighed Strike,

massaging his eye sockets.‘Why are all my clientsshits?’‘Mrs Quine doesn’t seem

likeashit.’He peered blearily at her

throughhisthickfingers.‘How d’you know I took

hercase?’‘I knew you would,’ said

Robin with an irrepressiblesmirk.‘She’syourtype.’‘Amiddle-aged throwback

totheeighties?’‘Your kind of client. And

youwantedtospiteBaker.’‘Seemed to work, didn’t

it?’The telephone rang. Still

grinning,Robinanswered.‘CormoranStrike’soffice,’

shesaid.‘Oh.Hi.’Itwasherfiancé,Matthew.

She glanced sideways at her

boss. Strike had closed hiseyesandtiltedhisheadback,his arms folded across hisbroadchest.‘Listen,’ said Matthew in

Robin’s ear; he neversounded very friendly whencalling fromwork. ‘Ineed tomove drinks from Friday toThursday.’‘OhMatt,’ she said, trying

to keep both disappointmentand exasperation out of hervoice.

It would be the fifth timethat arrangements for theseparticular drinks had beenmade. Robin alone, of thethree people involved, hadnot altered time, date orvenue,buthadshownherselfwilling and available oneveryoccasion.‘Why?’shemuttered.A sudden grunting snore

issued from the sofa. Strikehad fallen asleep where hesat,his largeheadtiltedback

against the wall, arms stillfolded.‘Work drinks on the

nineteenth,’ said Matthew.‘It’ll look bad if I don’t go.Showmyface.’Shefoughttheurgetosnap

at him. He worked for amajorfirmofaccountantsandsometimesheactedasthoughthis imposed socialobligations more appropriatetoadiplomaticposting.Shewassurethatsheknew

therealreasonforthechange.Drinks had been postponedrepeatedlyatStrike’srequest;oneachoccasionhehadbeenbusy with some piece ofurgent, evening work, andwhile the excuses had beengenuine, they had irritatedMatthew. Though he hadnever said it aloud, Robinknew that Matthew thoughtStrike was implying that histimewasmore valuable thanMatthew’s, his job more

important.Intheeightmonthsthatshe

had worked for CormoranStrike, her boss and herfiancé had notmet, not evenon that infamous night whenMatthew had picked her upfrom the casualty departmentwhere she had accompaniedStrike,withhercoatwrappedtightly around his stabbedarm after a cornered killerhadtriedtofinishhim.Whenshehademerged,shakenand

bloodstained, from the placewhere they were stitchingStrike up, Matthew haddeclined her offer tointroduce him to her injuredboss. He had been furiousabout the whole business,even though Robin hadreassuredhimthatsheherselfhadneverbeeninanydanger.Matthewhadneverwanted

her to take a permanent jobwith Strike, whom he hadregardedwith suspicion from

thefirst,dislikinghispenury,his homelessness and theprofession that Matthewseemed to find absurd. Thelittle snatches of informationthat Robin brought home –Strike’s career in the SpecialInvestigation Branch, theplain-clothes wing of theRoyal Military Police, hisdecoration for bravery, thelossofhislowerrightleg,theexpertise in a hundred areasofwhichMatthew – so used

to being expert in her eyes –knew little or nothing – hadnot (as she had innocentlyhoped)builtabridgebetweenthe two men, but hadsomehow reinforced thewallbetweenthem.Strike’s burst of fame, his

sudden shift from failure tosuccess, had if anythingdeepened Matthew’sanimosity. Robin realisedbelatedly that she had onlyexacerbated matters by

pointing out Matthew’sinconsistencies: ‘You don’tlike him being homeless andpoor and now you don’t likehim getting famous andbringinginloadsofwork!’ButStrike’sworstcrimein

Matthew’s eyes, as she wellknew, was the clingingdesigner dress that her bosshadboughtheraftertheirtriptothehospital,theonethathehad intended as a gift ofgratitude and farewell, and

which, after showing it toMatthew with pride anddelight, and seeing hisreaction,shehadneverdaredwear.All of thisRobinhoped to

fix with a face-to-facemeeting, but repeatedcancellations by Strike hadmerely deepened Matthew’sdislike.On the last occasion,Strike had simply failed toturnup.Hisexcuse– thathehad been forced to take a

detour to shake off a tail seton him by his client’ssuspiciousspouse–hadbeenacceptedbyRobin,whoknewthe intricacies of thatparticularly bloody divorcecase, but it had reinforcedMatthew’s view of Strike asattention-seeking andarrogant.She had had some

difficulty in persuadingMatthew to commit to afourthattemptatdrinks.Time

and venue had both beenpickedbyMatthew,butnow,after Robin had securedStrike’s agreement all overagain,Matthewwaschangingthe night and it wasimpossiblenot to feel thathewasdoingit tomakeapoint,toshowStrikethathetoohadother commitments; that hetoo (Robin could not helpherself thinkingit)couldpisspeoplearound.‘Fine,’ she sighed into the

phone, ‘I’ll check withCormoran and see whetherThursday’sOK.’‘You don’t sound like it’s

fine.’‘Matt, don’t start. I’ll ask

him,OK?’‘I’llseeyoulater,then.’Robin replaced the

receiver. Strike was now infull throat, snoring like atraction engine with hismouth open, legswide apart,feet flat on the floor, arms

folded.She sighed, looking at her

sleeping boss. Strike hadnever shown any animositytowards Matthew, had neverpassed comment on him inanyway.ItwasMatthewwhobroodedovertheexistenceofStrike, who rarely lost anopportunity to point out thatRobin could have earned agreat deal more if she hadtaken any of the other jobsshe had been offered before

deciding to stay with arackety private detective,deep in debt and unable topayherwhatshedeserved.Itwould ease her home lifeconsiderably if Matthewcouldbebroughttoshareheropinion of Cormoran Strike,tolikehim,evenadmirehim.Robin was optimistic: sheliked both of them, so whycould they not like eachother?Withasuddensnort,Strike

was awake. He opened hiseyesandblinkedather.‘I was snoring,’ he stated,

wipinghismouth.‘Not much,’ she lied.

‘Listen, Cormoran, would itbeallrightifwemovedrinksfromFridaytoThursday?’‘Drinks?’‘With Matthew and me,’

she said. ‘Remember? TheKing’sArms,Roupell Street.I didwrite it down for you,’she said, with a slightly

forcedcheeriness.‘Right,’ he said. ‘Yeah.

Friday.’‘No,Mattwants–hecan’t

do Friday. Is it OK to doThursdayinstead?’‘Yeah, fine,’ he said

groggily. ‘I think I’m goingto try and get some sleep,Robin.’‘All right. I’llmakeanote

aboutThursday.’‘What’s happening on

Thursday?’

‘Drinks with – oh, nevermind.Goandsleep.’She sat staring blankly at

hercomputerscreenafter theglass door had closed, thenjumpedasitopenedagain.‘Robin, could you call a

bloke called ChristianFisher,’saidStrike.‘Tellhimwho I am, tell him I’mlooking forOwenQuine andthat Ineed theaddressof thewriter’s retreathe toldQuineabout?’

‘Christian Fisher… wheredoeshework?’‘Bugger,’ muttered Strike.

‘I never asked. I’m soknackered. He’s apublisher…trendypublisher.’‘Noproblem,I’llfindhim.

Goandsleep.’When the glass door had

closed a second time, Robinturned her attention toGoogle.Withinthirtysecondsshe had discovered thatChristian Fisher was the

founder of a small presscalled Crossfire, based inExmouthMarket.As she dialled the

publisher’s number, shethought of the weddinginvitation that had beensitting in her handbag for aweeknow.RobinhadnottoldStrike the date of her andMatthew’s wedding, nor hadshe told Matthew that shewished to invite her boss. IfThursday’s drinks went

well…‘Crossfire,’ said a shrill

voice on the line. Robinfocused her attention on thejobinhand.

5

There’s nothing of soinfinitevexationAsman’sownthoughts.JohnWebster,TheWhite

Devil

TwentypastninethateveningfoundStrikelyinginaT-shirtand boxers on top of his

duvet,withtheremnantsofatakeaway curry on the chairbesidehim,readingthesportspages while the news playedon the TV he had set upfacingthebed.Themetalrodthat served as his right anklegleamed silver in the lightfrom thecheapdesk lamphehad placed on a box besidehim.There was to be an

England–France friendly atWembley on Wednesday

night, but Strike was muchmore interested in Arsenal’shomederbyagainstSpursthefollowing Saturday. He hadbeenanArsenalfansincehisearliestyouth, in imitationofhis Uncle Ted. Why UncleTed supported the Gunners,whenhehadlivedallhis lifein Cornwall, was a questionStrikehadneverasked.A misty radiance, through

whichstarswerestrugglingtotwinkle, filled the night sky

beyond the tiny windowbeside him. A few hours’sleepinthemiddleofthedayhaddonevirtuallynothing toalleviate his exhaustion, buthedidnot feelquite ready toturn in yet, not after a largelamb biryani and a pint ofbeer. A note in Robin’shandwriting lay beside himonthebed;shehadgivenittohim as he had left the officethat evening. Twoappointments were noted

there.Thefirstread:Christian Fisher, 9 a.m.

tomorrow, CrossfirePublishing,ExmouthMarketEC1

‘Why’s he want to see

me?’ Strike had asked her,surprised. ‘I only need theaddressof thatretreathetoldQuineabout.’‘I know,’ said Robin,

‘that’swhatItoldhim,buthe

sounded really excited tomeet you. He said he coulddo nine tomorrow andwouldn’t take no for ananswer.’What,Strikeaskedhimself

irritably, staring at the note,wasIplayingat?Exhausted,hehadallowed

temper to get the better ofhimthatmorningandditcheda well-heeled client whomight well have put morework his way. Then he had

allowed Leonora Quine tosteamroller him intoaccepting her as a client onthe most dubious promise ofpayment. Now that she wasnot in front of him, it washardtorememberthemixtureofpityandcuriosity thathadmadehimtakehercaseon.Inthe stark, cold quiet of hisattic room, his agreement tofind her sulking husbandseemed quixotic andirresponsible. Wasn’t the

whole point of trying to payoff his debts that he couldregainasliveroffreetime:aSaturday afternoon at theEmirates,aSundaylie-in?Hewas finally making moneyafterworkingalmostnon-stopfor months, attracting clientsnot only because of that firstglaring bout of notoriety butbecauseofaquieterword-of-mouth. Couldn’t he have putup with William Baker foranotherthreeweeks?

And what, Strike askedhimself, looking down atRobin’s handwritten noteagain, was this ChristianFisher so excited about thathewantedtomeetinperson?Could it be Strike himself,either as the solver of theLula Landry case or (muchworse) as the son of JonnyRokeby?Itwasverydifficultto gauge the level of yourown celebrity. Strike hadassumed that his burst of

unexpected fame was on thewane. It had been intensewhile it lasted, but thetelephone calls fromjournalists had subsidedmonthsagoanditwasalmostaslongsincehehadgivenhisname in any neutral contextand heard Lula Landry’sback. Strangers were onceagain doing what they haddonemostofhis life: callinghim some variation on‘CameronStrick’.

Ontheotherhand,perhapsthepublisherknewsomethingabout the vanished OwenQuine that he was eager toimpart to Strike, althoughwhy, in this case, he hadrefused to tell Quine’s wife,Strikecouldnotimagine.The second appointment

thatRobinhadwrittenoutforhimwasbeneathFisher’s:Thursday November 18th,

6.30p.m.,TheKing’sArms,

25RoupellStreet,SE1Strike knew why she hadwritten the date out soclearly: she was determinedthat this time – was it thethird or fourth time they’dtried? – he and her fiancéwouldfinallymeet.Little though the unknown

accountant might believe it,Strike was grateful forMatthew’s mere existence,and for the sapphire and

diamondringthatshonefromRobin’sthirdfinger.Matthewsounded like a dickhead(Robin little imagined howaccuratelyStrikerememberedeach of her casual asidesabout her fiancé), but heimposed a useful barrierbetweenStrikeandagirlwhomight otherwise disturb hisequilibrium.Strikehadnotbeenableto

guard against warm feelingsforRobin,who had stuck by

him when he was at hislowest ebb and helped himturnhis fortunesaround;nor,having normal eyesight,could he escape the fact thatshewas a very good-lookingwoman. He viewed herengagement as themeans bywhich a thin, persistentdraught is blocked up,something that might, ifallowed to flowuntrammelled, start toseriouslydisturbhis comfort.

Strike considered himself tobe in recovery after a long,turbulentrelationshipthathadended,asindeedithadbegun,in lies. He had no wish toalter his single status, whichhe found comfortable andconvenient, and hadsuccessfully avoided anyfurther emotionalentanglements formonths, inspite of his sister Lucy’sattempts to fix him up withwomenwhosoundedlikethe

desperate dregs of somedatingsite.Of course, it was possible

thatonceMatthewandRobinwere actually married,Matthew might use hisimproved status to persuadehisnewwife to leave the jobthat he clearly disliked herdoing (Strike had correctlyinterpreted Robin’shesitations and evasions onthat score). However, Strikewas sure that Robin would

have told him, had thewedding date been fixed, sohe considered that danger, atpresent,remote.With yet another huge

yawn, he folded thenewspaper and threw it ontothechair,turninghisattentionto the television news. Hisone personal extravagancesince moving into the tinyattic flat had been satelliteTV. His small portable setnow sat on top of aSkybox

and the picture, no longerreliant on a feeble indooraerial, was sharp instead ofgrainy. Kenneth Clarke, theJustice Secretary, wasannouncing plans to slash£350 million from the legalaid budget. Strike watchedthrough his haze of tirednessas the florid, paunchy mantold Parliament that hewished to ‘discourage peoplefrom resorting to lawyerswhenever they face a

problem, and insteadencourage them to considermore suitable methods ofdisputeresolution’.He meant, of course, that

poor people ought torelinquish the services of thelaw. The likes of Strike’saverage client would stillavailthemselvesofexpensivebarristers. Most of his workthesedayswasundertakenonbehalf of the mistrustful,endlessly betrayed rich. His

was the information that fedtheir sleek lawyers, thatenabled them to win bettersettlements in their vitriolicdivorces and theiracrimonious businessdisputes. A steady stream ofwell-heeled clients waspassing his name on tosimilarmenandwomen,withtediously similar difficulties;this was the reward fordistinction in his particularline of work, and if it was

often repetitive, it was alsolucrative.When the news ended he

clambered laboriouslyoff thebed,removedtheremnantsofhismealfromthechairbesidehim and walked stiffly intohissmallkitchenareatowasheverything up. He neverneglected such things: habitsof self-respect learned in thearmy had not left him in thedepths of his poverty, norwere they entirely due to

militarytraining.Hehadbeena tidy boy, imitating hisUncle Ted, whose liking fororder everywhere from histoolbox to his boathouse hadcontrastedsostarklywiththechaos that had surroundedStrike’smotherLeda.Within tenminutes,aftera

lastpee in the toilet thatwasalways sodden because of itsproximity to the shower, andcleaning his teeth at thekitchen sinkwhere therewas

more room, Strike was backon his bed, removing hisprosthesis.The weather forecast for

thenextdaywasroundingoffthe news: sub-zerotemperatures and fog. Strikerubbedpowderintotheendofhisamputatedleg;itwaslesssoretonightthanithadbeenafewmonthsago.Today’sfullEnglish breakfast andtakeaway currynotwithstanding,hehadlosta

bit of weight since he hadbeenabletocookforhimselfagain, and this had eased thepressureonhisleg.He pointed the remote

control at the TV screen; alaughing blonde and herwashing powder vanishedinto blankness. Strikemanoeuvredhimselfclumsilybeneaththecovers.Of course, if Owen Quine

was hiding at his writer’sretreat it would be easy

enough to winkle him out.Egotistical bastard, hesounded, flouncing off intothedarknesswithhispreciousbook…The hazymental image of

a furiousmanstormingawaywith a holdall over hisshoulder dissolved almost asquickly as it had formed.Strike was sliding into awelcome,deepanddreamlesssleep. The faint pulse of abass guitar far below in the

subterranean bar was swiftlydrowned by his own raspingsnores.

6

Oh, Mr Tattle, everything is safe with you,weknow.WilliamCongreve,Love

forLove

Wads of icy mist were stillclinging to the buildings ofExmouthMarketwhenStrike

turnedintoitattentoninethefollowingmorning. Itdidnotfeel like aLondon street, notwith pavement seatingoutsideitsmanycafés,pastel-painted façades and abasilica-like church, gold,blueandbrick:ChurchofOurMost Holy Redeemer,wreathed in smoky vapour.Chilly fog, shops full ofcurios, kerb-side tables andchairs;ifhecouldhaveaddedthetangofsaltwaterandthe

mournful screech of seagullshe might have thoughthimself back in Cornwall,where he had spent themoststablepartsofhischildhood.A small sign on a

nondescript door beside abakeryannounced theofficesof Crossfire Publishing.Strike buzzed the bellpromptly at nine o’clock andwas admitted to a steepwhitewashed staircase, upwhich he clambered with

some difficulty and withliberaluseofthehandrail.He was met on the top

landing by a slight, dandyishand bespectacled man ofaround thirty. He had wavy,shoulder-lengthhairandworejeans, a waistcoat and apaisley shirt with a touch offrillaroundthecuffs.‘Hi there,’ he said. ‘I’m

Christian Fisher. Cameron,isn’tit?’‘Cormoran,’ Strike

corrected him automatically,‘but—’He had been about to say

thatheansweredtoCameron,a stock response to years ofthe mistake, but ChristianFishercamebackatonce:‘Cormoran – Cornish

giant.’‘That’s right,’ said Strike,

surprised.‘Wepublishedakids’book

onEnglishfolklorelastyear,’said Fisher, pushing open

white double doors andleadingStrikeintoacluttered,open-plan space with wallsplasteredinpostersandmanyuntidybookshelves.Ascruffyyoungwomanwith dark hairlooked up curiously at Strikeashewalkedpast.‘Coffee? Tea?’ offered

Fisher,leadingStrikeintohisownoffice, a small roomoffthemainareawithapleasantview over the sleepy, foggystreet. ‘I can get Jade to nip

out for us.’ Strike declined,saying truthfully that he hadjust had coffee, butwondering, too, why Fisherseemedtobesettlinginforalonger meeting than Strikefelt the circumstancesjustified. ‘Just a latte, then,Jade,’ Fisher called throughthedoor.‘Have a seat,’ Fisher said

toStrike,andhebegantoflitaround the bookshelves thatlined the walls. ‘Didn’t he

live in St Michael’s Mount,thegiantCormoran?’‘Yeah,’ said Strike. ‘And

Jack’s supposed to havekilled him. Of beanstalkfame.’‘It’sheresomewhere,’said

Fisher, still searching theshelves. ‘Folk Tales of theBritish Isles. Have you gotkids?’‘No,’saidStrike.‘Oh,’ said Fisher. ‘Well, I

won’tbother,then.’

AndwithagrinhetookthechairoppositeStrike.‘So, am I allowed to ask

who’s hired you? Am Iallowedtoguess?’‘Feel free,’ said Strike,

who on principle neverforbadespeculation.‘It’seitherDanielChardor

Michael Fancourt,’ saidFisher.‘AmIright?’The lenses on his glasses

gavehiseyesaconcentrated,beadylook.Thoughgivingno

outward sign, Strike wastaken aback. MichaelFancourt was a very famouswriterwho had recentlywona major literary prize. Whyexactly would he beinterested in the missingQuine?‘Afraid not,’ said Strike.

‘It’sQuine’swife,Leonora.’Fisher looked almost

comicallyastonished.‘His wife?’ he repeated

blankly. ‘Thatmousywoman

who looks like Rose West?What’s she hired a privatedetectivefor?’‘Her husband’s

disappeared. He’s been goneelevendays.’‘Quine’sdisappeared?But

–butthen…’StrikecouldtellFisherhad

been anticipating a verydifferentconversation,one towhich he had been eagerlylookingforward.‘Butwhy’sshesentyouto

me?’‘She thinks you know

whereQuineis.’‘How the hell would I

know?’ asked Fisher, and heappeared genuinelybewildered.‘He’snotafriendofmine.’‘MrsQuinesayssheheard

youtellingherhusbandabouta writer’s retreat, at a party—’‘Oh,’ said Fisher, ‘Bigley

Hall, yeah. But Owen won’t

be there!’When he laughed,he was transformed into abespectacledPuck:merrimentlaced with slyness. ‘Theywouldn’tletOwenQuineinifhe paid them. Born shit-stirrer.Andoneofthewomenwho runs the place hates hisguts. He wrote a stinkingreview of her first novel andshe’sneverforgivenhim.’‘Could you give me the

number anyway?’ askedStrike.

‘I’ve got it on here,’ saidFisher, pulling a mobile outof the back pocket of hisjeans.‘I’llcallnow…’And he did so, setting the

mobile on the desk betweenthem and switching it on tospeakerphone for Strike’sbenefit.Afterafullminuteofringing, a breathless femalevoiceanswered:‘BigleyHall.’‘Hi, is that Shannon? It’s

Chris Fisher here, from

Crossfire.’‘Oh, hi Chris, how’s it

going?’ThedoorofFisher’soffice

opened and the scruffy darkgirl from outside came in,wordlessly placed a latte infrontofFisheranddeparted.‘I’m phoning, Shan,’

Fisher said, as the doorclickedshut,‘toseeifyou’vegot OwenQuine staying. Hehasn’t turned up there, hashe?’

‘Quine?’Even reduced to a distant

and tinny monosyllable,Shannon’s dislike echoedscornfully around the book-linedroom.‘Yeah, have you seen

him?’‘Not for a year or more.

Why? He’s not thinking ofcominghere,ishe?Hewon’tbebloodywelcome,Icantellyouthat.’‘Noworries, Shan, I think

his wife’s got hold of thewrongendofthestick.Speaksoon.’Fishercutoffherfarewells,

keentoreturntoStrike.‘See?’ he said. ‘Told you.

Hecouldn’tgotoBigleyHallifhewantedto.’‘Couldn’tyouhavetoldhis

wife that, when she phonedyouup?’‘Oh, that’s what she kept

calling about!’ said Fisherwith an air of dawning

comprehension. ‘I thoughtOwen was making her callme.’‘Why would he make his

wifephoneyou?’‘Oh,comeon,’saidFisher,

with a grin, andwhen Strikedidnotgrinback,helaughedshortly and said, ‘BecauseofBombyx Mori. I thought it’dbe typical of Quine to try toget his wife to call me andsoundmeout.’‘Bombyx Mori,’ repeated

Strike,tryingtosoundneitherinterrogativenorpuzzled.‘Yeah,IthoughtQuinewas

pestering me to see whetherthere was still a chance I’dpublish it. It’s the sort ofthing he’d do,make hiswifering.Butifanyone’sgoingtotouch Bombyx Mori now, itwon’t be me. We’re a smalloutfit. We can’t afford courtcases.’Gaining nothing from

pretendingtoknowmorethan

hedid,Strikechangedtack.‘Bombyx Mori’s Quine’s

latestnovel?’‘Yeah,’ said Fisher, taking

a sip of his takeaway latte,following his own train ofthought. ‘So he’sdisappeared, has he? I’d’vethought he’d want to stickaround and watch the fun.I’d’ve thought that was thewhole point. Or has he losthisnerve?Doesn’tsoundlikeOwen.’

‘How long have youpublished Quine?’ askedStrike. Fisher looked at himincredulously.‘I’veneverpublishedhim!’

hesaid.‘Ithought—’‘He’s been with Roper

Chardforhislastthreebooks– or is it four? No, whathappened was, I was at aparty with Liz Tassel, hisagent,afewmonthsago,andshe told me in confidence –

she’d had a few – that shedidn’t know how muchlonger Roper Chard weregoingtoputupwithhim,soIsaid I’d be happy to have alookat hisnextone.Quine’sin the so-bad-he’s-goodcategory these days – wecould’ve done somethingoffbeat with the marketing.Anyway,’ said Fisher, ‘therewasHobart’sSin.Thatwasagoodbook.Ifiguredhemightstillhavesomethinginhim.’

‘DidshesendyouBombyxMori?’ asked Strike, feelinghiswayandinwardlycursinghimself for the lack ofthoroughness with which hehad questioned LeonoraQuine thepreviousday.Thiswas what came of taking onclients when you were threeparts dead of exhaustion.Strikewasused tocoming tointerviews knowing morethan the interviewee and hefeltcuriouslyexposed.

‘Yeah,shebikedmeoveracopyFridaybefore last,’saidFisher, his Puckish smirkslyer than ever. ‘BiggestmistakeofpoorLiz’slife.’‘Why?’‘Because she obviously

hadn’treaditproperly,ornotallthewaytotheend.AbouttwohoursafteritarrivedIgotthisverypanickymessageonmy phone: “Chris, there’sbeen amistake, I’ve sent thewrong manuscript. Please

don’t read it, could you justsenditstraightback,I’llbeatthe office to take it.” I’venever heard Liz Tassel likethat in my life. Very scarywomanusually.Makesgrownmencower.’‘And did you send it

back?’‘Coursenot,’saidFisher.‘I

spent most of Saturdayreadingit.’‘And?’askedStrike.‘Hasn’tanyonetoldyou?’

‘Toldme…?’‘What’s in there,’ said

Fisher.‘Whathe’sdone.’‘Whathashedone?’Fisher’s smile faded. He

putdownhiscoffee.‘I’ve been warned,’ he

said, ‘by some of London’stop lawyers not to disclosethat.’‘Who’s employing the

lawyers?’askedStrike.WhenFisher didn’t answer, headded, ‘Anyone apart from

ChardandFancourt?’‘It’s just Chard,’ said

Fisher, toppling easily intoStrike’s trap. ‘Though I’d bemoreworried about FancourtifIwereOwen.Hecanbeanevil bastard. Never forgets agrudge. Don’t quote me,’ headdedhastily.‘And the Chard you’re

talking about?’ said Strike,gropinginsemi-darkness.‘Daniel Chard, CEO of

Roper Chard,’ said Fisher,

witha traceof impatience. ‘Idon’t understand how Owenthought he’d get away withscrewing over the man whoruns his publisher, but that’sOwenforyou.He’sthemostmonumentally arrogant,deluded bastard I’ve evermet. I supposehe thoughthecoulddepictChardas—’Fisher broke off with an

uneasylaugh.‘I’m a danger to myself.

Let’s just say I’m surprised

that evenOwen thoughthe’dget away with it. Maybe helost his nerve when herealised everyone knewexactly what he was hintingatandthat’swhyhe’sdonearunner.’‘It’s libellous, is it?’Strike

asked.‘Bit of a grey area in

fiction,isn’tit?’askedFisher.‘If you tell the truth in agrotesqueway–not that I’msuggesting,’headdedhastily,

‘that the stuff he’s saying istrue. It couldn’t be literallytrue. But everyone’srecognisable; he’s done overquite a few people and in avery clever way… It feels alotlikeFancourt’searlystuff,actually. Load of gore andarcane symbolism… youcan’t see quite what he’sgettingatinsomeplaces,butyouwant to know,what’s inthebag,what’sinthefire?’‘What’sinthe—?’

‘Never mind – it’s juststuff in the book. Didn’tLeonoratellyouanyofthis?’‘No,’saidStrike.‘Bizarre,’ said Christian

Fisher, ‘she must know.I’d’ve thought Quine’s thesortofwriterwholecturesthefamily on his work at everymealtime.’‘Whydidyou thinkChard

or Fancourt would hire aprivate detective, when youdidn’t know Quine was

missing?’Fishershrugged.‘I dunno. I thoughtmaybe

one of them was trying tofindoutwhathe’splanningtodo with the book, so theycould stop him, or warn thenewpublisher they’ll sue.Orthat theymight be hoping toget something on Owen –fightfirewithfire.’‘Is that why were you so

keen to see me?’ askedStrike. ‘Have you got

somethingonQuine?’‘No,’ said Fisher with a

laugh.‘I’mjustnosy.Wantedtoknowwhat’sgoingon.’He checked his watch,

turnedoveracopyofabookcover in front of him andpushed out his chair a little.Striketookthehint.‘Thanks for your time,’ he

said,standingup.‘Ifyouhearfrom Owen Quine, will youletmeknow?’He handed Fisher a card.

Fisher frowned at it as hemoved around his desk toshowStrikeout.‘Cormoran Strike…

Strike… I know that name,don’tI…?’Thepennydropped.Fisher

was suddenly reanimated, asthoughhisbatterieshadbeenchanged.‘Bloody hell, you’re the

LulaLandryguy!’Strike knew that he could

have sat back down, ordered

a latte and enjoyed Fisher’sundivided attention foranother hour or so. Instead,he extricated himself withfirmfriendlinessand,withinafew minutes, re-emergedaloneonthecoldmistystreet.

7

I’llbesworn,Iwasne’erguilty of reading thelike.BenJonson,EveryMan

inHisHumour

When informed by telephonethat her husband was not,

after all, at the writer’sretreat, Leonora Quinesoundedanxious.‘Where is he, then?’ she

asked, more of herself, itseemed,thanStrike.‘Wheredoesheusuallygo

when he walks out?’ Strikeasked.‘Hotels,’ she said, ‘and

once he was staying withsome woman but he don’tknowhernomore.Orlando,’she said sharply, away from

the receiver, ‘put that down,it’s mine. I said, it’s mine.What?’ she said, loudly inStrike’sear.‘I didn’t say anything.

D’you want me to keeplookingforyourhusband?’‘Course I do, who else is

gonna bloody find him? Ican’t leaveOrlando.AskLizTasselwhereheis.Shefoundhim before. Hilton,’ saidLeonora unexpectedly. ‘HewasattheHiltononce.’

‘WhichHilton?’‘I dunno, ask Liz. She

made him go off, she shouldbe bloody helping bring himback. She won’t take mycalls.Orlando,putitdown.’‘Is there anyone else you

canthink—?’‘No, or I’d’ve bloody

asked them, wouldn’t I?’snappedLeonora.‘You’rethedetective, you find him!Orlando!’‘MrsQuine,we’vegot—’

‘CallmeLeonora.’‘Leonora, we’ve got to

consider the possibility thatyour husband might havedonehimselfaninjury.We’dfind himmore quickly,’ saidStrike, raising his voice overthe domestic clamour at theother end of the line, ‘if weinvolvedthepolice.’‘I don’t wanna. I called

themthattimehewasgoneaweekandhe turnedupathisladyfriend’sandtheyweren’t

happy.He’llbeangry if Idothat again. Anyway, Owenwouldn’t–Orlando,leaveit!’‘Thepolice couldcirculate

his picture more effectivelyand—’‘I just want him home

quietly. Why doesn’t he justcome back?’ she addedpettishly. ‘He’s had time tocalmdown.’‘Have you read your

husband’s new book?’ Strikeasked.

‘No. I always wait tillthey’re finished and I canread ’em with proper coversonandeverything.’‘Has he told you anything

aboutit?’‘No, he don’t like talking

about work while he’s –Orlando,putitdown!’He was not sure whether

she had hung up deliberatelyornot.The fog of early morning

hadlifted.Rainwasspeckling

his office windows. A clientwas due imminently, yetanother divorcing womanwho wanted to know whereher soon-to-be-ex husbandwasburyingassets.‘Robin,’ said Strike,

emerging into the outeroffice,‘willyouprintmeouta picture of OwenQuine offthe internet, if you can findone? And call his agent,Elizabeth Tassel, and see ifshe’swillingtoanswerafew

quickquestions.’About to return tohisown

office, he thought ofsomethingelse.‘And could you look up

“bombyx mori” for me, andseewhatitmeans?’‘How are you spelling

that?’‘Godknows,’saidStrike.

The soon-to-be divorcéearrived on time, at eleventhirty.Shewasasuspiciously

youthful-looking forty-something who exudedfluttery charm and a muskyscent that always made theofficefeelcrampedtoRobin.Strike disappeared into hisoffice with her, and for twohours Robin heard only thegentle rise and fall of theirvoices over the steadythrummingoftherainandthetapping of her fingers on thekeyboard; calm and placidsounds. Robin had become

used to hearing suddenoutbreaks of tears, moans,even shouting from Strike’soffice.Sudden silencescouldbethemostominousofall,aswhen a male client hadliterallyfainted(and,theyhadlearnedlater,sufferedaminorheart attack) on seeing thephotographs of his wife andherloverthatStrikehadtakenthroughalonglens.WhenStrikeandhisclient

emerged at last, and she had

taken fulsome farewell ofhim,RobinhandedherbossalargepictureofOwenQuine,takenfromthewebsiteoftheBathLiteratureFestival.‘Jesus Christ almighty,’

saidStrike.Owen Quine was a large,

paleandportlymanofaroundsixty, with straggly yellow-whitehairandapointedVanDyke beard. His eyesappeared to be of differentcolours, which gave a

peculiar intensitytohisstare.For the photograph he hadwrapped himself in whatseemedtobeaTyroleancapeand was wearing a feather-trimmedtrilby.‘You wouldn’t think he’d

be able to stay incognito forlong,’ commented Strike.‘Can youmake a few copiesof this, Robin? We mighthavetoshowitaroundhotels.His wife thinks he oncestayed at a Hilton, but she

can’trememberwhichone,socouldyoustart ringingroundto see if he’s booked in?Can’t imagine he’d use hisownname,butyoucould trydescribing him… Any luckwithElizabethTassel?’‘Yes,’saidRobin.‘Believe

it or not, I was just about tocallherwhenshecalledme.’‘Shecalledhere?Why?’‘ChristianFisher’s toldher

you’vebeentoseehim.’‘And?’

‘She’s got meetings thisafternoon, but she wants tomeet you at eleven o’clocktomorrowatheroffice.’‘Does she, now?’ said

Strike, looking amused.‘More and more interesting.DidyouaskherifsheknowswhereQuineis?’‘Yes; she says she hasn’t

got a clue, but she was stilladamant she wants to meetyou.She’sverybossy.Likeaheadmistress. And Bombyx

mori,’shefinishedup,‘istheLatinnameforasilkworm.’‘Asilkworm?’‘Yeah, and you know

what? I always thought theywere like spiders spinningtheir webs, but you knowhow they get silk from theworms?’‘Can’tsayIdo.’‘They boil them,’ said

Robin. ‘Boil them alive, sothat they don’t damage theircocoons by bursting out of

them.It’sthecocoonsthataremade of silk. Not very nice,really, is it? Why did youwant to know aboutsilkworms?’‘I wanted to know why

Owen Quine might havecalled his novel BombyxMori,’saidStrike.‘Can’tsayI’manythewiser.’He spent the afternoon on

tediouspaperwork relating toa surveillance case andhoping the weather might

improve:hewouldneedtogoout as he had virtuallynothing to eat upstairs. AfterRobin had left, Strikecontinued working while therain pounding his windowbecame steadily heavier.Finally he pulled on hisovercoatandwalked,inwhatwasnowadownpour,downasodden, dark Charing CrossRoad to buy food at thenearest supermarket. Therehadbeentoomanytakeaways

lately.On the way back up the

road, with bulging carrierbagsinbothhands,heturnedon impulse into a second-hand bookshop that wasabout to close. The manbehind the counter wasunsure whether they had acopy ofHobart’s Sin, OwenQuine’s first book andsupposedlyhisbest,but aftera lot of inconclusivemumbling and an

unconvincing perusal of hiscomputer screen, offeredStrike a copy of The BalzacBrothers by the same author.Tired,wetandhungry,Strikepaid two pounds for thebatteredhardbackand took ithometohisatticflat.Having put away his

provisions and cookedhimselfpasta,Strikestretchedout on his bed as nightpressed dense, dark and coldat his windows, and opened

themissingman’sbook.The style was ornate and

florid, the story gothic andsurreal. Two brothers by thenamesofVaricoceleandVaswere locked inside a vaultedroomwhilethecorpseoftheirolder brother decayed slowlyin a corner. In betweendrunken arguments aboutliterature, loyalty and theFrench writer Balzac, theyattempted to co-author anaccountoftheirdecomposing

brother’s life. Varicoceleconstantlypalpatedhisachingballs,whichseemedtoStriketo be a clumsymetaphor forwriter’sblock;Vasseemedtobedoingmostofthework.After fifty pages, andwith

a murmur of ‘Bollocks isright’, Strike threw the bookasideandbeganthelaboriousprocessofturningin.The deep and blissful

stupor of the previous nighteluded him. Rain hammered

against the window of hisattic room and his sleepwasdisturbed;confuseddreamsofcatastrophe filled the night.Strike woke in the morningwith the uneasy aftermathclinging over him like ahangover. The rain was stillpoundingonhiswindow,andwhenheturnedonhisTVhesaw that Cornwall had beenhitbysevereflooding;peoplewere trapped in cars, orevacuated from their homes

and now huddled inemergencycentres.Strike snatched up his

mobile phone and called thenumber,familiartohimashisown reflection in the mirror,that all his life hadrepresented security andstability.‘Hello?’saidhisaunt.‘It’s Cormoran. You all

right,Joan?I’vejustseenthenews.’‘We’re all right at the

moment, love, it’s up thecoast it’s bad,’ she said. ‘It’swet,mindyou,blowingupastorm, but nothing like StAustell.Justbeenwatchingiton the news ourselves. Howare you, Corm? It’s beenages. Ted and I were justsaying last night,we haven’theardfromyou,andwewerewanting to say, why don’tyou come for Christmas asyou’re on your own again?Whatdoyouthink?’

Hewas unable to dress orto fasten on his prosthesiswhileholdingthemobile.Shetalked for half an hour, anunstoppable gush of localchat and sudden, dartingforays into personal territoryhe preferred to leaveunprobed.Atlast,afterafinalblast of interrogation abouthislovelife,hisdebtsandhisamputatedleg,shelethimgo.

Strike arrived in the office

late, tired and irritable. Hewas wearing a dark suit andtie. Robinwonderedwhetherhe was going to meet thedivorcing brunette for lunchafter his meeting withElizabethTassel.‘Heardthenews?’‘Floods in Cornwall?’

Strikeasked,switchingonthekettle,becausehisfirstteaofthedayhadgrowncoldwhileJoangabbled.‘William and Kate are

engaged,’saidRobin.‘Who?’‘Prince William,’ said

Robin, amused, ‘and KateMiddleton.’‘Oh,’ said Strike coldly.

‘Goodforthem.’He had been among the

ranks of the engaged himselfuntil a few months ago. Hedid not know how his ex-fiancée’s new engagementwas proceeding, nor did heenjoywonderingwhenitwas

going to end. (Not as theirshadended,ofcourse,withherclawing her betrothed’s faceand revealing her betrayal,butwith thekindofweddinghe could never have givenher; more like the oneWilliam and Kate would nodoubtsoonenjoy.)Robin judged it safe to

breakthemoodysilenceonlyonce Strike had had half amugoftea.‘Lucy called just before

you came down, to remindyou about your birthdaydinneronSaturdaynight,andto ask whether you want tobringanyone.’Strike’s spirits slipped

severalmorenotches.Hehadforgottenallabout thedinnerathissister’shouse.‘Right,’hesaidheavily.‘Is it your birthday on

Saturday?’Robinasked.‘No,’saidStrike.‘Whenisit?’

Hesighed.Hedidnotwantacake,acardorpresents,butherexpressionwasexpectant.‘Tuesday,’hesaid.‘Thetwenty-third?’‘Yeah.’After a short pause, it

occurredtohimthatheoughttoreciprocate.‘And when’s yours?’

Something in her hesitationunnerved him. ‘Christ, it’snottoday,isit?’Shelaughed.

‘No,it’sgone.Octobertheninth. It’s all right, it was aSaturday,’ she said, stillsmiling at his painedexpression. ‘I wasn’t sittinghere all day expectingflowers.’He grinned back. Feeling

heoughttomakealittleextraeffort,becausehehadmissedher birthday and neverconsidered finding out whenitwas,headded:‘Good thing you and

Matthew haven’t set a dateyet.At least youwon’t clashwiththeRoyalWedding.’‘Oh,’saidRobin,blushing,

‘wehavesetadate.’‘Youhave?’‘Yes,’saidRobin. ‘It’s the

– the eighth of January. I’vegot your invitationhere,’ shesaid, stooping hurriedly overher bag (she had not evenaskedMatthewaboutinvitingStrike, but too late for that).‘Here.’

‘The eighth of January?’Strike said, taking the silverenvelope. ‘That’s only –what?–sevenweeksaway.’‘Yes,’saidRobin.There was a strange little

pause. Strike could notremember immediately whatelsehewantedhertodo;thenit came back to him, and ashespokehe tapped thesilverenvelope against his palm,businesslike.‘How’s it going with the

Hiltons?’‘I’ve done a few. Quine

isn’t there under his ownname and nobody’srecognised the description.There are loads of them,though, so I’m just workingmy way through the list.Whatareyouup toafteryousee Elizabeth Tassel?’ sheaskedcasually.‘PretendingIwanttobuya

flat in Mayfair. Looks likesomebody’s husband’s trying

to realise some capital andtake it offshore before hiswife’slawyerscanstophim.‘Well,’hesaid,pushingthe

unopened wedding invitationdeepintohisovercoatpocket,‘better be off. Got a badauthortofind.’

8

I took the book and sotheoldmanvanished.JohnLyly,Endymion:or,the

ManintheMoon

It occurred to Strike as hetravelled, standing, the oneTube stop to ElizabethTassel’soffice (hewasnever

fully relaxed on these shortjourneys, but braced to takethe strain on his false leg,waryof falls) thatRobinhadnotreproachedhimfortakingon the Quine case. Not, ofcourse, that it was her placetoreproachheremployer,butshehad turneddownamuchhighersalarytothrowher lotin with his and it would nothave been unreasonable forher to expect that once thedebtswerepaid,araisemight

be the least he could do forher. She was unusual in herlack of criticism, or criticalsilence; the only female inStrike’s life who seemed tohavenodesire to improveorcorrect him. Women, in hisexperience, often expectedyou tounderstand that itwasameasureofhowmuch theylovedyouthattheytriedtheirdamnedesttochangeyou.So she was marrying in

seven weeks’ time. Seven

weeks left until she becameMrsMatthew…butifhehadever known her fiancé’ssurname, he could not recallit.Ashewaitedfor the liftat

Goodge Street, Strikeexperienced a sudden, crazyurge to call his divorcingbrunette client – who hadmade it quite clear that shewould welcome such adevelopment–withaviewtoscrewing her tonight in what

he imagined would be herdeep, soft, heavily perfumedbedinKnightsbridge.Buttheidea occurred only to beinstantly dismissed. Such amove would be insanity;worse than taking on amissing-person case forwhichhewasunlikelyevertoseepayment…And why was he wasting

time on Owen Quine? heasked himself, head bowedagainst the biting rain.

Curiosity, he answeredinwardly after a fewmoments’ thought, andperhaps something moreelusive. As he headed downStore Street, squintingthrough the downpour andconcentrating on maintaininghis footing on the slipperypavements, he reflected thathis palate was in danger ofbecoming jaded by theendlessvariationsoncupidityand vengefulness that his

wealthy clients kept bringinghim. It had been a long timesince he had investigated amissing-person case. Therewould be satisfaction inrestoring the runaway Quinetohisfamily.Elizabeth Tassel’s literary

agency lay in a mostlyresidential mews of darkbrick,asurprisinglyquietcul-de-sacoffbusyGowerStreet.Strike pressed a doorbellbesideadiscreetbrassplaque.

A light thumping soundensuedandapaleyoungmanin an open-necked shirtopenedthedooratthefootofred-carpetedstairs.‘Are you the private

detective?’ he asked withwhat seemed tobe amixtureoftrepidationandexcitement.Strikefollowedhim,drippingalloverthethreadbarecarpet,up the stairs to a mahoganydoor and into a large officespace thathadonce,perhaps,

been a separate hall andsittingroom.Aged elegancewas slowly

disintegrating intoshabbiness. The windowsweremistywithcondensationand the air heavy with oldcigarette smoke. A plethoraof overstocked woodenbookcaseslinedthewallsandthe dingy wallpaper wasalmost obscured by framedliterary caricatures andcartoons. Two heavy desks

satfacingeachotheracrossascuffed rug, but neither wasoccupied.‘CanItakeyourcoat?’the

youngman asked, and a thinand frightened-looking girljumped up from behind oneofthedesks.Shewasholdingastainedspongeinonehand.‘I can’t get it out, Ralph!’

she whispered frantically totheyoungmanwithStrike.‘Bloody thing,’ Ralph

muttered irritably.

‘Elizabeth’s decrepit olddog’s puked under Sally’sdesk,’ he confided, sottovoce, as he took Strike’ssodden Crombie and hung itonaVictoriancoat-standjustinside the door. ‘I’ll let herknow you’re here. Just keepscrubbing,’ he advised hiscolleague as he crossed to asecond mahogany door andopeneditacrack.‘That’sMrStrike,Liz.’There was a loud bark,

followed immediately by adeep, rattling human coughthat could have plausiblyissued from the lungs of anoldcoalminer.‘Grab him,’ said a hoarse

voice.The door to the agent’s

office opened, revealingRalph,whowasholdingtightto the collar of an aged butevidently still feistyDobermann pinscher, and atall, thick-set woman of

around sixty, with large,uncompromisingly plainfeatures. The geometricallyperfectsteel-greybob,ablacksuitof severecutanda slashofcrimsonlipstickgaveheracertain dash. She emanatedthat aura of grandeur thatreplaces sexual allure in thesuccessfulolderwoman.‘You’dbettertakehimout,

Ralph,’ said the agent, herolive-darkeyesonStrike.Therain was still pelting against

the windows. ‘And don’tforgetthepoobags,he’sabitsofttoday.‘Comein,MrStrike.’Looking disgusted, her

assistantdraggedthebigdog,with its head like a livingAnubis, out of her office; asStrike and the Dobermannpassedeachother, itgrowledenergetically.‘Coffee, Sally,’ the agent

shotatthefrightened-lookinggirl who had concealed her

sponge. As she jumped upand vanished through a doorbehindherdesk,Strikehopedshe would wash her handsthoroughly before makingdrinks.Elizabeth Tassel’s stuffy

office was a kind ofconcentration of the outerroom: it stank of cigarettesandolddog.Atweedbedfortheanimalsatunderherdesk;thewallswereplasteredwithold photographs and prints.

Strike recognised one of thelargest: a reasonably well-known and elderly writer ofillustrated children’s bookscalled Pinkelman, whom hewas not sure was still alive.After indicating wordlesslythat Strike should take theseatoppositeher,fromwhichhehadfirsttoremoveastackof papers and old copies oftheBookseller,theagenttookacigarette fromaboxon thedesk, lit it with an onyx

lighter, inhaled deeply thenbroke into a protracted fit ofrattling,wheezingcoughs.‘So,’ she croaked when

these had subsided and shehad returned to the leatherchair behind the desk,‘ChristianFishertellsmethatOwen’s put in another of hisfamousvanishingacts.’‘That’s right,’ said Strike.

‘Hedisappearedthenightthatyou and he argued about hisbook.’

Shebegantospeak,butthewords disintegratedimmediately into furthercoughs. Horrible, tearingnoises issued from deep inher torso. Strike waited insilenceforthefittopass.‘Sounds nasty,’ he said at

last, when she had coughedherselfintosilenceagainand,incredibly, taken anotherdeepdragofhercigarette.‘Flu,’ she rasped. ‘Can’t

shake it. When did Leonora

cometoyou?’‘Thedaybeforeyesterday.’‘Can she afford you?’ she

croaked. ‘I wouldn’t havethought you come cheap, theman who solved the Landrycase.’‘Mrs Quine suggested that

you might pay me,’ saidStrike.The coarse cheeks purpled

and her dark eyes, wateryfrom so much coughing,narrowed.

‘Well, you can go straightback toLeonora’ – her chestbegan to heave beneath thesmart black jacket as shefoughtoffthedesiretocoughagain – ‘and tell her that Iwon’t pay a p-penny to getthat bastard back. He’s no –no longermy client.Tell her–tellher—’She was overtaken by

another giant explosion ofcoughing.The door opened and the

thin female assistant entered,struggling under the weightofaheavywoodentrayladenwith cups and a cafetière.Strike got up to take it fromher;therewasbarelyroomonthe desk to set it down. Thegirl attempted to make aspace. In her nerves, sheknocked over a stack ofpapers.A furious admonitory

gesture from the coughingagent sent the girl scuttling

fromtheroominfright.‘Use-useless – little—’

wheezedElizabethTassel.Strikeputthetraydownon

the desk, ignoring thescattered papers all over thecarpet, and resumed his seat.The agent was a bully in afamiliar mould: one of thoseolderwomenwhocapitalised,whether consciously or not,onthefactthattheyawokeinthose who were susceptible,childhood memories of

demanding and all-powerfulmothers. Strike was immuneto such intimidation.For onething, his own mother,whateverherfaults,hadbeenyoung and openly adoring;for another, he sensedvulnerability in this apparentdragon. The chain-smoking,the fading photographs andthe old dog basket suggestedamore sentimental, less self-assured woman than heryounghirelingsmightthink.

When at last she hadfinishedcoughing,hehandedher a cup of coffee he hadpoured.‘Thank you,’ shemuttered

gruffly.‘Soyou’vesackedQuine?’

he asked. ‘Did you tell himso,thenightyouhaddinner?’‘I can’t remember,’ she

croaked. ‘Things got heatedveryquickly.Owen stoodupin the middle of therestaurant, thebetter to shout

at me, then flounced outleaving me to pay the bill.You’ll find plenty ofwitnessestowhatwassaid,ifyou’reinterested.Owenmadesure it was a nice, publicscene.’She reached for another

cigarette and, as anafterthought, offered Strikeone. After she had lit both,shesaid:‘What’s Christian Fisher

toldyou?’

‘Notmuch,’saidStrike.‘Ihopeforbothyoursakes

that’strue,’shesnapped.Strike said nothing, but

smoked and drank his coffeewhile Elizabeth waited,clearly hoping for moreinformation.‘Did he mention Bombyx

Mori?’sheasked.Strikenodded.‘Whatdidhesayaboutit?’‘That Quine’s put a lot of

recognisable people in the

book,thinlydisguised.’Therewasachargedpause.‘I hope Chard does sue

him. That’s his idea ofkeepinghismouthshut,isit?’‘Have you tried to contact

Quinesincehewalkedoutof– where was it you werehavingdinner?’Strikeasked.‘The River Café,’ she

croaked. ‘No, I haven’t triedto contact him. There’snothinglefttosay.’‘And he hasn’t contacted

you?’‘No.’‘Leonora says you told

Quine his book was the bestthing he’d ever produced,then changed your mind andrefusedtorepresentit.’‘Shesayswhat?That’snot

what–not–whatIs—’Itwasherworstparoxysm

of coughing yet. Strike felt astrong urge to forciblyremovethecigarettefromherhand as she hacked and

spluttered. Finally the fitpassed. She drank half a cupof hot coffee straight off,which seemed to bring hersome relief. In a strongervoice,sherepeated:‘That’s not what I said.

“The best thing he’d everwritten”–isthatwhathetoldLeonora?’‘Yes.What did you really

say?’‘I was ill,’ she said

hoarsely, ignoring the

question.‘Flu.Offworkforaweek. Owen rang the officeto tell me the novel wasfinished; Ralph told him Iwasathomeinbed,soOwencouriered the manuscriptstraighttomyhouse.Ihadtoget up to sign for it.Absolutely typical of him. Ihad a temperature of ahundred and four and couldbarely stand. His book wasfinishedsoIwasexpected toreaditimmediately.’

She slugged down morecoffeeandsaid:‘I chucked the manuscript

on the hall table and wentstraight back to bed. Owenstarted ringing me, virtuallyon the hour, to see what Ithought. All throughWednesday and Thursday hebadgeredme…‘I’ve never done it before

in thirty years in thebusiness,’shecroaked.‘Iwassupposed to be going away

that weekend. I’d beenlookingforwardtoit.Ididn’twant to cancel and I didn’twantOwen callingme everythree minutes while I wasaway.So…justtogethimoffmyback…Iwasstill feelingawful…Iskim-readit.’She took a deep drag on

her cigarette, coughedroutinely, composed herselfandsaid:‘It didn’t look any worse

than his last couple. If

anything, it was animprovement. Quite aninteresting premise. Some ofthe imagerywas arresting.AGothic fairy tale, a grislyPilgrim’sProgress.’‘Didyourecogniseanyone

inthebitsyouread?’‘The characters seemed

mostly symbolic,’ she said, atouch defensively, ‘includingthehagiographicself-portrait.Lots of p-perverse sex.’ Shepaused to cough again. ‘The

mixtureasusual, I thought…but I – I wasn’t readingcarefully, I’d be the first toadmitthat.’He could tell that shewas

notusedtoadmittingfault.‘I – well, I skimmed the

lastquarter,thebitswherehewrites about Michael andDaniel. I glanced at theending,whichwas grotesqueandabitsilly…‘If I hadn’t been so ill, if

I’d read itproperly,naturally

I’d have told him straightawaythathewouldn’tbeabletogetawaywithit.Daniel’sast-strangeman,veryt-touchy’– her voice was breaking upagain; determined to finishher sentence she wheezed,‘andM-Michael’sthenastiest– the nastiest—’ beforeexplodingagainintocoughs.‘WhywouldMrQuine try

and publish something thatwasbound toget him sued?’Strike asked when she had

stoppedcoughing.‘Because Owen doesn’t

thinkhe’ssubjecttothesamelaws as the rest of society,’she said roughly. ‘He thinkshimself a genius, an enfantterrible. He takes pride incausing offence. He thinksit’sbrave,heroic.’‘Whatdidyoudowith the

book when you’d looked atit?’‘I called Owen,’ she said,

closinghereyesmomentarily

inwhat seemed to be fury atherself.‘Andsaid,“Yes,jollygood,” and I got Ralph topick the damn thing up frommy house, and asked him tomake two copies, and sendone to Jerry Waldegrave,Owen’seditoratRoperChardand the other, G-God helpme,toChristianFisher.’‘Whydidn’tyoujustemail

themanuscripttotheoffice?’asked Strike curiously.‘Didn’t you have it on a

memorystickorsomething?’She ground out her

cigarette in a glass ashtrayfullofstubs.‘Owen insists on

continuing to use the oldelectric typewriter on whichhewroteHobart’sSin.Idon’tknowwhether it’s affectationorstupidity.He’s remarkablyignorant about technology.Maybe he tried to use alaptop and couldn’t. It’s justanother way he contrives to

makehimselfawkward.’‘And why did you send

copies to two publishers?’asked Strike, although healreadyknewtheanswer.‘BecauseJerryWaldegrave

might be a blessed saint andthenicestmaninpublishing,’she replied, sipping morecoffee, ‘but even he’s lostpatience with Owen and histantrums lately. Owen’s lastbook forRoperChard barelysold. I thought it was only

sensible to have a secondstringtoourbow.’‘Whendidyourealisewhat

thebookwasreallyabout?’‘Early that evening,’ she

croaked. ‘Ralph called me.He’d sent off the two copiesand then had a flick throughthe original. He phoned meand said, “Liz, have youactuallyreadthis?”’Strike could well imagine

thetrepidationwithwhichthepale young assistant had

made the call, the courage ithad taken, the agoniseddeliberation with his femalecolleague before he hadreachedhisdecision.‘I had to admit I hadn’t…

or not thoroughly,’ shemuttered. ‘He readme a fewchoice excerpts I’d missedand…’She picked up the onyx

lighterandflickeditabsentlybeforelookingupatStrike.‘Well,Ipanicked.Iphoned

Christian Fisher, but the callwentstraighttovoicemail,soI left a message telling himthat the manuscript that hadbeen sent over was a firstdraft,thathewasn’ttoreadit,that I’d made a mistake andwould he please return it assoon as – as soon as p-possible. I called Jerry next,but I couldn’t reach himeither. He’d told me he wasgoing away for ananniversaryweekendwithhis

wife. I hoped he wouldn’thaveanytimeforreading,soI left a message along thelines of the one I’d left forFisher.‘ThenIcalledOwenback.’She lit yet another

cigarette. Her large nostrilsflaredassheinhaled;thelinesaroundhermouthdeepened.‘I could barely get the

words out and it wouldn’thave mattered if I had. HetalkedovermeasonlyOwen

can,absolutelydelightedwithhimself.He saidweought tomeet to have dinner andcelebrate the completion ofthebook.‘So I dragged myself into

clothes, and I went to theRiverCaféandIwaited.AndincameOwen.‘Hewasn’t even late.He’s

usually late.Hewasvirtuallyfloating on air, absolutelyelated. He genuinely thinkshe’s done something brave

and marvellous. He’d startedtotalkaboutfilmadaptationsbefore I managed to get awordinedgeways.’When she expelled smoke

from her scarlet mouth shelooked truly dragonish, withhershiningblackeyes.‘When I told him that I

think what he’s produced isvile, malicious andunpublishable,hejumpedup,sent his chair flying andbegan screaming. After

insulting me both personallyandprofessionally,hetoldmethat if Iwasn’tbraveenoughto represent him any more,he’d self-publish the thing –put it out as an ebook. Thenhe stormed out, parking mewith the bill. N-not,’ shesnarled, ‘that that’s anythingun-un-unus—’Her emotion triggered an

evenworsecoughing fit thanbefore. Strike thought shemight actually choke. He

half-roseoutofhischair,butshewavedhimaway.Finally,purple in the face, her eyesstreaming,shesaidinavoicelikegravel:‘IdideverythingIcouldto

put it right. My wholeweekendby the sea ruined; Iwason thephone constantly,trying to get hold of Fisherand Waldegrave. Messageafter message, stuck out onthe bloody cliffs atGwithiantryingtogetreception—’

‘Is that where you’refrom?’ Strike asked, mildlysurprised, because he heardno echo of his Cornishchildhoodinheraccent.‘It’s where one of my

authors lives. I told her Ihadn’tbeenoutofLondoninfouryearsandsheinvitedmefor the weekend. Wanted toshowmeallthelovelyplaceswhere she sets her books.Someofthem-mostbeautifulsceneryI’veeverseenbutall

I could think about was b-bloody Bombyx Mori andtryingtostopanyonereadingit. I couldn’t sleep. I feltdreadful…‘I finally heard back from

Jerry at Sunday lunchtime.He hadn’t gone on hisanniversaryweekendafterall,andheclaimshe’dnevergotmymessages,sohe’ddecidedtoreadthebloodybook.‘He was disgusted and

furious. I assured Jerry that

I’d do everything in mypower to stop the damnthing… but I had to admitthat I’d also sent it toChristian, at which Jerryslammed the phone down onme.’‘Did you tell him that

Quine had threatened to putthe book out over theinternet?’‘No, I did not,’ she said

hoarsely. ‘I was praying thatwasanempty threat,because

Owen really doesn’t knowone end of a computer fromthe other. But I wasworried…’Hervoicetrailedaway.‘Youwereworried?’Strike

promptedher.Shedidnotanswer.‘This self-publishing

explains something,’ saidStrikecasually.‘LeonorasaysQuine took his own copy ofthe manuscript and all hisnotes with him when he

disappeared into the night. Idid wonder whether he wasintending to burn it or throwit in a river, but presumablyhe took it with a view toturningitintoanebook.’This information did

nothing to improveElizabethTassel’s temper. Throughclenchedteethshesaid:‘There’s a girlfriend.They

met on a writing course hetaught.She’sself-published.Iknow about her because

Owen tried to interest me inher bloody awful eroticfantasynovels.’‘Have you contacted her?’

Strikeasked.‘Yes, as amatterof fact, I

have.Iwantedtofrightenheroff,tellherthatifOwentriedto rope her in to help himreformat the book or sell itonline she’d probably bepartytoalawsuit.’‘Whatdidshesay?’‘Icouldn’tgetholdofher.

I tried several times. Maybeshe’s not at that number anymore,Idon’tknow.’‘Could I take her details?’

Strikeasked.‘Ralph’s got her card. I

askedhimtokeepringingherforme.Ralph!’shebellowed.‘He’s still outwithBeau!’

came the girl’s frightenedsqueakfrombeyondthedoor.Elizabeth Tassel rolled hereyes and got heavily to herfeet.

‘There’s no point askinghertofindit.’When the door had swung

shut behind the agent, Strikegotatoncetohisfeet,movedbehind the desk and bentdown to examine aphotograph on the wall thathad caught his eye, whichnecessitated the removalofadouble portrait on thebookcase, featuring a pair ofDobermanns.The picture in which he

was interestedwasA4-sized,in colour but very faded.Judgingbythefashionsofthefourpeopleitfeatured,ithadbeen taken at least twenty-fiveyearspreviously,outsidethisverybuilding.Elizabeth herself was

clearly recognisable, theonlywoman in thegroup,big andplain with long, windsweptdark hair and wearing anunflattering drop-waisteddress of dark pink and

turquoise.Ononesideofherstood a slim, fair-hairedyoung man of extremebeauty; on the other was ashort, sallow-skinned, sour-lookingmanwhoseheadwastoo large for his body. Helookedfaintlyfamiliar.Strikethought he might have seenhiminthepapersoronTV.Beside theunidentifiedbut

possibly well-known manstood amuch youngerOwenQuine.Thetallestofthefour,

he was wearing a crumpledwhitesuitandahairstylebestdescribed as a spiky mullet.He reminded Strikeirresistibly of a fat DavidBowie.Thedoor swishedopenon

its well-oiled hinges. Strikedid not attempt to cover upwhathewasdoing,butturnedto face the agent, who washoldingasheetofpaper.‘That’s Fletcher,’ she said,

hereyesonthepictureofthe

dogs in his hand. ‘He diedlastyear.’He replaced the portrait of

herdogsonthebookcase.‘Oh,’shesaid,catchingon.

‘You were looking at theotherone.’She approached the faded

picture; shoulder to shoulderwithStrike,henotedthatshewas nearly six feet tall. Shesmelled of John PlayerSpecialsandArpège.‘That’sthedayIstartedmy

agency. Those are my firstthreeclients.’‘Who’s he?’ asked Strike

ofthebeautifulblondyouth.‘Joseph North. The most

talented of them, by far.Unfortunately, he diedyoung.’‘Andwho’s—?’‘Michael Fancourt, of

course,’ she said, soundingsurprised.‘I thought he looked

familiar.D’youstillrepresent

him?’‘No!Ithought…’He heard the rest of the

sentence,eventhoughshedidnotsayit:I thoughteveryoneknew that. Worlds withinworlds:perhapsallofliteraryLondon did know why thefamous Fancourt was nolonger her client, but he didnot.‘Why don’t you represent

him any more?’ he asked,resuminghisseat.

Shepassedthepaperinherhand across the desk to him;it was a photocopy of whatlooked like a flimsy andgrubbybusinesscard.‘I had to choose between

Michael and Owen, yearsago,’shesaid.‘Andlikeab-bloodyfool’–shehadbeguntocoughagain;hervoicewasdisintegrating into a gutturalcroak–‘IchoseOwen.‘Thosearetheonlycontact

details I’ve got for Kathryn

Kent,’ she added firmly,closing down furtherdiscussionofFancourt.‘Thank you,’ he said,

foldingthepaperandtuckingit inside his wallet. ‘Howlong has Quine been seeingher,doyouknow?’‘Awhile.Hebringsher to

partieswhileLeonora’sstuckathomewithOrlando.Utterlyshameless.’‘No idea where he might

be hiding? Leonora says

you’ve found him, the othertimeshe’s—’‘I don’t “find”Owen,’ she

snapped. ‘He rings me upafter aweek or so in a hoteland asks for an advance –which iswhat he calls a giftof money – to pay theminibarbill.’‘And you pay, do you?’

asked Strike. She seemedveryfarfromapushover.Her grimace seemed to

acknowledge a weakness of

which she was ashamed, butherresponsewasunexpected.‘HaveyoumetOrlando?’‘No.’She opened her mouth to

continue but seemed to thinkbetterofitandmerelysaid:‘Owen and I go back a

verylongway.Weweregoodfriends… once,’ she added,onanoteofdeepbitterness.‘Which hotels has he

stayedatbeforethis?’‘I can’t remember all of

them.TheKensingtonHiltononce. The Danubius in StJohn’s Wood. Big facelesshotels with all the creaturecomforts he can’t get athome. Owen’s no citizen ofBohemia – except in hisapproachtohygiene.’‘You know Quine well.

You don’t think there’s anychance that he might have—?’She finished the sentence

forhimwithafaintsneer.

‘—“donesomethingsilly?”Of course not. He’d neverdreamofdeprivingtheworldofthegeniusofOwenQuine.No,he’soutthereplottinghisrevenge on all of us,thoroughly aggrieved thatthereisn’tanationalmanhuntgoingon.’‘He’d expect a manhunt,

even when he makes such apracticeofgoingmissing?’‘Oh yes,’ said Elizabeth.

‘Everytimeheputsinoneof

these little vanishing acts heexpects it to make the frontpage. The trouble is that theveryfirsttimehedidit,yearsand years ago, after anargumentwithhisfirsteditor,it worked. Therewas a littleflurry of concern and asmattering of press. He’slived in thehopeof thateversince.’‘His wife’s adamant that

he’dbeannoyedifshecalledthepolice.’

‘I don’t know where shegetsthatidea,’saidElizabeth,helpingherself toyetanothercigarette. ‘Owenwould thinkhelicopters and sniffer dogsthe least the nation could doforamanofhisimportance.’‘Well, thanks for your

time,’ said Strike, preparingtostand. ‘Itwasgoodofyoutoseeme.’Elizabeth Tassel held up a

handandsaid:‘No, it wasn’t. I want to

askyousomething.’Hewaitedreceptively.She

was not used to askingfavours, thatmuchwasclear.She smoked for a fewseconds in silence, whichbrought on another bout ofsuppressedcoughs.‘This – this… Bombyx

Moribusinesshasdonemealot of harm,’ she croaked atlast. ‘I’ve been disinvitedfrom Roper Chard’sanniversaryparty thisFriday.

Two manuscripts I had onsubmission with them havebeen sent back without somuch as a thank you. AndI’m getting worried aboutpoorPinkelman’s latest.’Shepointed at the picture of theelderly children’s writer onthe wall. ‘There’s adisgusting rumour flyingaround that I was in cahootswithOwen; that I eggedhimon to rehash an old scandalaboutMichaelFancourt,whip

up some controversy and trytogetabiddingwargoingforthebook.‘If you’re going to trawl

around everyone who knowsOwen,’ she said, coming tothe point, ‘I’d be verygratefulifyoucouldtellthem– especially JerryWaldegrave,ifyouseehim–thatIhadnoideawhatwasinthat novel. I’d never havesent it out, least of all toChristian Fisher, if I hadn’t

been so ill. I was,’ shehesitated, ‘careless, but nomorethanthat.’This, then, was why she

had been so anxious tomeethim. It did not seem anunreasonablerequestinreturnfor the addresses of twohotelsandamistress.‘I’ll certainlymention that

if it comes up,’ said Strike,gettingtohisfeet.‘Thank you,’ she said

gruffly.‘I’llseeyouout.’

When they emerged fromthe office, it was to a volleyof barks. Ralph and the oldDobermann had returnedfrom theirwalk.Ralph’swethair was slicked back as hestruggledtorestrainthegrey-muzzled dog, which wassnarlingatStrike.‘He’s never liked

strangers,’ said ElizabethTasselindifferently.‘He bit Owen once,’

volunteeredRalph, as though

this might make Strike feelbetteraboutthedog’sevidentdesiretomaulhim.‘Yes,’ said Elizabeth

Tassel,‘pityit—’But she was overtaken by

another volley of rattling,wheezing coughs. The otherthreewaitedinsilenceforhertorecover.‘Pity it wasn’t fatal,’ she

croaked at last. ‘It wouldhave saved us all a lot oftrouble.’

Her assistants lookedshocked. Strike shook herhand and said a generalgoodbye. The door swungshut on the Dobermann’sgrowlingandsnarling.

9

Is Master Petulant here,mistress?WilliamCongreve,The

WayoftheWorld

Strike paused at the end ofthe rain-sodden mews andcalled Robin, whose number

was busy. Leaning against awetwallwiththecollarofhisovercoat turned up, hitting‘redial’ every few seconds,hisgazefellonablueplaquefixed to a house opposite,commemorating the tenancyof Lady Ottoline Morrell,literary hostess. Doubtlessscabrous romans à clef hadonce been discussed withinthosewalls,too…‘Hi Robin,’ said Strike

when she picked up at last.

‘I’m running late. Can youringGunfrey forme and tellhim I’ve got a firmappointment with the targettomorrow. And tell CarolineIngles there hasn’t been anymoreactivity,butI’llcallhertomorrowforanupdate.’When he had finished

tweaking his schedule, hegave her the name of theDanubius Hotel in St John’sWoodandaskedhertotrytofindoutwhetherOwenQuine

wasstayingthere.‘How’re the Hiltons

going?’‘Badly,’ said Robin. ‘I’ve

onlygot two left.Nothing. Ifhe’s at any of them he’seither using a different nameoradisguise–orthestaffarevery unobservant, I suppose.You wouldn’t think theycouldmiss him, especially ifhe’swearingthatcloak.’‘Have you tried the

Kensingtonone?’

‘Yes.Nothing.’‘Ahwell, I’ve got another

lead: a self-publishedgirlfriend called KathrynKent.Imightvisitherlater.Iwon’t be able to pick up thephone this afternoon; I’mtailing Miss Brocklehurst.Text me if you needanything.’‘OK,happytailing.’But it was a dull and

fruitlessafternoon.Strikewasrunning surveillance on a

very well-paid PA who wasbelievedbyherparanoidbossand lover to be sharing notonly sexual favours but alsobusiness secrets with a rival.However, MissBrocklehurst’s claim that shewanted to take an afternoonoff to be better waxed,manicured and fake-tannedfor her lover’s delectationappeared to be genuine.Strikewaitedandwatchedthefront of the spa through a

rain-speckled window of theCaffè Nero opposite fornearly four hours, earninghimself the ire of sundrywomen with pushchairsseeking a space to gossip.Finally Miss Brocklehurstemerged, Bisto-brown andpresumably almost hairlessfromtheneckdown,andafterfollowing her for a shortdistance Strike saw her slideintoataxi.Byanearmiraclegiven the rain, Strike

managed to secure a secondcabbeforeshehadmovedoutofview,butthesedatepursuitthrough the clogged,rainwashed streets ended, ashe had expected from thedirection of travel, at thesuspicious boss’s own flat.Strike, who had takenphotographs covertly all theway, paid his cab fare andmentallyclockedoff.It was barely four o’clock

and the sun was setting, the

endless rain becomingchillier. Christmas lightsshone from the window of atrattoria ashepassed andhisthoughts slid to Cornwall,which he felt had intrudeditselfonhisnoticethreetimesinquicksuccession,callingtohim,whisperingtohim.Howlonghaditbeensince

he had gone home to thatbeautiful little seaside townwhere he had spent thecalmest parts of his

childhood?Fouryears?Five?He met his aunt and unclewhenever they ‘came up toLondon’, as they self-consciously put it, staying athis sister Lucy’s house,enjoying themetropolis.Lasttime, Strike had taken hisuncle to the Emirates towatch a match againstManchesterCity.His phone vibrated in his

pocket: Robin, followinginstructions to the letter as

usual,had textedhim insteadofcalling.

MrGunfreyisaskingforanothermeetingtomorrowathisofficeat10,gotmoretotellyou.Rx

Thanks, Strike texted

back.He never added kisses to

texts unless to his sister oraunt.

AttheTube,hedeliberatedhis next moves. Thewhereabouts of Owen Quinefelt like an itch in his brain;he was half irritated, halfintrigued that the writer wasprovingsoelusive.Hepulledthe piece of paper thatElizabeth Tassel had givenhimoutofhiswallet.Beneaththe name Kathryn Kent wasthe address of a tower blockin Fulham and a mobilenumber. Printed along the

bottomedgeweretwowords:indieauthor.Strike’s knowledge of

certain patches of Londonwas as detailed as anycabbie’s.Whilehehadneverpenetrated truly upmarketareasasachild,hehad livedin many other addressesaround the capital with hislate, eternally nomadicmother: usually squats orcouncil accommodation, butoccasionally, ifherboyfriend

ofthemomentcouldaffordit,in more salubrioussurroundings. He recognisedKathryn Kent’s address:Clement Attlee Courtcomprisedoldcouncilblocks,manyofwhichhadnowbeensold off into private hands.Ugly square brick towerswithbalconiesoneveryfloor,theysatwithinafewhundredyards of million-poundhousesinFulham.Therewas nobodywaiting

for him at home and hewasfull of coffee and pastriesafter his long afternoon inCaffè Nero. Instead ofboardingtheNorthernline,hetook theDistrict line toWestKensingtonandsetoutinthedark along North End Road,past curry houses and anumber of small shops withboarded windows, foldingunder the weight of therecession.By the timeStrikehadreached the towerblocks

hesought,nighthadfallen.StaffordCrippsHousewas

theblocknearesttheroad,setjust behind a low, modernmedical centre. Theoptimistic architect of thecouncil flats, perhaps giddywith socialist idealism, hadgiveneachone itsownsmallbalcony space. Had theyimagined the happyinhabitants tending windowboxes and leaning over therailings to call cheery

greetingstotheirneighbours?Virtuallyallof theseexteriorareas had been used by theoccupants for storage: oldmattresses, prams, kitchenappliances, what looked likearmfuls of dirty clothes satexposed to the elements, asthoughcupboardsfullofjunkhad been cross-sectioned forpublicview.Agaggleofhoodedyouths

smoking beside large plasticrecycling bins eyed him

speculatively as he passed.He was taller and broaderthananyofthem.‘Bigfucker,’hecaughtone

of them saying as he passedoutoftheirsight,ignoringtheinevitably out-of-order liftand heading for the concretestairs.KathrynKent’sflatwason

the third floor and wasreached via a windsweptbrick balcony that ran thewidth of the building. Strike

noted that, unlike herneighbours, Kathryn hadhung real curtains in thewindows, before rapping onthedoor.There was no response. If

Owen Quine was inside, hewas determined not to givehimself away: there were nolights on, no sign ofmovement.Anangry-lookingwoman with a cigarettejammed in her mouth stuckherheadoutof thenextdoor

with almost comical haste,gave Strike one briefsearching stare, thenwithdrew.The chilly wind whistled

along the balcony. Strike’sovercoat was glistening withraindrops but his uncoveredhead, he knew, would lookthe same as ever; his short,tightly curling hair wasimpervious to the effects ofrain.Hedrovehishandsdeepinside his pockets and there

foundastiffenvelopehehadforgotten. The exterior lightbeside Kathryn Kent’s frontdoor was broken, so Strikeambled two doors along toreach a functioning bulb andopenedthesilverenvelope.

MrandMrsMichaelEllacott

requestthepleasureofyourcompany

attheweddingoftheirdaughter

RobinVenetia

toMrMatthewJohn

Cunliffe

atthechurchofStMarytheVirgin,

MashamonSaturday8thJanuary2011attwoo’clock

andafterwardsatSwintonPark

The invitation exuded the

authority of military orders:this wedding will take placein the manner describedhereon.HeandCharlottehadnevergotasfarastheissuingof stiff cream invitationsengraved with shining blackcursive.Strikepushedthecardback

into his pocket and returnedtowaitbesideKathryn’sdarkdoor, digging into himself,

staring out over dark LillieRoad with its swooshingdouble lights, headlamps andreflectionsslidingalong,rubyand amber. Down on theground the hooded youthshuddled, split apart, werejoined by others andregrouped.At half past six the

expanded gang loped offtogether in a pack. Strikewatchedthemuntiltheywerealmost out of sight, atwhich

point they passed a womancoming in the oppositedirection. As she movedthrough the light puddle of astreet lamp, he saw a thickmaneofbrightredhairflyingfrom beneath a blackumbrella.Her walk was lopsided,

because thehandnotholdingthe umbrella was carryingtwo heavy carrier bags, buttheimpressionshegavefromthis distance, regularly

tossing back her thick curls,was not unattractive; herwindblown hair was eye-catchingandherlegsbeneaththe loose overcoat wereslender.Closerandclosershemoved, unaware of hisscrutinyfromthreefloorsup,across the concrete forecourtandoutofsight.Fiveminutes later she had

emerged onto the balconywhere Strike stood waiting.As she drew nearer, the

straining buttons on the coatbetrayed a heavy, apple-shaped torso. She did notnoticeStrikeuntilshewastenyardsaway,becauseherheadwas bowed, but when shelookeduphesawalinedandpuffyfacemucholderthanhehad expected. Coming to anabrupthalt,shegasped.‘You!’Strikerealisedthatshewas

seeing him in silhouettebecauseofthebrokenlights.

‘Youfuckingbastard!’The bags hit the concrete

floorwithatinkleofbreakingglass:shewasrunningfulltiltathim,handsballedintofistsandflailing.‘Youbastard,youbastard,

I’ll never forgive you,never,yougetawayfromme!’Strike was forced to parry

several wild punches. Hestepped backwards as shescreeched, throwingineffectual blows and trying

to break past his ex-boxer’sdefences.‘Youwait –Pippa’s going

tofuckingkillyou–youwait—’The neighbour’s door

openedagain: therestoodthesamewomanwithacigaretteinhermouth.‘Oi!’shesaid.Lightfromthehallflooded

onto Strike, revealing him.With a half gasp, half yelp,the red-headed woman

staggered backwards, awayfromhim.‘The fuck’s going on?’

demandedtheneighbour.‘Caseofmistaken identity,

I think,’ said Strikepleasantly.The neighbour slammed

her door, plunging thedetective and his assailantbackintodarkness.‘Who are you?’ she

whispered. ‘What do youwant?’

‘AreyouKathrynKent?’‘Whatdoyouwant?’Then, with sudden panic,

‘If it’s what I think it is, Idon’tworkinthatbit!’‘Excuseme?’‘Who are you, then?’ she

demanded, sounding morefrightenedthanever.‘My name’s Cormoran

Strike and I’m a privatedetective.’He was used to the

reactions of people who

found him unexpectedly ontheir doorsteps. Kathryn’sresponse – stunned silence –wasquitetypical.Shebackedaway from him and almostfell over her own abandonedcarrierbags.‘Who’s set a private

detective on me? It’s her, isit?’shesaidferociously.‘I’vebeenhiredtofindthe

writer Owen Quine,’ saidStrike.‘He’sbeenmissingfornearly a fortnight. I know

you’reafriendofhis—’‘No,I’mnot,’shesaidand

bent to pick up her bagsagain; they clinked heavily.‘You can tell her that fromme.She’swelcometohim.’‘You’re not his friend any

more?Youdon’tknowwhereheis?’‘I don’t give a shit where

heis.’A cat stalked arrogantly

along the edge of the stonebalcony.

‘Can I ask when you last—?’‘No, you can’t,’ she said

withanangrygesture;oneofthe bags in her hand swungand Strike flinched, thinkingthatthecat,whichhaddrawnlevel with her, would beknocked off the ledge intospace. It hissed and leaptdown. She aimed a swift,spitefulkickatit.‘Damn thing!’ she said.

The cat streaked away.

‘Move, please. I want to getintomyhouse.’He took a few steps back

from the door to let herapproach it. She could notfind her key. After a fewuncomfortable seconds oftryingtopatherownpocketswhile carrying the bags shewas forced to set themdownatherfeet.‘Mr Quine’s been missing

since he had a row with hisagent about his latest book,’

said Strike, as Kathrynfumbled in her coat. ‘I waswonderingwhether—’‘I don’t give a shit about

his book. I haven’t read it,’she added. Her hands wereshaking.‘MrsKent—’‘Ms,’shesaid.‘MsKent,MrQuine’swife

says a woman called at hishouselookingforhim.Bythedescription,itsounded—’Kathryn Kent had found

thekeybutdroppedit.Strikebenttopickitupforher;shesnatcheditfromhisgrasp.‘I don’t knowwhat you’re

talkingabout.’‘Youdidn’tgo lookingfor

himathishouselastweek?’‘I told you, I don’t know

where he is, I don’t knowanything,’ she snapped,rammingthekeyintothelockandturningit.She caught up the two

bags, one of which clinked

heavily again. It was, Strikesaw, from a local hardwarestore.‘Thatlooksheavy.’‘My ballcock’s gone,’ she

toldhimfiercely.Andsheslammedherdoor

inhisface.

10

VERDONE: We came tofight.CLEREMONT: Ye shallfight,Gentlemen,And fight enough; but ashortturnortwo…FrancisBeaumontand

PhilipMassinger,TheLittleFrench

Lawyer

Robin emerged from theTube the following morning,clutching a redundantumbrella and feeling sweatyand uncomfortable. Afterdays of downpours, of Tubetrainsfullofthesmellofwetcloth, of slippery pavementsand rain-speckled windows,the sudden switch to bright,dryweatherhadtakenherby

surprise. Other spirits mighthave lightened in the respitefromthedelugeandloweringgreyclouds,butnotRobin’s.She and Matthew had had abadrow.Itwasalmostarelief,when

she opened the glass doorengraved with Strike’s nameand job title, to find that herboss was already on thetelephone in his own office,withthedoorclosed.Shefeltobscurely that she needed to

pull herself together beforeshefacedhim,becauseStrikehad been the subject of lastnight’sargument.‘You’ve invitedhimto the

wedding?’Matthew had saidsharply.She had been afraid that

Strike might mention theinvitation over drinks thatevening, and that if she didnotwarnMatthewfirst,Strikewould bear the brunt ofMatthew’sdispleasure.

‘Since when are we justasking peoplewithout tellingeach other?’ Matthew hadsaid.‘I meant to tell you. I

thoughtIhad.’ThenRobin had felt angry

withherself:sheneverliedtoMatthew.‘He’smyboss,he’llexpect

tobeinvited!’Which wasn’t true; she

doubtedthatStrikecaredonewayortheother.

‘Well, I’d like him there,’she said, which, at last, washonesty. She wanted to tugtheworking life that she hadneverenjoyedsomuchcloserto the personal life thatcurrently refused to meldwith it; she wanted to stitchthe two together in asatisfying whole and to seeStrike in the congregation,approving (approving! Whydid he have to approve?) ofhermarryingMatthew.

She had known thatMatthewwouldnotbehappy,butshehadhopedthatbythistimethetwomenwouldhavemetandlikedeachother,andit was not her fault that thathadnothappenedyet.‘After all the bloody fuss

we had when I wanted toinvite Sarah Shadlock,’Matthew had said – a blow,Robinfelt,thatwasbelowthebelt.‘Invite her then!’ she said

angrily. ‘But it’s hardly thesame thing – Cormoran’snevertriedtogetmeintobed– what’s that snort supposedtomean?’The argument had been in

full swing when Matthew’sfather telephoned with thenews that a funny turnMatthew’s mother hadsuffered the previous weekhadbeendiagnosedasamini-stroke.After this, she and

Matthew felt that squabblingaboutStrikewasinbadtaste,so they went to bed in anunsatisfactory state oftheoretical reconciliation,both, Robin knew, stillseething.It was nearly midday

beforeStrike finally emergedfrom his office. He was notwearing his suit today, but adirtyandholeysweater,jeansand trainers. His face wasthick with the heavy stubble

that accrued if he did notshave every twenty-fourhours. Forgetting her owntroubles, Robin stared: shehad never, even in the dayswhen he was sleeping in theoffice, known Strike to looklikeadown-and-out.‘Beenmakingcalls for the

Ingles file and getting somenumbers for Longman,’Strike told Robin, handingher the old-fashioned browncard folders, each with a

handwritten serialnumberonthespine,thathehadusedinthe Special InvestigationBranch and which remainedhisfavouritewayofcollatinginformation.‘Is that a – a deliberate

look?’ she asked, staring atwhat looked like greasemarks on the knees of hisjeans.‘Yeah. It’s for Gunfrey.

Longstory.’While Strike made them

both tea, they discusseddetailsof threecurrentcases,Strike updating Robin oninformation received andfurther points to beinvestigated.‘And what about Owen

Quine?’ Robin asked,acceptinghermug.‘Whatdidhisagentsay?’Strike lowered himself

ontothesofa,whichmadeitsusual farting noises beneathhim, and filled her in on the

details of his interview withElizabethTasselandhisvisittoKathrynKent.‘When she first sawme, I

couldswearshethoughtIwasQuine.’Robinlaughed.‘You’renotthatfat.’‘Cheers, Robin,’ he said

drily. ‘When she realised Iwasn’tQuine,andbeforesheknewwhoIwas,shesaid,“Idon’twork in that bit.”Doesthatmeananythingtoyou?’

‘No… but,’ she addeddiffidently, ‘I did manage tofind out a bit about KathrynKentyesterday.’‘How?’askedStrike,taken

aback.‘Well,you toldmeshe’sa

self-published writer,’ Robinreminded him, ‘so I thoughtI’dlookonlineandseewhat’sout there and’ – with twoclicks of her mouse shebrought up the page – ‘she’sgotablog.’

‘Good going!’ said Strike,moving gladly off the sofaand round the desk to readoverRobin’sshoulder.The amateurish web page

was called ‘My LiteraryLife’, decorated withdrawingsofquillsandaveryflattering picture of KathrynthatStrike thoughtmustbeagood ten years out of date.The blog comprised a list ofposts,arrangedbydatelikeadiary.

‘A lot of it’s about howtraditional publisherswouldn’tknowgoodbooksifthey were hit over the headwith them,’ said Robin,scrolling slowly down thewebpagesohecouldlookatit.‘She’swrittenthreenovelsin what she calls an eroticfantasy series, called theMelina Saga. They’reavailable for download onKindle.’‘I don’t want to read any

more bad books; I hadenough with the BrothersBallsache,’ said Strike.‘AnythingaboutQuine?’‘Loads,’ said Robin,

‘assuming he’s the man shecalls The Famous Writer.TFWforshort.’‘I doubt she’s sleeping

withtwoauthors,’saidStrike.‘Itmustbehim.“Famous”isstretching it a bit, though.Had you heard of QuinebeforeLeonorawalkedin?’

‘No,’ admitted Robin.‘Here he is, look, on thesecondofNovember.’

Great talk with TFWabout Plot andNarrative tonightwhichareofcoursenotthe same thing. Forthose wondering:- Plotis what happens,Narrative ishowmuchyou showyour readersandhowyoushowitto

them.Anexamplefrommy

secondNovel ‘Melina’sSacrifice.’As they made their

waytowardstheForestof Harderell Lendorraised his handsomeprofile toseehownearthey were to it. Hiswell-maintained body,honed by horseback-riding and archeryskills–

‘Scroll up,’ said Strike,

‘see what else there is aboutQuine.’Robin obliged, pausing on

apostfrom21October.

So TFW calls and hecan’t see me (again.)Family problems.What can I do exceptsay that I understand?I knew it would becomplicated when we

fell in love. I can’t beopenly explicit on thisbut Ill just say he’sstuck with a wife hedoesn’t lovebecauseofa Third Party. Not hisfault. Not the ThirdParty’s fault. The wifewon’tlethimgoevenifit’s the best thing foreveryone so we’relocked into whatsometimesfeelslikeit’sPurgatory

The Wife knowsabout me andpretend’s not to. Idon’t know how shecanstnad livingwithaman who wants to bewith someone elsebecause I know Icouldn’t do it. TFWsays she’s always puttheThirdPartybeforeeverything elseincludingHIm.Strangehow often being a

‘Carer’ masks deepSelfishness.Somepeoplewillsay

its all my fault forfalling in love with aMarried man. Yournottellingmeanythingmy friends, mySsisterand my own Motherdon’t tell me all thetime.I’vetriedtocallitoff andwhat can I sayexcept The Heart hasit’s reasons, which

Reasons don’t know.And now tonight I’mcrying over him alloveragain forabrandnew Reason. He tellsmehe’snearlyfinishedhis Masterpiece, thebookhesaysistheBesthe’s ever written. ‘Ihope you’ll like it.You’reinit.’What do you say

whenaFamousWriterwritesyouintowhathe

saysishisbestbook?Iunderstand what he’sgiving me in way’s aNon-Writer can’t. Itmakes you feel proudand humble.Yes therearepeopleweWriter’slet intoourhearts,butinto our Books?!That’s special. That’sdifferent.Can’t help loving

TFW. The Heart hasit’sReasons.

There was an exchange of

commentsbelow.

Whatwouldyou say ifI told you he’d read abittome?Pippa2011You’d better be

joking Pip he won’treadmeany!!!KathYou wait. Pippa2011xxxx

‘Interesting,’ said Strike.

‘Veryinteresting.WhenKentattacked me last night, sheassured me that someonecalled Pippa wanted to killme.’‘Look at this, then!’ said

Robin in excitement,scrolling down to 9November.

The first time I evermetTFWhesaidtome“Your not writingproperly unless

someone is bleeding,probably you”. Asfollower’s of this Blogknow I’veMetaphorically openedmyveinsbothhereandalso in my novels. Buttoday I feel like Ihavebeen Fatally stabbedbysomebodywhoIhadlearnedtotrust.‘O Macheath! thou

hast robb’d me of myQuiet – to see thee

tortur’dwouldgivemePleasure.’

‘Where’s that quotation

from?’askedStrike.Robin’s nimble fingers

dancedacrossthekeyboard.‘The Beggar’s Opera, by

JohnGay.’‘Erudite,forawomanwho

confuses“you’re”and“your”and goes in for randomcapitalisation.’‘We can’t all be literary

geniuses,’ said Robinreproachfully.‘Thank Christ for that,

from all I’m hearing aboutthem.’‘But look at the comment

under the quotation,’ saidRobin,returningtoKathryn’sblog. She clicked on the linkand a single sentence wasrevealed.

I’llturnthehandleonthef*@%ingrackfor

youKath.This comment, too, had

beenmadebyPippa2011.‘Pippa sounds a handful,

doesn’t she?’ commentedStrike. ‘Anything aboutwhatKent does for a living onhere?I’massumingshe’snotpaying the bills with hereroticfantasies.’‘That’sabitodd,too.Look

atthisbit.’On 28 October, Kathryn

hadwritten:

LikemostWritersIalsohaveadayjob.Ican’tsaytomuchaboutitforsecutyreasons.ThisweeksecurityhasbeentightenedatourFacilityagainwhichmeansinconsequencethatmyofficiousCo-Worker(bornagainChristian,

sanctimniousonthesubjectofmyprivatelife)anexcusetosuggesttomanagementthatblogse.tcshouldbeviewedincasesensitiveInformationisrevealed.Frotunatelyitseemssensehasprevailedandnoactionisbeingtaken.

‘Mysterious,’ said Strike.

‘Tightened security…

women’s prison? Psychiatrichospital? Or are we talkingindustrialsecrets?’‘And look at this, on the

thirteenthofNovember.’Robin scrolled right down

tothemostrecentpostontheblog, which was the onlyentry after that in whichKathrynclaimedtohavebeenfatallystabbed.

Mybelovedsisterhaslostherlongbattle

withbreastcancerthreedaysago.Thankyouallforyourgoodwishesandsupport.

Two comments had been

added below this, whichRobinopened.Pippa2011hadwritten:

SosorrytohearthisKath.Sendingyoualltheloveintheworldxxx.

Kathrynhadreplied:

ThanksPippayourarealfriendxxxx

Kathryn’s advance thanks

for multiple messages ofsupport sat very sadly abovetheshortexchange.‘Why?’ asked Strike

heavily.‘Why what?’ said Robin,

lookingupathim.

‘Whydopeopledothis?’‘Blog, you mean? I don’t

know…didn’tsomeoneoncesay the unexamined life isn’tworthliving?’‘Yeah, Plato,’ said Strike,

‘but this isn’t examining alife,it’sexhibitingit.’‘Oh God!’ said Robin,

slopping tea down herself asshe gave a guilty start. ‘Iforgot, there’s somethingelse! Christian Fisher calledjust as Iwaswalkingout the

door last night. He wants toknow if you’re interested inwritingabook.’‘Hewhat?’‘A book,’ said Robin,

fighting the urge to laugh atthe expression of disgust onStrike’s face. ‘About yourlife. Your experiences in thearmy and solving the LulaLandry—’‘Call him back,’ Strike

said,‘andtellhimno,I’mnotinterestedinwritingabook.’

He drained his mug andheaded for the pegwhere anancient leather jacket nowhung beside his blackovercoat.‘You haven’t forgotten

tonight?’Robinsaid,withtheknot that had temporarilydissolvedtightinherstomachagain.‘Tonight?’‘Drinks,’ she said

desperately. ‘Me. Matthew.TheKing’sArms.’

‘No,haven’t forgotten,’hesaid, wondering why shelooked so tense andmiserable. ‘’Spect I’ll be outall afternoon, so I’ll see youthere.Eight,wasit?’‘Six thirty,’ said Robin,

tenserthanever.‘Six thirty. Right. I’ll be

there…Venetia.’Shedidadouble-take.‘Howdidyouknow—?’‘It’sontheinvitation,’said

Strike. ‘Unusual. Where did

thatcomefrom?’‘I was – well, I was

conceived there, apparently,’shesaid,pinkin theface.‘InVenice. What’s your middlename?’ she asked over hislaughter, half amused, halfcross. ‘C. B. Strike – what’stheB?’‘Got to get going,’ said

Strike.‘Seeyouateight.’‘Six thirty!’ she bellowed

attheclosingdoor.

Strike’s destination thatafternoon was a shop thatsold electronic accessories inCrouch End. Stolen mobilephones and laptops wereunlockedinabackroom,thepersonal information thereinextracted, and the purgeddevices and the informationwere then sold separately tothosewhocouldusethem.The owner of this thriving

business was causing MrGunfrey, Strike’s client,

considerable inconvenience.Mr Gunfrey, who was everybit as crooked as the manwhom Strike had tracked tohisbusinessheadquarters,buton a larger and moreflamboyantscale,hadmadeamistake in treading on thewrong toes. It was Strike’sview that Gunfrey needed toclearoutwhilehewasahead.He knew of what thisadversary was capable; theyhad an acquaintance in

common.ThetargetgreetedStrikein

anupstairsofficethatsmelledas bad as Elizabeth Tassel’s,while two shell-suitedyouthslolled around in thebackground picking theirnails. Strike, who wasimpersonatinga thugforhirerecommendedbytheirmutualacquaintance, listened as hiswould-be employer confidedthathewasintendingtotargetMr Gunfrey’s teenage son,

about whose movements hewas frighteningly wellinformed. He went so far asto offer Strike the job: fivehundred pounds to cut theboy. (‘I don’t want nomurder, jussamessage to hisfather,yougetme?’)It was gone six before

Strike managed to extricatehimself from the premises.His first call, once he hadmade sure he had not beenfollowed,was toMrGunfrey

himself, whose appalledsilencetoldStrikethathehadat last realised what he wasupagainst.StrikethenphonedRobin.‘Goingtobelate,sorry,’he

said.‘Where are you?’ she

asked, sounding strained. Hecould hear the sounds of thepub behind her: conversationandlaughter.‘CrouchEnd.’‘OhGod,’heheardhersay

under her breath. ‘It’ll takeyouages—’‘I’ll get a cab,’ he assured

her.‘BeasquickasIcan.’Why, Strike wondered, as

he sat in the taxi rumblingalong Upper Street, hadMatthew chosen a pub inWaterloo?Tomakesure thatStrike had to travel a longway? Payback for Strikehaving chosen pubsconvenient to him on theirprevious attempts to meet?

StrikehopedtheKing’sArmsservedfood.Hewassuddenlyveryhungry.It took forty minutes to

reach his destination, partlybecause the row ofnineteenth-century workers’cottageswhere thepubstoodwasblocked to traffic.Strikechose to get out and end thecurmudgeonly taxi driver’sattempt tomake sense of thestreet numbering, whichappeared not to follow a

logical sequence, andproceededonfoot,wonderingwhether the difficulty offinding the place hadinfluencedMatthew’schoice.The King’s Arms turned

out to be a picturesqueVictorian corner pub theentrances of which weresurrounded by a mixture ofprofessional young men insuits and what looked likestudents, all smoking anddrinking. The small crowd

parted easily as heapproached, giving him awider berth than was strictlynecessary even for a man ofhisheightandbreadth.Ashecrossedthethresholdintothesmall bar Strike wondered,not without a faint hope thatit might happen, whether hemight be asked to leave onaccountofhisfilthyclothes.Meanwhile, in the noisy

back room, which was aglass-ceilinged courtyard

self-consciously crammedwith bric-a-brac, Matthewwaslookingathiswatch.‘It’snearlyaquarterpast,’

hetoldRobin.Clean cut in his suit and

tie, he was – as usual – thehandsomestmanintheroom.Robin was used to seeingwomen’s eyes swivel as hewalked past them; she hadneverquitemanagedtomakeup her mind how awareMatthew was of their swift,

burningglances.Sittingatthelongwooden bench that theyhadbeenforcedtosharewitha party of cackling students,sixfootone,withafirmcleftchin andbrightblue eyes, helooked like a thoroughbredkept in a paddock ofHighlandponies.‘That’s him,’ said Robin,

with a surge of relief andapprehension.Strike seemed to have

become larger and rougher-

looking since he had left theoffice. He moved easilytowards them through thepacked room, his eyes onRobin’sbrightgoldhead,onelargehandgraspingapintofHophead.Matthew stood up.Itlookedasthoughhebracedhimself.‘Cormoran – hi – you

foundit.’‘You’re Matthew,’ said

Strike, holding out a hand.‘Sorry I’m so late, I tried to

get away earlier but I waswith the sort of bloke youwouldn’t want to turn yourbackonwithoutpermission.’Matthewreturnedanempty

smile.HehadexpectedStriketo be full of those kinds ofcomments: self-dramatising,trying to make a mystery ofwhat he did. By the look ofhim, he’d been changing atyre.‘Sit down,’ Robin told

Strike nervously, moving

along the bench so far thatshewasalmostfallingofftheend. ‘Are you hungry? Wewere just talking aboutorderingsomething.’‘Theydoreasonablydecent

food,’ said Matthew. ‘Thai.It’s not theMango Tree, butit’sallright.’Strike smiled without

warmth. He had expectedMatthew to be like this:name-dropping restaurants inBelgravia to prove, after a

singleyearinLondon,thathewasaseasonedmetropolitan.‘How did it go this

afternoon?’ Robin askedStrike. She thought that ifMatthewonlyheardaboutthesort of things that Strike did,he would become asfascinated as she was by theprocess of detection and hisevery prejudice would fallaway.But Strike’s brief

description of his afternoon,

omitting all identifyingdetailsofthoseinvolved,metbarely concealed indifferenceonthepartofMatthew.Strikethen offered them both adrink, as they were holdingemptyglasses.‘You could show a bit of

interest,’ Robin hissed atMatthewonceStrikewasoutofearshotatthebar.‘Robin,hemet aman in a

shop,’saidMatthew.‘Idoubtthey’ll be optioning the film

rightsanytimesoon.’Pleased with his own wit,

he turned his attention to theblackboard menu on theoppositewall.When Strike had returned

withdrinks,Robininsistedonbattlingherwayuptothebarwith their food order. Shedreaded leaving the twomenalone together, but felt thatthey might, somehow, findtheirownlevelwithouther.Matthew’sbriefincreasein

self-satisfaction ebbed awayinRobin’sabsence.‘You’re ex-army,’ he

found himself telling Strike,even though he had beendetermined not to permitStrike’s life experience todominatetheconversation.‘That’s right,’ said Strike.

‘SIB.’Matthewwasnotsurewhat

thatwas.‘My father’s ex-RAF,’ he

said. ‘Yeah, he was in same

timeasJeffYoung.’‘Who?’‘Welsh rugby union

player? Twenty-three caps?’saidMatthew.‘Right,’saidStrike.‘Yeah, Dad made

Squadron Leader. Left ineighty-six and he’s run hisown property managementbusinesssince.Doneallrightforhimself.Nothinglikeyourold man,’ said Matthew, alittle defensively, ‘but all

right.’Tit,thoughtStrike.‘What are you talking

about?’Robinsaidanxiously,sittingbackdown.‘JustDad,’saidMatthew.‘Poorthing,’saidRobin.‘Whypoorthing?’snapped

Matthew.‘Well–he’sworriedabout

your mum, isn’t he? Themini-stroke?’‘Oh,’saidMatthew,‘that.’Strike had met men like

Matthewin thearmy:alwaysofficer class, but with thatlittlepocketofinsecurityjustbeneath the smooth surfacethat made themovercompensate, andsometimesoverreach.‘So how are things at

Lowther-French?’ Robinasked Matthew, willing himto show Strike what a nicemanhewas,toshowtherealMatthew, whom she loved.‘Matthew’s auditing this

really odd little publishingcompany. They’re quitefunny, aren’t they?’ she saidtoherfiancé.‘Iwouldn’tcall it“funny”,

theshamblesthey’rein,’saidMatthew, and he talked untiltheirfoodarrived,litteringhischat with references to‘ninetyk’and‘aquarterofamill’,andeverysentencewasangled,likeamirror,toshowhiminthebestpossiblelight:his cleverness, his quick

thinking, his besting ofslower, stupider yet moresenior colleagues, hispatronage of the dullardsworking for the firm he wasauditing.‘… trying to justify a

Christmas party, whenthey’vebarelybrokenevenintwoyears;it’llbemorelikeawake.’Matthew’s confident

strictures on the small firmwere followed by the arrival

of their food and silence.Robin,who had been hopingthat Matthew wouldreproduce for Strike some ofthe kinder, more affectionatethingshehadfoundtotellherabout the eccentrics at thesmall press, could think ofnothing to say. However,Matthew’s mention of apublishing party had justgiven Strike an idea. Thedetective’sjawsworkedmoreslowly.Ithadoccurredtohim

that there might be anexcellent opportunity to seekinformationonOwenQuine’swhereabouts, and hiscapacious memoryvolunteered a small piece ofinformation he had forgottenheknew.‘Got a girlfriend,

Cormoran?’ Matthew askedStrike directly; it wassomething he was keen toestablish. Robin had beenvagueonthepoint.

‘No,’ said Strike absently.‘’Scuseme – won’t be long,gottomakeaphonecall.’‘Yeah, no problem,’ said

Matthew irritably, but onlyonce Strike was once againout of earshot. ‘You’re fortyminuteslateandthenyoupissoff during dinner. We’ll justsitherewaitingtillyoudeigntocomeback.’‘Matt!’Reaching the dark

pavement, Strike pulled out

cigarettes and his mobilephone. Lighting up, hewalkedawayfromhis fellowsmokers to the quiet end ofthe side street to stand indarkness beneath the brickarches that bore the railwayline.Culpepperansweredonthe

thirdring.‘Strike,’hesaid. ‘How’s it

going?’‘Good. Calling to ask a

favour.’

‘Go on,’ said Culpeppernon-committally.‘You’vegotacousincalled

Nina who works for RoperChard—’‘Howthehelldoyouknow

that?’‘You toldme,’ said Strike

patiently.‘When?’‘Few months ago when I

was investigating that dodgydentistforyou.’‘Your fucking memory,’

saidCulpepper,soundinglessimpressed than unnerved.‘It’s not normal.What abouther?’‘Couldn’t put me in touch

with her, could you?’ askedStrike.‘RoperChardhavegotan anniversary partytomorrow night and I’d liketogo.’‘Why?’‘I’ve got a case,’ said

Strike evasively. He neversharedwithCulpepperdetails

of the high-society divorcesandbusiness ruptureshewasinvestigating, in spite ofCulpepper’sfrequentrequeststodoso.‘AndIjustgaveyouthe scoop of your bloodycareer.’‘Yeah, all right,’ said the

journalist grudgingly, after ashort hesitation. ‘I suppose Icoulddothatforyou.’‘Is she single?’ Strike

asked.‘What, you after a shag,

too?’ said Culpepper, andStrike noted that he seemedamused instead of peeved atthethoughtofStriketryingitonwithhiscousin.‘No, I want to know

whether it’ll look suspiciousifshetakesmetotheparty.’‘Oh,right.Ithinkshe’sjust

split up with someone. Idunno. I’ll text you thenumber. Wait till Sunday,’Culpepper added with barelysuppressed glee. ‘A tsunami

of shit’s about to hit LordPorker.’‘CallNinaformefirst,will

you?’Strikeaskedhim.‘Andtell her who I am, so sheunderstandsthegig?’Culpepperagreed to it and

rang off. In no particularhurry to return to Matthew,Strike smoked his cigarettedown to the butt beforemovingbackinside.The packed room, he

thought, as hemade hisway

across it, bowing his head toavoidhangingpotsandstreetsigns, was like Matthew: ittried too hard. The decorincluded an old-fashionedstove and an ancient till,multiple shopping baskets,old prints and plates: acontrived panoply of junk-shopfinds.Matthew had hoped to

have finished his noodlesbefore Strike returned, tounderline the length of his

absence, but had not quitemanaged it. Robin waslookingmiserableandStrike,wondering what had passedbetween them while he hadbeengone,feltsorryforher.‘Robinsaysyou’rearugby

player,’ he told Matthew,determinedtomakeaneffort.‘Could’ve played county, isthatright?’They made laborious

conversation for anotherhour: thewheels turnedmost

easily while Matthew wasable to talk about himself.Strike noticed Robin’s habitoffeedingMatthewlinesandcues, each designed to openupanareaofconversation inwhichhecouldshine.‘How long have you two

beentogether?’heasked.‘Nine years,’ said

Matthew,witha slight returnofhisformercombativeair.‘That long?’ said Strike,

surprised.‘What,wereyouat

universitytogether?’‘School,’ said Robin,

smiling.‘Sixthform.’‘Wasn’tabigschool,’said

Matthew. ‘She was the onlygirlwithanybrainswhowasfanciable.Nochoice.’Tosser,thoughtStrike.Their way home lay

together as far as Waterloostation; they walked throughthe darkness, continuing tomake small talk, then partedattheentrancetotheTube.

‘There,’ said Robinhopelessly, as she andMatthew walked awaytowards the escalator. ‘He’snice,isn’the?’‘Punctuality’s shit,’ said

Matthew, who could find noother charge to lay againstStrike that did not soundinsane.‘He’llprobablyarrivefortyminutesbloodylateandruintheservice.’But itwas tacit consent to

Strike’sattendanceand,inthe

absence of genuineenthusiasm, Robin supposeditcouldhavebeenworse.Matthew, meanwhile, was

brooding in silenceon thingshe would have confessed tonobody.Robinhadaccuratelydescribed her boss’s looks –thepube-likehair,theboxer’sprofile–butMatthewhadnotexpected Strike to be so big.HehadacoupleofinchesonMatthew,who enjoyed beingthe tallest man in his office.

What was more, while hewould have found itdistasteful showboating ifStrike had held forth abouthis experiences inAfghanistan and Iraq, or toldthem how his leg had beenblown off, or how he hadearned the medal that Robinseemedtofindsoimpressive,his silence on these subjectshad been almost moreirritating. Strike’s heroism,his action-packed life, his

experiences of travel anddanger had somehowhovered, spectrally, over theconversation.Beside him on the train,

Robin too sat in silence. Shehad not enjoyed the eveningonebit.Neverbeforehadsheknown Matthew quite likethat; or at least, never beforehadsheseenhimlike that. Itwas Strike, she thought,puzzling over the matter asthe train jolted them. Strike

had somehow made her seeMatthew through his eyes.She did not know quite howhe had done it – all thatquestioning Matthew aboutrugby – some people mighthave thought it was polite,but Robin knew better… orwas she just annoyed that hehad been late, and blaminghimforthingsthathehadnotintended?Andsotheengagedcouple

sped home, united in

unexpressed irritation withthe man now snoring loudlyasherattledawayfromthemontheNorthernline.

11

LetmeknowWherefore I should bethusneglected.

JohnWebster,TheDuchessofMalfi

‘Is that Cormoran Strike?’askedagirlishupper-middle-

class voice at twenty to ninethefollowingmorning.‘Itis,’saidStrike.‘It’s Nina. Nina Lascelles.

Dominic gave me yournumber.’‘Ohyeah,’saidStrike,who

was standing bare-chested infrontoftheshavingmirrorheusually kept beside thekitchensink,theshowerroombeingbothdarkandcramped.Wiping shaving foam fromaround his mouth with his

forearm,hesaid:‘Did he tell you what it

wasabout,Nina?’‘Yeah, you want to

infiltrate Roper Chard’sanniversaryparty.’‘“Infiltrate”isabitstrong.’‘But it sounds much more

exciting if we say“infiltrate”.’‘Fair enough,’ he said,

amused. ‘I take it you’re upforthis?’‘Oooh, yes, fun. Am I

allowed to guess why youwant to come and spy oneveryone?’‘Again, “spy” isn’t really

—’‘Stopspoilingthings.AmI

allowedaguess?’‘Go on then,’ said Strike,

taking a sip fromhismugoftea, his eyes on the window.It was foggy again; the briefspell of sunshineextinguished.‘BombyxMori,’ saidNina.

‘Am I right? I am, aren’t I?SayI’mright.’‘You’re right,’ said Strike

and she gave a squeal ofpleasure.‘I’m not even supposed to

be talking about it. There’sbeen a lockdown, emailsround the company, lawyersstorming in and out ofDaniel’s office. Where shallwemeet?Weshouldhookupsomewhere first and turn uptogether,don’tyouthink?’

‘Yeah, definitely,’ saidStrike. ‘Where’s good foryou?’Evenashetookapenfrom

the coat hanging behind thedoor he thought longingly ofan evening at home, a goodlong sleep, an interlude ofpeaceandrestbeforeanearlystart on Saturday morning,tailing his brunette client’sfaithlesshusband.‘D’you know Ye Olde

Cheshire Cheese?’ asked

Nina. ‘On Fleet Street?Nobody from work’ll be inthere, and it’s walkingdistancetotheoffice.Iknowit’scornybutIloveit.’They agreed to meet at

seven thirty. As Strikereturned to his shaving, heasked himself how likely itwas that he would meetanyone who knew Quine’swhereabouts at hispublisher’sparty.The troubleis,Strikementallychided the

reflection in the circularmirror as the pair of themstrafed stubble from theirchins, you keep acting likeyou’re still SIB.Thenation’snotpayingyoutobethoroughanymore,mate.Butheknewnootherway;

it was part of a short butinflexible personal code ofethicsthathehadcarriedwithhim all his adult life: do thejobanddoitwell.Strike was intending to

spendmost of the day in theoffice, which under normalcircumstancesheenjoyed.Heand Robin shared thepaperwork; she was anintelligent and often helpfulsounding board and asfascinated now with themechanicsofaninvestigationasshehadbeenwhenshehadjoined him. Today, however,he headed downstairs withsomething bordering onreluctance and, sure enough,

his seasoned antennaedetected in her greeting aself-conscious edge that hefeared would shortly breakthrough into ‘What did youthinkofMatthew?’This, Strike reflected,

retiringtotheinnerofficeandshutting the door on thepretext of making phonecalls,wasexactlywhyitwasabad idea tomeetyouronlymember of staff outsideworkinghours.

Hunger forced him toemerge a few hours later.Robinhadboughtsandwichesas usual, but she had notknocked on the door to lethim know that they werethere. This, too, seemed topoint to feelings ofawkwardness after theprevious evening. Topostponethemomentwhenitmustbementioned,andinthehope that if he kept off thesubject long enough she

might never bring it up(although he had neverknownthetactictoworkonawoman before), Strike toldhertruthfullythathehadjustgot off the phone with MrGunfrey.‘Is he going to go to the

police?’askedRobin.‘Er–no.Gunfreyisn’t the

typeofblokewhogoestothepoliceifsomeone’sbotheringhim. He’s nearly as bent asthe bloke who wants to cut

his son.He’s realisedhe’s inover his head this time,though.’‘Didn’t you think of

recording what that gangsterwas paying you to do andtaking it to the policeyourself?’ asked Robin,withoutthinking.‘No,Robin,becauseit’dbe

obvious where the tip-offcame from and it’ll put astrain on business if I’ve gotto dodge hired killers while

doingsurveillance.’‘But Gunfrey can’t keep

hissonathomeforever!’‘He won’t have to. He’s

going to take the family offfor a surprise holiday in theStates,phoneourknife-happyfriend from LA and tell himhe’s given the matter somethoughtandchangedhismindabout interfering with hisbusiness interests. Shouldn’tlook too suspicious. Thebloke’s already done enough

shitty stuff tohim towarranta coolingoff.Bricks throughhis windscreen, threateningcallstohiswife.‘S’poseI’llhavetogoback

toCrouchEndnextweek,saytheboynevershowedupandgivehismonkeyback.’Strikesighed. ‘Not very plausible,but I don’t want them tocomelookingforme.’‘Hegaveyoua—?’‘Monkey – five hundred

quid, Robin,’ said Strike.

‘What do they call that inYorkshire?’‘Shockingly little to stab a

teenager,’ said Robinforcefully and then, catchingStrike off guard, ‘What didyouthinkofMatthew?’‘Nice bloke,’ lied Strike

automatically.He refrained from

elaboration.Shewasnofool;hehadbeenimpressedbeforenowbyherinstinctforthelie,the false note. Nevertheless,

he could not help hurryingthemontoadifferentsubject.‘I’m starting to think,

maybe next year, if we’returning a proper profit andyou’ve already had your payrise, we could justify takingsomeone else on. I’mworking flat outhere, I can’tkeepgoing like this for ever.How many clients have youturneddownlately?’‘A couple,’ Robin

respondedcoolly.

Surmisingthathehadbeeninsufficiently enthusiasticabout Matthew but resolutethat he would not be anymorehypocriticalthanhehadalreadybeen,Strikewithdrewshortly afterwards into hisoffice and shut the dooragain.However,onthisoccasion,

Strikewasonlyhalfright.Robin had indeed felt

deflatedbyhis response.Sheknew that if Strike had

genuinely liked Matthew hewould never have been asdefinitive as ‘nice bloke.’He’d have said ‘Yeah, he’sall right,’ or ‘I s’pose youcoulddoworse.’What had irritated and

even hurtwas his suggestionof bringing in anotheremployee.Robin turnedbackto her computermonitor andstarted typing fast andfuriously, banging the keysharderthanusualasshemade

upthisweek’sinvoiceforthedivorcing brunette. She hadthought – evidently wrongly– that she was here as morethan a secretary. She hadhelped Strike secure theevidence that had convictedLulaLandry’skiller; shehadeven collected some of italone, on her own initiative.In themonths since, she hadseveral times operated waybeyond the duties of a PA,accompanying Strike on

surveillance jobs when itwould look more natural forhim to be in a couple,charming doormen andrecalcitrant witnesses whoinstinctively took offence atStrike’s bulk and surlyexpression, not to mentionpretending to be a variety ofwomen on the telephone thatStrike, with his deep bassvoice, had no hope ofimpersonating.Robin had assumed that

Strikewasthinkingalongthesame lines that she was: heoccasionally said things like‘It’s good for your detectivetraining’or ‘Youcoulduseacounter-surveillance course.’She had assumed that oncethebusinesswasonasounderfooting (and she couldplausibly claim to havehelpedmakeitso)shewouldbe given the training sheknewsheneeded.Butnow itseemed that these hints had

been mere throwaway lines,vaguepatsontheheadforthetypist.Sowhatwasshedoinghere? Why had she thrownawaysomethingmuchbetter?(In her temper, Robin choseto forget how little she hadwanted that human resourcesjob,howeverwellpaid.)Perhaps the new employee

would be female, able toperformtheseusefuljobs,andshe, Robin, would becomereceptionist and secretary to

bothofthem,andneverleaveherdeskagain.Itwasnotforthat that she had stayedwithStrike,givenupamuchbettersalaryandcreatedarecurringsource of tension in herrelationship.At five o’clock on the dot

Robinstoppedtypinginmid-sentence,pulledonhertrenchcoatandleft,closingtheglassdoor behind her withunnecessaryforce.The bang woke Strike up.

Hehadbeenfastasleepathisdesk, his head on his arms.Checking his watch he sawthatitwasfiveandwonderedwho had just come into theoffice.Onlywhenheopenedthe dividing door and sawthat Robin’s coat and bagwere gone and her computermonitor dark did he realisethat she had left withoutsayinggoodbye.‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ he

saidimpatiently.

Shewasn’tusuallysulky;itwas one of the many thingshe liked about her.What didit matter if he didn’t likeMatthew?Hewasn’t the onemarrying him. Mutteringirritably under his breath,Strikelockedupandclimbedthe stairs to his attic room,intending to eat and changebefore meeting NinaLascelles.

12

She is a woman of anexcellent assurance, andan extraordinary happywit,andtongue.BenJonson,Epicoene,orTheSilentWoman

Strike proceeded along the

dark, cold Strand towardsFleetStreetthateveningwithhis hands balled deep in hispockets,walkingasbrisklyasfatigue and an increasinglysore right leg would permit.He regretted leaving thepeace and comfort of hisglorified bedsit; he was notsure that anything usefulwouldcomeofthisevening’sexpedition and yet, almostagainsthiswill,hewasstruckanewinthefrostyhazeofthis

winter’s night by the agedbeauty of the old city towhich he owed a dividedchildhoodallegiance.Every taint of the touristic

was wiped away by thefreezing November evening:the seventeenth-centuryfaçade of the Old BellTavern, with its diamondwindowpanes aglow, exudeda noble antiquity; the dragonstandingsentinelontopoftheTemple Bar marker was

silhouetted, stark and fierce,against the star-studdedblackness above; and in thefar distance the misty domeof St Paul’s shone like arisingmoon.Highonabrickwall above him as heapproached his destinationwere names that spoke ofFleet Street’s inky past – thePeople’s Friend, theDundeeCourier– butCulpepper andhis journalistic ilk had longsincebeendrivenoutoftheir

traditional home toWappingand Canary Wharf. The lawdominated the area now, theRoyal Courts of Justicestaring down upon thepassing detective, theultimate temple of Strike’strade.In this forgiving and

strangely sentimental mood,Strike approached the roundyellow lamp across the roadthat marked the entrance toYeOldeCheshireCheeseand

headed up the narrowpassageway that led to theentrance, stooping to avoidhitting his head on the lowlintel.A cramped wood-panelled

entrance lined with ancientoil paintings opened on to atiny front room. Strikeducked again, avoiding thefaded wooden sign‘Gentlemenonly in this bar’,andwasgreetedatoncewithan enthusiastic wave from a

pale, petite girl whosedominant feature was a pairoflargebrowneyes.Huddledinablackcoatbesidethelogfire, she was cradling anempty glass in two smallwhitehands.‘Nina?’‘I knew it was you,

Dominic described you to aT.’‘CanIgetyouadrink?’Sheaskedforawhitewine.

Strike fetched himself a pint

ofSamSmithandedgedontothe uncomfortable woodenbench beside her. Londonaccents filled the room. Asthough she had read hismood,Ninasaid:‘It’s still a real pub. It’s

only peoplewho never comehere who think it’s full oftourists. And Dickens camehere, and Johnson andYeats…Iloveit.’Shebeamedathimandhe

smiled back, mustering real

warmth with severalmouthfulsofbeerinsidehim.‘Howfar’syouroffice?’‘Aboutaten-minutewalk,’

she said. ‘We’re just off theStrand. It’s a new buildingandthere’saroofgarden.It’sgoing tobebloody freezing,’she added, giving a pre-emptive shiver and drawingher coat more tightly aroundher. ‘But the bosses had anexcuse not to hire anywhere.Timesarehardinpublishing.’

‘There’sbeensometroubleabout Bombyx Mori, yousaid?’ asked Strike, gettingdown to business as hestretched out his prostheticlegasfarasitwouldgounderthetable.‘Trouble,’ she said, ‘is the

understatement of thecentury.DanielChard’slivid.You don’t make DanielChard the baddie in a dirtynovel. Not done. No. Badidea. He’s a strange man.

They say he got sucked intothe family business, but hereallywanted to be an artist.LikeHitler,’sheaddedwithagiggle.The lights over the bar

danced in her big eyes. Shelooked, Strike thought, likeanalertandexcitedmouse.‘Hitler?’ he repeated,

faintlyamused.‘He rants like Hitler when

he’supset–we’vefoundthatoutthisweek.Nobody’sever

heard Daniel speak above amumblebeforethis.Shoutingand screaming at Jerry; wecould hear him through thewalls.’‘Haveyoureadthebook?’She hesitated, a naughty

grin playing around hermouth.‘Notofficially,’shesaidat

last.‘Butunofficially…’‘Imighthavehadasneaky

peek,’shesaid.

‘Isn’t it under lock andkey?’‘Well, yeah, it’s in Jerry’s

safe.’A sly sideways glance

invited Strike to join her ingentle mockery of theinnocenteditor.‘The trouble is, he’s told

everyone the combinationbecausehekeepsforgettingitandthatmeanshecanaskusto remind him. Jerry’s thesweetest, straightest man in

theworldandIdon’t thinkitwould have occurred to himthat we’d have a read if weweren’tsupposedto.’‘Whendidyoulookatit?’‘The Monday after he got

it. Rumours were reallypicking up by then, becauseChristian Fisher had rungabout fifty people over theweekendand readbits of thebook over the phone. I’veheard he scanned it andstartedemailingpartsaround,

aswell.’‘This would have been

beforelawyersstartedgettinginvolved?’‘Yeah. They called us all

together and gave us thisridiculous speech aboutwhatwould happen if we talkedabout the book. It was justnonsense,tryingtotellusthecompany’s reputation wouldsuffer if the CEO’s ridiculed–we’reabouttogopublic,orthat’s the rumour – and

ultimately our jobswould beimperilled.Idon’tknowhowthelawyerkeptastraightfacesaying it. My dad’s a QC,’she went on airily, ‘and hesays Chard’ll have a hardtime going after any of uswhensomanypeopleoutsidethecompanyknow.’‘Is he a good CEO,

Chard?’askedStrike.‘I suppose so,’ she said

restlessly, ‘but he’s quitemysteriousanddignifiedso…

well, it’s just funny, whatQuinewroteabouthim.’‘Whichwas…?’‘Well, in thebookChard’s

calledPhallus Impudicusand—’Strike choked on his pint.

Ninagiggled.‘He’s called “Impudent

Cock”?’ Strike asked,laughing, wiping his mouthonthebackofhishand.Ninalaughed; a surprisingly dirtycackle for one who looked

likeaneagerschoolgirl.‘You did Latin? I gave it

up, I hated it – but we allknow what “phallus” is,right?Ihadto lookitupandPhallus impudicus is actuallythe proper name for atoadstool called stinkhorn.Apparently they smell vileand… well,’ she giggledsome more, ‘they look likerotting knobs. ClassicOwen:dirty names and everyonewiththeirbitsout.’

‘And what does PhallusImpudicusgetupto?’‘Well, he walks like

Daniel, talks like Daniel,looks like Daniel and heenjoys a spot of necrophiliawith a handsome writer he’smurdered.It’sreallygoryanddisgusting. Jerry always saidOwen thinks the day wastedifhehasn’tmadehis readersgag at least twice. PoorJerry,’sheaddedquietly.‘Why“poorJerry”?’asked

Strike.‘He’sinthebookaswell.’‘Andwhat kind of phallus

ishe?’Ninagiggledagain.‘Icouldn’ttellyou,Ididn’t

readthebitaboutJerry.IjustflickedthroughtofindDanielbecause everyone said itwassogrossandfunny.Jerrywasonlyoutofhisofficehalf anhour, so I didn’t have muchtime – but we all know he’sin there, because Daniel

hauled Jerry in, made himmeet the lawyersandaddhisname to all the stupid emailstellingustheskywillfallinifwetalkaboutBombyxMori.Isuppose itmakesDaniel feelbetter that Owen’s attackedJerrytoo.Heknowseveryoneloves Jerry, so I expect hethinks we’ll all keep ourmouthsshuttoprotecthim.‘God knows why Quine’s

goneforJerry, though,’Ninaadded, her smile fading a

little. ‘Because Jerry hasn’tgot an enemy in the world.Owenisabastard,really,’sheaddedasaquietafterthought,staring down at her emptywineglass.‘Want another drink?’

Strikeasked.He returned to the bar.

There was a stuffed greyparrot in a glass case on thewallopposite.Itwastheonlybit of genuine whimsy hecould see and he was

prepared, in his mood oftoleranceforthisauthenticbitof old London, to do it thecourtesy of assuming that ithad once squawked andchattered within these wallsandhadnotbeenboughtasamangyaccessory.‘You know Quine’s gone

missing?’ Strike asked, oncebackbesideNina.‘Yeah, I heard a rumour.

I’m not surprised, the fusshe’scaused.’

‘D’youknowQuine?’‘Not really.Hecomes into

theofficesometimesandtriesto flirt, you know, with hisstupid cloak draped roundhim, showing off, alwaystryingtoshock.Ithinkhe’sabit pathetic, and I’ve alwayshated his books. Jerrypersuaded me to readHobart’sSin and I thought itwasdreadful.’‘D’you know if anyone’s

heardfromQuinelately?’

‘Not that I know of,’ saidNina.‘Andnooneknowswhyhe

wroteabook thatwasboundtogethimsued?’‘Everyone assumes he’s

hadamajorrowwithDaniel.Herowswitheveryoneintheend; he’s been with Godknows how many publishersovertheyears.‘I heard Daniel only

publishes Owen because hethinks it makes it look as

though Owen’s forgiven himforbeingawful toJoeNorth.OwenandDanieldon’treallylike each other, that’scommonknowledge.’Strike remembered the

image of the beautiful blondyoung man hanging onElizabethTassel’swall.‘How was Chard awful to

North?’‘I’m a bit vague on the

details,’ said Nina. ‘But Iknow hewas. I know Owen

swore he’d never work forDaniel, but then he ranthrough nearly every otherpublishersohehadtopretendhe’d been wrong aboutDaniel and Daniel took himon because he thought itmade him look good. That’swhateveryonesays,anyway.’‘And has Quine rowed

with Jerry Waldegrave, toyourknowledge?’‘No, which is what’s so

bizarre. Why attack Jerry?

He’s lovely! Although fromwhat I’ve heard, you can’treally—’Forthefirst time,asfaras

Strike could tell, sheconsidered what she wasabout to say beforeproceeding a little moresoberly:‘Well, you can’t really tell

whatOwen’sgettingatinthebitaboutJerry,andasIsay,Ihaven’t read it. But Owen’sdone over loads of people,’

Nina went on. ‘I heard hisown wife’s in there, andapparently he’s been vileabout Liz Tassel, whomightbe a bitch, but everyoneknows she’s stuck by Owenthrough thick and thin.Liz’llnever be able to placeanything with Roper Chardagain; everyone’s furious ather. I know she wasdisinvited for tonight onDaniel’s orders – prettyhumiliating. And there’s

supposed to be a party forLarry Pinkelman, one of herother authors, in a couple ofweeksandtheycan’tuninviteher from that – Larry’s suchan old sweetheart, everyoneloves him – but God knowswhat reception she’ll get ifsheturnsup.‘Anyway,’ said Nina,

shakingbackher lightbrownfringe and changing thesubject abruptly, ‘how areyou and I supposed to know

eachother,oncewegettotheparty?Areyoumyboyfriend,orwhat?’‘Are partners allowed at

thisthing?’‘Yeah, but I haven’t told

anyoneI’mseeingyou,sowecan’t have been going outlong. We’ll say we gottogether at a party lastweekend,OK?’Strike heard, with almost

identical amounts of disquietand gratified vanity, the

enthusiasm with which shesuggestedafictionaltryst.‘Needapeebeforewego,’

he said, raising himselfheavily from the woodenbenchasshedrainedherthirdglass.The stairs down to the

bathroom in Ye OldeCheshire Cheese werevertiginousandtheceilingsolowthathesmackedhisheadeven while stooping. As herubbed his temple, swearing

underhisbreath,itseemedtoStrike that he had just beengiven a divine clout over thehead, to remind him whatwas, and what was not, agoodidea.

13

It is reported, youpossessabookWherein you havequotedbyintelligenceThe names of allnotoriousoffenders,Lurkingaboutthecity.JohnWebster,TheWhite

Devil

Experience had taught Strikethat there was a certain typeof woman to whom he wasunusually attractive. Theircommon characteristics wereintelligenceandtheflickeringintensity of badly wiredlamps. They were oftenattractive and usually, as hisvery oldest friend DavePolworthlikedtoputit,‘totalfucking flakes’. Precisely

what it was about him thatattracted the type, Strike hadnever taken the time toconsider, although Polworth,amanofmanypithytheories,took the view that suchwomen (‘nervy, overbred’)were subconsciously lookingfor what he called ‘carthorseblood’.Strike’s ex-fiancée,

Charlotte, might have beensaid to be queen of thespecies. Beautiful, clever,

volatileanddamaged,shehadreturned again and again toStrike in the face of familialopposition and her friends’barelyveileddisgust.Hehadfinally put an end to sixteenyears of their on-again, off-again relationship in Marchandshehadbecomeengagedalmostimmediatelytotheex-boyfriend fromwhomStrike,somanyyearsagoinOxford,had won her. Barring oneexceptional night since,

Strike’s love life had beenvoluntarily barren.Work hadfilled virtually every wakinghour and he had successfullyresisted advances, subtle orovert, from the likes of hisglamorous brunette client,soon-to-be divorcées withtime to kill and loneliness toassuage.But there was always the

dangerous urge to submit, tobrave complications for anight or two of consolation,

and now Nina Lascelles washurrying along beside him inthe dark Strand, taking twostrides to his one, andinforming him of her exactaddress in St John’s Wood‘so it looks like you’ve beenthere’.Shebarelycameuptohis shoulder and Strike hadnever found very smallwomenattractive.Hertorrentof chat about Roper Chardwasladenwithmorelaughterthan was strictly necessary

andonceortwiceshetouchedhisarmtoemphasiseapoint.‘Here we are,’ she said at

last,astheyapproachedatallmodern building with arevolving glass door and thewords ‘Roper Chard’ pickedoutinshiningorangePerspexacrossthestonework.A wide lobby dotted with

peopleineveningdressfaceda line ofmetal sliding doors.Nina pulled an invitation outof her bag and showed it to

whatlookedlikehiredhelpina badly fitting tuxedo, thenshe and Strike joined twentyothersinalargemirroredlift.‘Thisfloor’sformeetings,’

Nina shouted up to him asthey debouched into acrowded open-plan areawhere a bandwas playing toa sparsely populated dancefloor.‘It’susuallypartitioned.So – who do you want tomeet?’‘Anyone who knewQuine

well andmight have an ideawhereheis.’‘That’s only Jerry,

really…’They were buffeted by a

fresh consignment of guestsfromtheliftbehindthemandmoved into thecrowd.Strikethoughthe feltNinagrab thebackofhiscoat, likeachild,buthedidnot reciprocatebytakingherhandorinanywayreinforce the impression thatthey were boyfriend and

girlfriend. Once or twice heheard her greet people inpassing.Theyeventuallywonthroughtothefarwall,wheretables manned by white-coated waiters groaned withpartyfoodanditwaspossibletomakeconversationwithoutshouting.Striketookacoupleof dainty crab cakes and atethem, deploring theirminuscule size, while Ninalookedaround.‘Can’t see Jerryanywhere,

but he’s probably up on theroof, smoking. Shall we tryup there?Oooh, look there –Daniel Chard, mingling withtheherd!’‘Whichone?’‘Thebaldone.’A respectful little distance

hadbeenleftaroundtheheadof the company, like theflattened circle of corn thatsurrounds a rising helicopter,as he talked to a curvaceousyoungwomaninatightblack

dress.Phallus Impudicus; Strike

could not repress a grin ofamusement, yet Chard’sbaldness suited him. He wasyounger and fitter-lookingthan Strike had expected andhandsome in his way, withthick dark eyebrows overdeep-seteyes,ahawkishnoseand a thin-lippedmouth.Hischarcoal suit wasunexceptional but his tie,which was pale mauve, was

muchwider than the averageand bore drawings of humannoses. Strike, whose dresssense had always beenconventional, an instincthonedbythesergeants’mess,could not help but beintrigued by this small butforceful statement of non-conformity in a CEO,especially as it was drawingthe occasional glance ofsurpriseoramusement.‘Where’s the drink?’ Nina

said, standing pointlessly ontiptoe.‘Over there,’ said Strike,

who could see a bar in frontofthewindowsthatshowedaview of the dark Thames.‘Stay here, I’ll get them.Whitewine?’‘Champers, if Daniel’s

pushedtheboatout.’Hetookaroutethroughthe

crowd so that he could,without ostentation, bringhimself in close proximity to

Chard, who was letting hiscompaniondoall the talking.She had that air of slightdesperation of theconversationalist who knowsthattheyarefailing.Thebackof Chard’s hand, which wasclutching a glass of water,Strikenoticed,wascoveredinshiny red eczema. Strikepaused immediately behindChard, ostensibly to allow apartyofyoungwomentopassintheoppositedirection.

‘… and it really wasawfullyfunny,’thegirlintheblack dress was sayingnervously.‘Yes,’ said Chard, who

sounded deeply bored, ‘itmusthavebeen.’‘And was New York

wonderful? I mean – notwonderful – was it useful?Fun?’askedhiscompanion.‘Busy,’ said Chard and

Strike, though he could notsee the CEO, thought he

actually yawned. ‘Lots ofdigitaltalk.’A portly man in a three-

piece suit who appeareddrunk already, though it wasbarelyeightthirty,stoppedinfront of Strike and invitedhim,with overdone courtesy,to proceed. Strike had nochoice but to accept theelaborately mimed invitationandsopassedoutofrangeofDanielChard’svoice.‘Thanks,’ said Nina a few

minutes later, taking herchampagne from Strike.‘Shall we go up to the roofgarden,then?’‘Great,’saidStrike.Hehad

taken champagne too, notbecause he liked it, butbecause there had beennothingelsetherehecaredtodrink. ‘Who’s that womanDanielChard’stalkingto?’Nina craned to see as she

led Strike towards a helicalmetalstaircase.

‘Joanna Waldegrave,Jerry’s daughter. She’s justwrittenher first novel.Why?Isthatyourtype?’sheasked,withabreathylittlelaugh.‘No,’saidStrike.They climbed the mesh

stairs, Strike relying heavilyonce more on the handrail.The icy night air scoured hislungs as they emerged on tothe top of the building.Stretches of velvety lawn,tubs of flowers and young

trees, benches dottedeverywhere;therewasevenafloodlit pond where fishdarted, flame-like, beneaththe black lily pads. Outdoorheaters like giant steelmushrooms had been placedin groups between neatsquarelawnsandpeoplewerehuddled under them, theirbacks turned to the syntheticpastoral scene, lookinginwards at their fellowsmokers, cigarette tips

glowing.Theviewoverthecitywas

spectacular, velvet black andjewelled, the London Eyeglowing neon blue, the OxoTowerwithitsrubywindows,the Southbank Centre, BigBen and the Palace ofWestminster shining goldenawaytotheright.‘Come on,’ saidNina, and

sheboldlytookStrike’shandand led him towards an all-femaletrio,whosebreathrose

in gusts of white mist evenwhen theywere not exhalingsmoke.‘Hi guys,’ said Nina.

‘AnyoneseenJerry?’‘He’s pissed,’ said a

redheadbaldly.‘Oh no,’ said Nina. ‘And

hewasdoingsowell!’A lanky blonde glanced

over her shoulder andmurmured:‘Hewashalfoffhisfacein

Arbutuslastweek.’

‘It’sBombyxMori,’saidanirritable-looking girl withshort dark hair. ‘And theanniversaryweekend inParisdidn’t come off. Fenella hadanother tantrum, I think.When is he going to leaveher?’‘Is she here?’ asked the

blondeavidly.‘Somewhere,’saidthedark

girl. ‘Aren’t you going tointroduceus,Nina?’There was a flurry of

introduction that left Strikenonethewiserastowhichofthe girlswasMiranda, Sarahor Emma, before the fourwomen plunged again into adissectionof theunhappinessand drunkenness of JerryWaldegrave.‘He should have ditched

Fenella years ago,’ said thedarkgirl.‘Vilewoman.’‘Shh!’ hissed Nina and all

four of them becameunnaturally still as a man

nearlyastallasStrikeambledup to them. His round,doughy face was partlyconcealed by large horn-rimmed glasses and a tangleof brown hair. A brimmingglass of red wine wasthreatening to spill over hishand.‘Guilty silence,’ he noted

with an amiable smile. Hisspeech had a sonorous over-deliberation that to Strikedeclared a practised drunk.

‘Three guesses what you’retalkingabout:Bombyx–Mori– Quine. Hi,’ he added,looking at Strike andstretching out a hand: theireyes were on a level. ‘Wehaven’tmet,havewe?’‘Jerry – Cormoran,

Cormoran–Jerry,’saidNinaatonce.‘Mydate,’sheadded,an asidedirectedmore at thethreewomen beside her thanatthetalleditor.‘Cameron, was it?’ asked

Waldegrave, cupping a handaroundhisear.‘Close enough,’ said

Strike.‘Sorry,’ said Waldegrave.

‘Deaf on one side.Andhaveyou ladies been gossiping infront of the tall darkstranger,’hesaid,withratherponderous humour, ‘in spiteof Mr Chard’s very clearinstructions that nobodyoutside the company shouldbe made privy to our guilty

secret?’‘Youwon’t tellonus,will

you, Jerry?’ asked the darkgirl.‘IfDaniel reallywanted to

keepthatbookquiet,’saidtheredhead impatiently, thoughwith a swift glance over hershoulder to check that theboss was nowhere near by,‘he shouldn’t be sendinglawyers all over town tryingto hush it up. People keepcalling me, asking what’s

goingon.’‘Jerry,’ said the dark girl

bravely,‘whydidyouhavetospeaktothelawyers?’‘Because I’m in it, Sarah,’

saidWaldegrave,withawaveofhisglassthatsentaslugofthecontentssloppingontothemanicured lawn. ‘In it up tomy malfunctioning ears. Inthebook.’The women all made

sounds of shock andprotestation.

‘What could Quinepossiblysayaboutyou,whenyou’ve been so decent tohim?’demandedthedarkgirl.‘The burden of Owen’s

song is that I’m gratuitouslybrutal to his masterpieces,’said Waldegrave, and hemade a scissor-like gesturewith the hand not graspingtheglass.‘Oh, is that all?’ said the

blonde,withthefaintesttingeof disappointment. ‘Big deal.

He’s lucky to have a deal atall,thewayhecarrieson.’‘Starting to look like he’s

gone underground again,’commentedWaldegrave.‘Notansweringanycalls.’‘Cowardly bastard,’ said

theredhead.‘I’m quite worried about

him,actually.’‘Worried?’ repeated the

redhead incredulously. ‘Youcan’tbeserious,Jerry.’‘You’d be worried too, if

you’d read that book,’ saidWaldegrave, with a tinyhiccup. ‘I think Owen’scracking up. It reads like asuicidenote.’The blonde let out a little

laugh,hastilyrepressedwhenWaldegravelookedather.‘I’m not joking. I think

he’shavingabreakdown.Thesubtext, under all the usualgrotesquerie, is: everyone’sagainstme,everyone’souttogetme,everyonehatesme—’

‘Everyone does hate him,’interjectedtheblonde.‘No rational person would

have imagined it could bepublished. And now he’sdisappeared.’‘He’s always doing that,

though,’ said the redheadimpatiently. ‘It’s his partypiece,isn’tit,doingarunner?Daisy Carter at Davis-Greentoldmehewentoffinahufftwice when they were doingThe Balzac Brothers with

him.’‘I’m worried about him,’

said Waldegrave stubbornly.Hetookadeepdrinkofwineand said, ‘Might’ve slit hiswrists—’‘Owen wouldn’t kill

himself!’ scoffed the blonde.Waldegrave looked down ather with what Strike thoughtwas a mixture of pity anddislike.‘Peopledokill themselves,

you know, Miranda, when

they think theirwholereasonforlivingisbeingtakenawayfromthem.Eventhefactthatother people think theirsuffering is a joke isn’tenough to shake them out ofit.’The blonde girl looked

incredulous, then glancedaround thecircle for support,but nobody came to herdefence.‘Writersaredifferent,’said

Waldegrave. ‘I’ve never met

one who was any good whowasn’t screwy. Somethingbloody Liz Tassel would dowelltoremember.’‘She claims she didn’t

knowwhatwas in thebook,’said Nina. ‘She’s tellingeveryone she was ill anddidn’treaditproperly—’‘I know Liz Tassel,’

growled Waldegrave andStrikewas interested toseeaflash of authentic anger inthis amiable, drunken editor.

‘She knew what she wasbloody doing when she putthat book out. She thought itwas her last chance to makesomemoney offOwen.Nicebitofpublicityoffthebackofthe scandal about Fancourt,whomshe’shatedforyears…butnow theshit’shit the fanshe’s disowning her client.Bloody outrageousbehaviour.’‘Daniel disinvited her

tonight,’said thedarkgirl. ‘I

hadtoringherandtellher.Itwashorrible.’‘D’you knowwhereOwen

might’ve gone, Jerry?’ askedNina.Waldegraveshrugged.‘Could be anywhere,

couldn’t he?But I hope he’sall right, wherever he is. Ican’t help being fond of thesillybastard,inspiteofitall.’‘What is this big Fancourt

scandal that he’s writtenabout?’ asked the redhead. ‘I

heard someone say it wassomething to do with areview…’Everyone in the group

apart from Strike began totalk at once, butWaldegrave’s voice carriedover the others’ and thewomen fell silent with theinstinctive courtesy womenoften show to incapacitatedmales.‘Thought everyone knew

that story,’ said Waldegrave

onanotherfainthiccup.‘Inanutshell, Michael’s first wifeElspeth wrote a very badnovel.Ananonymousparodyof it appeared in a literarymagazine.Shecuttheparodyout, pinned it to the front ofher dress and gassed herself,àlaSylviaPlath.’Theredheadgasped.‘Shekilledherself?’‘Yep,’ said Waldegrave,

swigging wine again.‘Writers:screwy.’

‘Whowrotetheparody?’‘Everyone’s always

thought it was Owen. Hedenied it, but then I supposehe would, given what it ledto,’ saidWaldegrave. ‘Owenand Michael never spokeagain after Elspeth died. ButinBombyxMori,Owen findsan ingenious way ofsuggestingthattherealauthorof the parody was Michaelhimself.’‘God,’ said the redhead,

awestruck.‘Speaking of Fancourt,’

saidWaldegrave, glancing athis watch, ‘I’m supposed tobe tellingyouall that there’sgoing to be a grandannouncement downstairs atnine.Yougirlswon’twanttomissit.’He ambled away. Two of

the girls ground out theircigarettes and followed him.The blonde drifted offtowardsanothergroup.

‘Lovely, Jerry, isn’t he?’Nina asked Strike, shiveringin the depths of her woollencoat.‘Very magnanimous,’ said

Strike.‘Nobodyelseseemstothink thatQuinedidn’tknowexactly what he was doing.Want to get back in thewarm?’Exhaustion was lapping at

the edges of Strike’sconsciousness. He wantedpassionately to go home, to

beginthetiresomeprocessofputtinghislegtosleep(ashedescribed it to himself), toclose his eyes and attempteight straight hours’ slumberuntilhehad to riseandplacehimself again in the vicinityof another unfaithfulhusband.The room downstairs was

more densely packed thanever. Nina stopped severaltimes to shout and bawl intothe ears of acquaintances.

Strike was introduced to asquat romantic novelist whoappeared dazzled by theglamourofcheapchampagneand the loud band, and toJerryWaldegrave’swife,whogreeted Nina effusively anddrunkenly through a lot oftangledblackhair.‘Shealwayssucksup,’said

Nina coldly, disengagingherself and leading Strikecloser to themakeshift stage.‘She comes frommoney and

makes it clear that shemarried down with Jerry.Horriblesnob.’‘Impressed by your father

theQC,isshe?’askedStrike.‘Scary memory you’ve

got,’ said Nina, with anadmiring look. ‘No, I thinkit’s… well, I’m theHonourable Nina Lascellesreally. I mean, who gives ashit? But people like Fenellado.’An underling was now

angling a microphone at awooden lectern on a stagenear the bar. Roper Chard’slogo,aropeknotbetweenthetwo names, and ‘100thAnniversary’ wereemblazonedonabanner.There followed a tedious

ten-minutewaitduringwhichStrike respondedpolitely andappropriately to Nina’schatter, which required agreat effort, as she was somuch shorter, and the room

wasincreasinglynoisy.‘IsLarryPinkelmanhere?’

he asked, remembering theold children’s writer onElizabethTassel’swall.‘Oh no, he hates parties,’

saidNinacheerfully.‘I thought you were

throwinghimone?’‘Howdidyouknow that?’

sheasked,startled.‘Youjusttoldmeso,inthe

pub.’‘Wow, you really pay

attention, don’t you? Yeah,we’re doing a dinner for thereprint of his Christmasstories,butit’llbeverysmall.He hates crowds, Larry, he’sreallyshy.’Daniel Chard had at last

reached the stage. The talkfaded to a murmur and thendied. Strike detected tensionin the air as Chard shuffledhisnotesandthenclearedhisthroat.He must have had a great

deal of practice, Strikethought, and yet his publicspeaking was barelycompetent. Chard looked upmechanicallytothesamespotover the crowd’s head atregularintervals;hemadeeyecontactwithnobody;hewas,attimes,barelyaudible.Aftertakinghis listenersonabriefjourney through theillustrious history of RoperPublishing,hemadeamodestdetourintotheantecedentsof

Chard Books, hisgrandfather’s company,described their amalgamationand his own humble delightand pride, expressed in thesame flat monotone as therest, in finding himself, tenyears on, as head of theglobal company. His smalljokes were greeted withexuberant laughter fuelled,Strike thought,bydiscomfortas much as alcohol. Strikefound himself staring at the

sore, boiled-looking hands.Hehad once known a youngprivate in the army whoseeczema had become so badunder stress that he had hadtobehospitalised.‘There can be no doubt,’

said Chard, turning to whatStrike, oneof the tallestmenin the room and close to thestage, could see was the lastpage of his speech, ‘thatpublishing is currentlyundergoing a period of rapid

changesandfreshchallenges,butone thingremainsas truetodayasitwasacenturyago:content is king. While weboast the best writers in theworld, Roper Chard willcontinue to excite, tochallenge and to entertain.Anditisinthatcontext’–theapproach of a climax wasdeclared not by anyexcitement, but by arelaxation inChard’smannerinduced by the fact that his

ordealwasnearlyover–‘thatI am honoured and delightedto tell you that we have thisweek secured the talents ofone of the finest authors inthe world. Ladies andgentlemen, please welcomeMichaelFancourt!’A perceptible intake of

breath rolled like a breezeacross the crowd. A womanyelped excitedly. Applausebroke out somewhere to therear of the room and spread

likecracklingfiretothefront.Strike saw a distant dooropen,theglimpseofanover-largehead,asourexpression,before Fancourt wasswallowedbytheenthusiasticemployees. It was severalminutes before he emergedonto the stage to shakeChard’shand.‘OhmyGod,’anexcitedly

applaudingNinakept saying.‘OhmyGod.’JerryWaldegrave,wholike

Strike rose head andshoulders above the mostlyfemale crowd, was standingalmostdirectlyoppositethemontheothersideofthestage.He was again holding a fullglass, so could not applaud,and he raised it to his lips,unsmiling, as he watchedFancourt gesture for quiet infrontofthemicrophone.‘Thanks, Dan,’ said

Fancourt. ‘Well, I certainlyneverexpectedtofindmyself

here,’ he said, and thesewords were greeted by araucousoutbreakof laughter,‘but it feels like ahomecoming. I wrote forChard and then I wrote forRoper and they were gooddays. I was an angry youngman’ – widespread titters –‘and now I’m an angry oldman’ – much laughter andeven a small smile fromDaniel Chard – ‘and I lookforward to raging for you’ –

effusive laughter fromChardas well as the crowd; StrikeandWaldegraveseemedtobetheonly two in the roomnotconvulsed. ‘I’m delighted tobebackandI’lldomybestto– what was it, Dan? – keepRoper Chard exciting,challengingandentertaining.’A storm of applause; the

twomenwere shakinghandsamidcameraflashes.‘Half a mill’, I reckon,’

said a drunken man behind

Strike, ‘and ten k to turn uptonight.’Fancourt descended the

stage right in front of Strike.His habitually dourexpression had barely variedfor the photographs, but helooked happier as handsstretched out towards him.Michael Fancourt did notdisdainadulation.‘Wow,’saidNinatoStrike.

‘Canyoubelievethat?’Fancourt’s over-large head

had disappeared into thecrowd. The curvaceousJoannaWaldegraveappeared,trying to make her waytowards the famous author.Her father was suddenlybehind her; with a drunkenlurch he reached out a handand tookherupperarmnonetoogently.‘He’s got other people to

talkto,Jo,leavehim.’‘Mummy’smadeabeeline,

whydon’tyougrabher?’

Strike watched Joannastalk away from her father,evidently angry. DanielChard had vanished too;Strike wondered whether hehad slipped out of a doorwhile the crowd was busywithFancourt.‘Your CEO doesn’t love

the limelight,’ StrikecommentedtoNina.‘They say he’s got a lot

better,’ said Nina, who wasstillgazingtowardsFancourt.

‘He could barely look upfromhisnotes tenyears ago.He’s a good businessman,though,youknow.Shrewd.’Curiosity and tiredness

tussledinsideStrike.‘Nina,’ he said, drawing

hiscompanionawayfromthethrong pressing aroundFancourt; she permitted himto lead her willingly, ‘wheredidyousaythemanuscriptofBombyxMoriis?’‘In Jerry’s safe,’ she said.

‘Floorbelowthis.’Shesippedchampagne, her huge eyesshining.‘AreyouaskingwhatIthinkyou’reasking?’‘Howmuch trouble would

youbein?’‘Loads,’ she said

insouciantly.‘ButI’vegotmykeycard on me andeveryone’s busy, aren’tthey?’Her father, Strike thought

ruthlessly, was a QC. Theywould be wary of how they

dismissedher.‘D’you reckon we could

runoffacopy?’‘Let’s do it,’ she said,

throwingback the last ofherdrink.Theliftwasemptyandthe

floor below dark anddeserted. Nina opened thedoor to the department withher keycard and led himconfidently between blankcomputer monitors anddeserted desks towards a

large corner office. The onlylight came from perenniallylit London beyond thewindows and the occasionaltiny orange light indicating acomputeronstandby.Waldegrave’s office was

notlockedbutthesafe,whichstood behind a hingedbookcase, operated on akeypad. Nina input a four-number code. The doorswung open and Strike sawanuntidystackofpageslying

inside.‘That’s it,’ she said

happily.‘Keep your voice down,’

Strikeadvisedher.Strikekeptwatchwhileshe

ranoff a copy forhimat thephotocopieroutside thedoor.The endless swish and humwas strangely soothing.Nobody came, nobody saw;fifteen minutes later, Ninawas replacing themanuscriptinthesafeandlockingitup.

‘Thereyougo.’She handed him the copy,

with several strong elasticbandsholding it together.Ashe took it she leaned in forafewseconds;atipsysway,anextended brush against him.He owed her something inreturn, but he wasshatteringly tired; both theideaofgoingbacktothatflatin St John’s Wood and oftaking her to his attic inDenmark Street were

unappealing. Would a drink,tomorrow night perhaps, beadequate repayment? Andthen he remembered thattomorrow night was hisbirthdaydinnerathissister’s.Lucyhadsaidhecouldbringsomeone.‘Wanttocometoatedious

dinner party tomorrownight?’heaskedher.Shelaughed,clearlyelated.‘What’ll be tedious about

it?’

‘Everything.You’dcheeritup.Fancyit?’‘Well–whynot?’shesaid

happily.The invitation seemed to

meet the bill; he felt thedemand for some physicalgesture recede. They madetheir way out of the darkdepartment in an atmosphereof friendly camaraderie, thecopiedmanuscriptofBombyxMori hidden beneathStrike’sovercoat. After noting down

her address and phonenumber, he saw her safelyinto a taxi with a sense ofreliefandrelease.

14

There he sits a wholeafternoon sometimes,reading of these sameabominable, vile, (a poxon them, I cannot abidethem!)rascallyverses.BenJonson,EveryMan

inHisHumour

Theymarchedagainstthewarin which Strike had lost hisleg the next day, thousandssnakingtheirwaythroughtheheart of chilly Londonbearing placards, militaryfamilies to the fore. Strikehad heard through mutualarmy friends that the parentsofGaryTopley–deadin theexplosionthathadcostStrikealimb–wouldbeamongthe

demonstrators, but it did notoccur to Strike to join them.His feelings about the warcould not be encapsulated inblack on a square whiteplacard.Do the jobanddo itwell had been his creed thenandnow,andtomarchwouldbetoimplyregretshedidnothave.And so he strapped onhis prosthesis, dressed in hisbest Italian suit and headedofftoBondStreet.The treacherous husband

he sought was insisting thathis estranged wife, Strike’sbrunette client, had lost,through her own drunkencarelessness,severalpiecesofveryvaluablejewellerywhilethe couple were staying at ahotel. Strike happened toknowthatthehusbandhadanappointment in Bond Streetthis morning, and had ahunch that some of thatallegedlylostjewellerymightbe making a surprise

reappearance.His target entered the

jewellers while Strikeexamined the windows of ashop opposite. Once he hadleft,halfanhour later,Striketookhimselfoff foracoffee,allowed two hours to elapse,then strode inside thejewellers and proclaimed hiswife’s love of emeralds,whichpretenceresulted,afterhalf an hour’s stageddeliberation over various

pieces, in the production ofthe very necklace that thebrunette had suspected hererrant husband of havingpocketed. Strike bought it atonce,atransactiononlymadepossible by the fact that hisclient had advanced him tenthousand pounds for thepurpose. Ten thousandpounds to prove herhusband’s deceit was asnothing to a woman whostood to receive a settlement

ofmillions.Strike picked up a kebab

on his way home. Afterlocking the necklace in asmallsafehehad installed inhis office (usually used forthe protection ofincriminating photographs)he headed upstairs, madehimself a mug of strong tea,took off the suit and put ontheTVso thathecouldkeepaneyeon thebuild-up to theArsenal–Spurs match. He

then stretched outcomfortably on his bed andstartedtoreadthemanuscripthe had stolen the nightbefore.As Elizabeth Tassel had

toldhim,BombyxMoriwasaperverse Pilgrim’s Progress,set in a folkloric no-man’s-landinwhichtheeponymoushero (a young writer ofgenius)setoutfromanislandpopulatedbyinbredidiotstooblind to recognise his talent

on what seemed to be alargely symbolic journeytowards a distant city. Therichness and strangeness ofthe language and imagerywere familiar to Strike fromhis perusal of The BalzacBrothers, but his interest inthe subject matter drew himon.The first familiar character

to emerge from the denselywritten and frequentlyobscene sentences was

Leonora Quine. As thebrilliant young Bombyxjourneyed through alandscape populated byvariousdangersandmonstershe came across Succuba, awoman described succinctlyas a ‘well-wornwhore’,whocapturedandtiedhimupandsucceeded in raping him.Leonorawasdescribedtothelife:thinanddowdy,withherlarge glasses and her flat,deadpanmanner.After being

systematically abused forseveral days, BombyxpersuadedSuccuba to releasehim. She was so desolate athis departure that Bombyxagreed to take her along: thefirst example of the story’sfrequent strange, dream-likereversals, whereby what hadbeen bad and frighteningbecame good and sensiblewithout justification orapology.A few pages further on,

Bombyx and Succuba wereattacked by a creature calledthe Tick, which StrikerecognisedeasilyasElizabethTassel: square-jawed, deep-voiced and frightening.Onceagain Bombyx took pity onthethingonceithadfinishedviolating him, and permittedit to join him. The Tick hadan unpleasant habit ofsuckling fromBombyxwhileheslept.Hestartedtobecomethinandweak.

Bombyx’sgenderappearedstrangely mutable. Quiteapart from his apparentability to breast-feed, hewassoon showing signs ofpregnancy,despitecontinuingto pleasure a number ofapparently nymphomaniacwomenwhostrayedregularlyacrosshispath.Wading through ornate

obscenity, Strike wonderedhow many portraits of realpeople he was failing to

notice. The violence ofBombyx’s encounters withotherhumanswasdisturbing;their perversity and crueltyleft barely an orificeunviolated; it was asadomasochistic frenzy. YetBombyx’s essentialinnocence and purity were aconstant theme, the simplestatement of his geniusapparently all the readerneeded toabsolvehimof thecrimes in which he colluded

as freely as the supposedmonsters around him. As heturned the pages, Strikeremembered JerryWaldegrave’s opinion thatQuine was mentally ill; hewas starting to have somesympathywithhisview…The match was about to

start. Strike set themanuscript down, feeling asthough he had been trappedfora longtimeinsideadark,grubby basement, away from

natural light andair.Nowhefelt only pleasurableanticipation. He wasconfidentArsenalwereaboutto win – Spurs had notmanaged to beat them athomeinseventeenyears.And for forty-fiveminutes

Strikelosthimselfinpleasureand frequent bellows ofencouragement while histeamwenttwo-nilup.At half time, and with a

feeling of reluctance, he

mutedthesoundandreturnedto thebizarreworldofOwenQuine’simagination.Herecognisednobodyuntil

Bombyx drew close to thecity that was his destination.Here, on a bridge over themoatthatsurroundedthecitywalls, stood a large,shamblingandmyopicfigure:theCutter.The Cutter sported a low

cap instead of horn-rimmedglasses, and carried a

wriggling, bloodstained sackover his shoulder. Bombyxaccepted theCutter’soffer tolead him, Succuba and theTick toasecretdoor into thecity.Inuredbynowtosexualviolence, Strike wasunsurprised that the Cutterturned out to be intent onBombyx’s castration. In theensuing fight, the bag rolledoff the Cutter’s back and adwarfish female creatureburstoutof it.TheCutter let

Bombyx, Succuba and theTickescapewhilehepursuedthe dwarf; Bombyx and hiscompanionsmanaged to findachinkinthecity’swallsandlookedbacktoseetheCutterdrowningthelittlecreatureinthemoat.Strike had been so

engrossed in his reading thathehadnotrealisedthematchhad restarted. He glanced upatthemutedTV.‘Fuck!’

Two-all: unbelievablySpurshaddrawnlevel.Strikethrew the manuscript aside,appalled. Arsenal’s defencewas crumbling before hiseyes.Thisshouldhavebeenawin.Theyhadbeenset togotopoftheleague.‘FUCK!’ Strike bellowed

tenminutes later as a headersoaredpastFabiański.Spurshadwon.He turnedoff theTVwith

several more expletives and

checkedhiswatch.Therewasonlyhalfanhourinwhichtoshower and change beforepicking up Nina Lascelles inSt John’s Wood; the roundtrip toBromleywasgoing tocost him a fortune. Hecontemplated the prospect ofthe final quarter of Quine’smanuscript with distaste,feeling much sympathy forElizabeth Tassel, who hadskimmedthefinalpassages.Hewasnotevensurewhy

hewas reading it, other thancuriosity.Downcast and irritable, he

moved off towards theshower,wishingthathecouldhave spent thenight at homeand feeling, irrationally, thatif he had not allowed hisattention to be distracted bythe obscene, nightmarishworld of Bombyx Mori,Arsenalmighthavewon.

15

Itellyou’tisnotmodishto know relations intown.WilliamCongreve,The

WayoftheWorld

‘So? What did you think ofBombyx Mori?’ Nina askedhimastheypulledawayfrom

her flat in a taxi he could illafford. If he had not invitedher, Strikewould havemadethe journey to Bromley andback by public transport,time-consuming andinconvenient though thatwouldhavebeen.‘Product of a diseased

mind,’saidStrike.Ninalaughed.‘But you haven’t read any

of Owen’s other books;they’renearlyasbad.Iadmit

this one’s got a serious gagfactor. What about Daniel’ssuppuratingknob?’‘I haven’t got there yet.

Something to look forwardto.’Beneath yesterday

evening’swarmwoollencoatshe was wearing a clinging,strappyblackdress,ofwhichStrike had had an excellentview when she had invitedhim intoherSt John’sWoodflat while she collected bag

and keys. She was alsoclutchingabottleofwinethatshe had seized from herkitchenwhenshesawthathewas empty-handed.A clever,prettygirlwithnicemanners,but her willingness to meethim the very night followingtheir first introduction, andthatnightaSaturdaytoboot,hinted at recklessness, orperhapsneediness.Strike asked himself again

what he thought he was

playingatastheyrolledawayfrom the heart of Londontowards a realm of owner-occupiers, towards spacioushouses crammed with coffeemakers and HD televisions,towards everything that hehad never owned and whichhissisterassumed,anxiously,must be his ultimateambition.It was like Lucy to throw

him a birthday dinner at herown house. She was

fundamentally unimaginativeand, even though she oftenseemed more harried therethananywhereelse,sheratedherhome’sattractionshighly.It was like her to insist ongivinghimadinnerhedidn’twant,butwhichshecouldnotunderstand him not wanting.Birthdays in Lucy’s worldwerealwayscelebrated,neverforgotten: theremustbecakeand candles and cards andpresents; time must be

marked, order preserved,traditionsupheld.As the taxipassed through

the Blackwall Tunnel,speeding them below theThames into south London,Strike recognised that theactofbringingNinawithhim tothe family party was adeclaration of non-conformity. In spite of theconventional bottle of wineheld on her lap, she washighly strung, happy to take

risks and chances. She livedalone and talked books notbabies; shewasnot, in short,Lucy’skindofwoman.Nearlyanhourafterhehad

leftDenmarkStreet,with hiswallet fifty pounds lighter,Strike helped Nina out intothedarkchillofLucy’sstreetand led her down a pathbeneath the large magnoliatree that dominated the frontgarden. Before ringing thedoorbell Strike said, with

somereluctance:‘Ishouldprobablytellyou:

this is a birthday dinner. Forme.’‘Oh,youshouldhavesaid!

Happy—’‘Itisn’ttoday,’saidStrike.

‘Nobigdeal.’Andherangthedoorbell.Strike’s brother-in-law,

Greg,lettheminside.Alotofarm slapping followed, aswell as an exaggerated showof pleasure at the sight of

Nina. This emotion wasconspicuousbyitsabsenceinLucy, who bustled down thehall holding a spatula like asword and wearing an apronoverherpartydress.‘You didn’t say you were

bringing someone!’ shehissed in Strike’s ear as hebent to kiss her cheek. Lucywas short,blondeand round-faced; nobody ever guessedthat they were related. Shewas the result of another of

theirmother’s liaisonswithawell-known musician. Rickwas a rhythm guitarist who,unlike Strike’s father,maintained an amicablerelationship with hisoffspring.‘Ithoughtyouaskedmeto

bring a guest,’ StrikemutteredtohissisterasGregushered Nina into the sittingroom.‘I askedwhether youwere

going to,’ said Lucy angrily.

‘OhGod–I’llhavetogoandset an extra – and poorMarguerite—’‘Who’sMarguerite?’asked

Strike, but Lucywas alreadyhurrying off towards thedining room, spatula aloft,leaving her guest of honouraloneinthehall.Withasigh,Strike followed Greg andNinaintothesittingroom.‘Surprise!’ said a fair-

haired man with a recedinghairline, getting up from the

sofa at which hisbespectacled wife wasbeamingatStrike.‘Christ almighty,’ said

Strike,advancingtoshaketheoutstretched hand withgenuine pleasure. Nick andIlsa were two of his oldestfriends and they were theonly place where the twohalves of his early lifeintersected: London andCornwall,happilymarried.‘Noone toldmeyouwere

goingtobehere!’‘Yeah, well, that’s the

surprise,Oggy,’ saidNickasStrike kissed Ilsa. ‘D’youknowMarguerite?’‘No,’saidStrike,‘Idon’t.’So thiswaswhyLucyhad

wanted to check whether hewas bringing anyone withhim; this was the sort ofwoman she imagined himfallingfor,andlivingwithforever in a house with amagnolia tree in the front

garden.Margueritewasdark,greasy skinned and morose-looking, wearing a shinypurple dress that appeared tohave been bought when shewas a little thinner. Strikewas sure shewas adivorcée.He was developing secondsightonthatsubject.‘Hi,’ she said, while thin

Nina in her strappy blackdress chatted with Greg; theshort greeting contained aworldofbitterness.

Sosevenofthemsatdowntodinner.Strikehadnotseenmuch of his civilian friendssince he had been invalidedout of the army. Hisvoluntarily heavy workloadhad blurred the boundariesbetween weekday andweekend,butnowherealisedanew how much he likedNick and Ilsa, and howinfinitely preferable it wouldhavebeenifthethreeofthemhad been alone somewhere,

enjoyingacurry.‘How do you know

Cormoran?’Ninaasked themavidly.‘I was at school with him

in Cornwall,’ said Ilsa,smiling at Strike across thetable.‘Onandoff.Cameandwent,didn’tyou,Corm?’AndthestoryofStrikeand

Lucy’s fragmented childhoodwas trotted out over thesmoked salmon, their travelswith their itinerant mother

andtheirregularreturnstoStMawes and the aunt anduncle who had acted assurrogate parents throughouttheirchildhoodandteens.‘And thenCorm got taken

to London by his motheragain when he was, what,seventeen?’saidIlsa.Strike could tell that Lucy

was not enjoying theconversation: she hated talkabout their unusualupbringing, their notorious

mother.‘Andheendedupatagood

rough old comprehensivewith me,’ said Nick. ‘Goodtimes.’‘Nickwasausefulbloketo

know,’ said Strike. ‘KnowsLondon like the back of hishand;hisdad’sacabbie.’‘Are you a cabbie too?’

Nina asked Nick, apparentlyexhilarated by the exoticismofStrike’sfriends.‘No,’ saidNickcheerfully,

‘I’m a gastroenterologist.Oggy and I had a jointeighteenthbirthdayparty—’‘—and Corm invited his

friendDave andme up fromStMawesforit.FirsttimeI’deverbeentoLondon,Iwassoexcited—’saidIlsa.‘—and that’s where we

met,’ finishedNick, grinningathiswife.‘Andstillnokids,allthese

years later?’ asked Greg,smugfatherofthreesons.

Therewasthetiniestpause.Strike knew that Nick andIlsa had been trying for achild, without success, forseveralyears.‘Notyet,’saidNick.‘What

d’youdo,Nina?’The mention of Roper

Chard brought someanimationtoMarguerite,whohad been regarding Strikesullenlyfromtheotherendofthetable,asthoughhewereatasty morsel placed

remorselesslyoutofreach.‘Michael Fancourt’s just

moved to Roper Chard,’ shestated.‘Isawitonhiswebsitethismorning.’‘Blimey, that was only

made public yesterday,’ saidNina.The ‘blimey’ remindedStrike of the way DominicCulpepper called waiters‘mate’;itwas,hethought,forNick’sbenefit,andperhapstodemonstratetoStrikethatshetoocouldminglehappilywith

the proletariat. (Charlotte,Strike’sex-fiancée,hadneveraltered her vocabulary oraccent, no matter where shefound herself. Nor had shelikedanyofhisfriends.)‘Oh, I’m a big fan of

Michael Fancourt’s,’ saidMarguerite. ‘House ofHollow’soneofmyfavouritenovels. I adore the Russians,and there’s something aboutFancourtthatmakesmethinkofDostoevsky…’

Lucy had told her, Strikeguessed, that he had been toOxford, that he was clever.He wished Marguerite athousandmilesawayandthatLucyunderstoodhimbetter.‘Fancourt can’t write

women,’ said Ninadismissively. ‘He triesbuthecan’tdoit.Hiswomenarealltemper,titsandtampons.’Nick had snorted into his

wine at the sound of theunexpectedword‘tits’;Strike

laughedatNicklaughing;Ilsasaid,giggling:‘You’re thirty-six, both of

you.ForGod’ssake.’‘Well, I think he’s

marvellous,’ repeatedMarguerite, without theflicker of a smile. She hadbeen deprived of a potentialpartner, one-legged andoverweight though he mightbe;shewasnotgoingtogiveup Michael Fancourt. ‘Andincredibly attractive.

Complicated and clever, Ialways fall for them,’ shesighed in an aside to Lucy,clearly referring to pastcalamities.‘Hishead’s toobig forhis

body,’ said Nina, cheerfullydisowning her excitement ofthe previous evening at thesight of Fancourt, ‘and he’sphenomenallyarrogant.’‘I’vealwaysthoughtitwas

so touching, what he did forthat youngAmericanwriter,’

said Marguerite as Lucycleared the starters away andmotioned toGreg tohelpherin the kitchen. ‘Finishing hisnovel for him – that youngnovelist who died of Aids,whatwashis—?’‘JoeNorth,’saidNina.‘Surprised you felt up to

coming out tonight,’ Nicksaid quietly to Strike. ‘Afterwhat happened thisafternoon.’Nick was, regrettably, a

Spursfan.Greg, who had returned

carrying a joint of lamb andhad overheard Nick’s words,immediatelyseizedonthem.‘Must’ve stung, eh,Corm?

When everyone thought theyhaditinthebag?’‘What’s this?’ asked Lucy

like a schoolmistress callingthe class to order as she setdown dishes of potatoes andvegetables. ‘Oh, not football,Greg,please.’

So Marguerite was left inpossession of theconversationalballagain.‘Yes,HouseofHollowwas

inspiredbythehousehisdeadfriend left to Fancourt, aplace where they’d beenhappy when young. It’sterriblytouching.It’sreallyastoryofregret, loss, thwartedambition—’‘Joe North left the house

jointly to Michael Fancourtand Owen Quine, actually,’

Nina corrected Margueritefirmly. ‘And theyboth wrotenovels inspired by it;Michael’s won the Booker –and Owen’s was panned byeveryone,’ Nina added in anasidetoStrike.‘What happened to the

house?’ Strike askedNina asLucy passed him a plate oflamb.‘Oh,thiswasagesago,it’ll

have been sold,’ said Nina.‘They wouldn’t want to co-

own anything; they’ve hatedeach other for years. Eversince Elspeth Fancourt killedherselfoverthatparody.’‘Youdon’tknowwherethe

houseis?’‘He’snotthere,’Ninahalf-

whispered.‘Who’s not where?’ Lucy

said, barely concealing herirritation.HerplansforStrikehad been disrupted. She wasnevergoingtolikeNinanow.‘One of our writers has

gonemissing,’Nina toldher.‘HiswifeaskedCormoran tofindhim.’‘Successful bloke?’ asked

Greg.NodoubtGregwastiredof

his wife worrying volublyabout her brilliant butimpecuniousbrother,withhisbusinessbarelybreakingevenin spite of his heavyworkload, but the word‘successful’, with everythingit connoted when spoken by

Greg, affected Strike likenettlerash.‘No,’hesaid,‘Idon’tthink

you’dcallQuinesuccessful.’‘Who’s hired you, Corm?

The publisher?’ asked Lucyanxiously.‘Hiswife,’saidStrike.‘She’s going to be able to

pay the bill, though, right?’askedGreg. ‘No lameducks,Corm, that’s gotta be yournumberoneruleofbusiness.’‘Surprised you don’t jot

those pearls of wisdomdown,’NicktoldStrikeunderhis breath as Lucy offeredMarguerite more of anythingon the table (compensationfor not taking Strike homeandgettingtomarryhimandlive two streets away with ashinynewcoffeemakerfromLucy-and-Greg).Afterdinnertheyretiredto

the beige three-piece suite inthe sitting room, wherepresents and cards were

presented.LucyandGreghadbought him a new watch,‘Because I know your lastone got broken,’ Lucy said.Touched that she hadremembered, a swell ofaffection temporarily blottedoutStrike’sirritationthatshehaddraggedhimheretonight,andnaggedhimabouthislifechoices, and married Greg…He removed the cheap butserviceable replacement hehad bought himself and put

Lucy’s watch on instead: itwas large and shiny with ametallic bracelet and lookedlikeaduplicateofGreg’s.Nick and Ilsa had bought

him ‘that whisky you like’:Arran Single Malt, itreminded him powerfully ofCharlotte,withwhomhehadfirst tasted it, but anypossibility of melancholyremembrance was chasedaway by the abruptappearanceinthedoorwayof

three pyjama-ed figures, thetallestofwhomasked:‘Istherecakeyet?’Strike had never wanted

children (an attitude Lucydeplored) and barely knewhis nephews, whom he sawinfrequently. The eldest andyoungest trailed their motherout of the room to fetch hisbirthday cake; the middleboy,however,madeabeelinefor Strike and held out ahomemadecard.

‘That’s you,’ said Jack,pointing at the picture,‘gettingyourmedal.’‘Have you got a medal?’

asked Nina, smiling andwide-eyed.‘Thanks,Jack,’saidStrike.‘I want to be a soldier,’

saidJack.‘Your fault, Corm,’ said

Greg,withwhatStrike couldnothelpfeelingwasacertainanimus. ‘Buying him soldiertoys. Telling him about your

gun.’‘Twoguns,’Jackcorrected

his father. ‘You had twoguns,’ he told Strike. ‘Butyouhadtogivethemback.’‘Good memory,’ Strike

toldhim.‘You’llgofar.’Lucy appeared with the

homemadecake,blazingwiththirty-six candles anddecorated with what lookedlikehundredsofSmarties.AsGreg turnedout the lightandeveryone began to sing,

Strike experienced an almostoverwhelmingdesiretoleave.He would ring a cab theinstant he could escape theroom; in the meantime, hehoisted a smile onto his faceand blew out his candles,avoiding the gaze ofMarguerite, who wassmouldering at him with anunnerving lack of restraintfrom a nearby chair. It wasnothisfault thathehadbeenmade to play the decorated

helpmeet of abandonedwomen by his well-meaningfriendsandfamily.Strikecalledacabfromthe

downstairs bathroom andannouncedhalfanhour later,withadecentshowofregret,thathe andNinawouldhavetoleave;hehadtobeupearlythenextday.Out in the crowded and

noisy hall, after Strike hadneatly dodged being kissedon themouth byMarguerite,

whilehisnephewsworkedofftheir overexcitement and alate-night sugar rush, andGreg helpedNina officiouslyinto her coat, Nick mutteredtoStrike:‘I didn’t think you fancied

littlewomen.’‘I don’t,’ Strike returned

quietly. ‘She nickedsomethingformeyesterday.’‘Yeah? Well, I’d show

your gratitude by letting hergo on top,’ said Nick. ‘You

could squash her like abeetle.’

16

… let notour supperberaw, for you shall havebloodenough,yourbellyfull.

ThomasDekkerandThomasMiddleton,TheHonestWhore

Strike knew immediatelyupon waking the followingmorning that he was not inhis own bed. It was toocomfortable, the sheets toosmooth;thedaylightstipplingthe covers fell from thewrong side of the room andthesoundoftherainpatteringagainst the window wasmuffled by drawn curtains.He pushed himself up into asitting position, squintingaround at Nina’s bedroom,

glimpsed only briefly bylamplight the previousevening, and caught sight ofhis own naked torso in amirror opposite, thick darkchesthairmakingablackblotagainst the pale blue wallbehindhim.Nina was absent, but he

couldsmellcoffee.Ashehadanticipated, she had beenenthusiastic and energetic inbed, driving away the slightmelancholy that had

threatenedtofollowhimfromhis birthday celebrations.Now, though, he wonderedhowquicklyhewouldbeabletoextricatehimself.Tolingerwould be to raiseexpectations he was notpreparedtomeet.His prosthetic leg was

propped against the wallbeside the bed. On the pointof sliding himself out of bedto reach it he drew back,because the bedroom door

opened and in walked Nina,fully dressed and damp-haired, with newspapersunder her arm, two mugs ofcoffeeinonehandandaplateofcroissantsintheother.‘I nipped out,’ she said

breathlessly. ‘God, it’shorrible out there. Feel mynose,I’mfrozen.’‘You didn’t have to do

that,’hesaid,gesturingtothecroissants.‘I’mstarvingand there’sa

fabulous bakery up the road.Look at this – News of theWorld – Dom’s bigexclusive!’A photograph of the

disgraced peer whose hiddenaccounts Strike had revealedtoCulpepperfilledthemiddleof the front page, flanked onthreesidesbypicturesoftwoof his lovers and of theCayman Island documentsStrike had wrested from hisPA.LORDPORKEROFPAYWELL

screamed theheadline.StriketookthepaperfromNinaandskim-read the story.Culpepperhadkepthisword:the heartbroken PA was notmentionedanywhere.Nina was sitting beside

Strike on the bed, readingalong with him, emittingfaintly amused comments:‘OhGod,howanyonecould,look at him’ and ‘Oh wow,that’sdisgusting’.‘Won’t do Culpepper any

harm,’Strikesaid,closingthepaperwhenbothhadfinished.The date at the top of thefrontpagecaughthiseye:21November. It was his ex-fiancée’sbirthday.A small, painful tug under

thesolarplexusandasuddengush of vivid, unwelcomememories… a year ago,almost to the hour, he hadwokenupbesideCharlotteinHolland Park Avenue. Heremembered her long black

hair,widehazel-greeneyes,abody the like of which hewouldnever seeagain,neverbepermittedtotouch…Theyhad been happy, thatmorning: the bed a life raftbobbing on the turbulent seaof their endlessly recurringtroubles. He had presentedher with a bracelet, thepurchase of which hadnecessitated (though she didnotknowit)thetakingoutofa loan at horrifying rates of

interest…andtwodayslater,onhisownbirthday, shehadgivenhimanItaliansuit,andthey had gone out to dinnerand actually fixed on a datewhen they would marry atlast, sixteen years after theyhadfirstmet…But the naming of a day

had marked a new anddreadful phase in theirrelationship, as though it haddamaged the precarioustension in which they were

used to living. Charlotte hadbecome steadily morevolatile, more capricious.Rows and scenes, brokenchina, accusations of hisunfaithfulness (when it hadbeenshe,ashenowbelieved,who had been secretlymeetingthemantowhomshewas now engaged)… theyhad struggled on for nearlyfour months until, in a final,filthy explosion ofrecrimination and rage,

everything had ended forgood.A rustle of cotton: Strike

looked around, almostsurprised to find himself stillin Nina’s bedroom. She wasabout to strip off her top,intendingtogetbackintobedwithhim.‘I can’t stay,’ he told her,

stretching across for hisprosthesisagain.‘Whynot?’sheaskedwith

her arms folded across her

front,grippingthehemofhershirt. ‘Come on – it’sSunday!’‘I’vegot towork,’he lied.

‘PeopleneedinvestigatingonSundaystoo.’‘Oh,’ she said, trying to

sound matter-of-fact butlookingcrestfallen.He drank his coffee,

keeping the conversationbright but impersonal. Shewatchedhim straphis legonand head for the bathroom,

andwhenhereturnedtodressshewascurledup in a chair,munching a croissant with aslightlyforlornair.‘You’re sure you don’t

knowwhere this house was?The one Quine and Fancourtinherited?’heaskedherashepulledonhistrousers.‘What?’shesaid,confused.

‘Oh–God, you’re not goinglooking for that, are you? Itold you, it’ll have been soldyearsago!’

‘I might ask Quine’s wifeaboutit,’saidStrike.He told her that he would

call her, but briskly, so thatshemightunderstandthesetobe empty words, a matter ofform,andleftherhousewitha feeling of faint gratitude,butnoguilt.Therainjabbedagainathis

face and hands as hewalkeddown the unfamiliar street,heading for theTube station.Christmassy fairy lights

twinkledfromthewindowofthe bakery where Nina hadjust bought croissants.Strike’s large hunchedreflectionslidacrosstherain-spotted surface, clutching inone cold fist the plasticcarrier bag which Lucy hadhelpfully given him to carryhiscards,hisbirthdaywhiskyand theboxofhisshinynewwatch.His thoughts slid

irresistibly back toCharlotte,

thirty-sixbut looking twenty-five, celebrating her birthdaywithher new fiancé.Perhapsshe had received diamonds,Strike thought; she hadalways said she didn’t carefor such things, but whentheyhadargued theglitterofallhecouldnotgiveherhadsometimes been flung backhardinhisface…Successfulbloke?Greghad

asked of Owen Quine, bywhich he meant: ‘Big car?

Nice house? Fat bankbalance?’Strike passed the Beatles

Coffee Shopwith its jauntilypositioned black-and-whiteheadsoftheFabFourpeeringout at him, and entered therelativewarmthofthestation.Hedidnotwanttospendthisrainy Sunday alone in hisattic rooms in DenmarkStreet. He wanted to keepbusy on the anniversary ofCharlotteCampbell’sbirth.

Pausing to take out hismobile, he telephonedLeonoraQuine.‘Hello?’ she said

brusquely.‘Hi, Leonora, it’s

CormoranStrikehere—’‘Have you found Owen?’

shedemanded.‘Afraid not. I’m calling

because I’ve just heard thatyourhusbandwasleftahousebyafriend.’‘Whathouse?’

She sounded tired andirritable. He thought of thevariousmoneyedhusbandshehad come up againstprofessionally, men who hidbachelor apartments fromtheir wives, and wonderedwhether he had just givenaway something that Quinehad been keeping from hisfamily.‘Isn’t it true? Didn’t a

writer called JoeNorth leaveahousejointlyto—?’

‘Oh, that,’ she said.‘Talgarth Road, yeah. Thatwas thirty-odd years ago,though. What d’you wannaknowaboutthatfor?’‘It’sbeensold,hasit?’‘No,’ she said resentfully,

‘because bloody Fancourtneverletus.Outofspite,itis,because he never uses it. Itjust sits there, no use toanyone,moulderingaway.’Strike leaned back against

the wall beside the ticket

machines,hiseyesfixedonacircular ceiling supported byaspider’swebofstruts.This,hetoldhimselfagain,iswhatcomes of taking on clientswhen you’re wrecked. Heshould have asked if theyowned any other properties.Heshouldhavechecked.‘Has anyone gone to see

whether your husband’sthere,MrsQuine?’She emitted a hoot of

derision.

‘He wouldn’t go there!’she said, as though Strikewere suggesting that herhusband had hidden inBuckingham Palace. ‘Hehatesit,henevergoesnearit!Anyway,Idon’tthinkit’sgotfurnitureornothing.’‘Haveyougotakey?’‘I dunno. But Owen’d

never go there! He hasn’tbeen near it in years. It’d bean ’orrible place to stay, oldandempty.’

‘If you could have a lookforthekey—’‘I can’t go tearing off to

Talgarth Road, I’ve gotOrlando!’ she said,predictably. ‘Anyway, I’mtellingyou,hewouldn’t—’‘I’mofferingtocomeover

now,’saidStrike,‘getthekeyfrom you, if you can find it,and go and check. Just tomake sure we’ve lookedeverywhere.’‘Yeah, but – it’s Sunday,’

she said, sounding takenaback.‘I know it is. D’you think

youcouldhavealookforthekey?’‘All right, then,’ she said

after a short pause. ‘But,’witha lastburstofspirit, ‘hewon’tbethere!’Strike took the Tube,

changing once, toWestbourne Park and then,collar turned up against theicy deluge, marched towards

the address that Leonora hadscribbled down for him attheirfirstmeeting.Itwasanotherofthoseodd

pockets of London wheremillionaires sat within astone’s throw of working-class families who hadoccupied their homes forfortyyearsormore.Therain-washed scene presented anodd diorama: sleek newapartmentblocksbehindquietnondescript terraces, the

luxurious new and thecomfortableold.The Quines’ family home

wasinSouthernRow,aquietback street of small brickhouses, a short walk from awhitewashed pub called theChilled Eskimo. Cold andwet,Strikesquintedupatthesignoverheadashepassed;itdepicted a happy Inuitrelaxingbesideafishinghole,hisbacktotherisingsun.The door of the Quines’

house was a peeling sludgegreen. Everything about thefrontage was dilapidated,includingthegatehangingonby only one hinge. Strikethought of Quine’spredilection for comfortablehotel rooms as he rang thedoorbell and his opinion ofthe missing man fell a littlefurther.‘You were quick,’ was

Leonora’s gruff greeting onopeningthedoor.‘Comein.’

He followed her down adim, narrow hallway. To theleft, a door stood ajar ontowhat was clearly OwenQuine’s study. It lookeduntidy and dirty. Drawershungopenandanoldelectrictypewriter sat skewed on thedesk. Strike could pictureQuinetearingpagesfromitinhisrageatElizabethTassel.‘Any luck with the key?’

Strike askedLeonora as theyentered the dark, stale-

smellingkitchenattheendofthe hall. The appliances alllookedasthoughtheywereatleast thirty years old. StrikehadanideathathisAuntJoanhad owned the identical darkbrownmicrowavebackintheeighties.‘Well, I found them,’

Leonora told him, gesturingtowards half a dozen keyslying on the kitchen table. ‘Idunnowhetheranyofthem’stherightone.’

Noneofthemwasattachedtoakeyringandoneofthemlooked too big to openanythingbutachurchdoor.‘What number Talgarth

Road?’Strikeaskedher.‘Hundred and seventy-

nine.’‘When were you last

there?’‘Me? I never been there,’

she said with what seemedgenuine indifference. ‘Iwasn’t int’rested. Silly thing

todo.’‘Whatwas?’‘Leavingittothem.’Inthe

face of Strike’s politelyenquiring face she saidimpatiently, ‘That JoeNorth,leaving it to Owen andMichael Fancourt. He said itwas for them to write in.They’ve never used it since.Useless.’‘And you’ve never been

there?’‘No.Theygot it round the

time I hadOrlando. Iwasn’tint’rested,’sherepeated.‘Orlando was born then?’

Strike asked, surprised. Hehad been vaguely imaginingOrlandoasahyperactiveten-year-old.‘In eighty-six, yeah,’ said

Leonora. ‘But she’shandicapped.’‘Oh,’saidStrike.‘Isee.’‘Upstairs sulking now, cos

I had to tell her off,’ saidLeonora, inoneofherbursts

of expansiveness. ‘She nicksthings.Sheknows it’swrongbut she keeps doing it. IcaughthertakingEdna-Next-Door’s purse out of her bagwhen she come roundyesterday.Itwasn’tcosofthemoney,’ she said quickly, asthough he had made anaccusation.‘It’scosshelikedthe colour. Edna understandscos she knows her, but noteveryone does. I tell her it’swrong. She knows it’s

wrong.’‘All right if I take these

and try them, then?’ Strikeasked,scoopingthekeysintohishand.‘If y’want,’ said Leonora,

but she added defiantly, ‘Hewon’tbethere.’Strike pocketed his haul,

turned down Leonora’safterthought offer of tea orcoffee and returned to thecoldrain.He found himself limping

again as he walked towardsWestbourne Park Tubestation,whichwouldmean ashort journey with minimalchanges.Hehadnot takenasmuch care as usual inattachinghisprosthesisinhishastetogetoutofNina’sflat,norhadhebeenabletoapplyany of those soothingproducts that helped protecttheskinbeneathit.Eight months previously

(on the very day that he had

later been stabbed in hisupper arm) he had taken abad fall down some stairs.The consultant who hadexamined it shortlyafterwards had informed himthat he had done additional,though probably reparable,damage to the medialligamentsinthekneejointofhisamputatedlegandadvisedice, rest and furtherinvestigation. But Strike hadnot been able to afford rest

and had not wished forfurther tests, so he hadstrappedupthekneeandtriedtoremembertoelevatehislegwhen sitting. The pain hadmostly subsided butoccasionally, when he haddone a lot of walking, itbegan to throb and swellagain.The road along which

Strikewastrudgingcurvedtotheright.Atall,thin,hunchedfigure was walking behind

him, its head bowed so thatonly the top of a black hoodwasvisible.Of course, the sensible

thing to do would be to gohome,now,andresthisknee.ItwasSunday.Therewasnoneed for him to gomarchingalloverLondonintherain.He won’t be there, said

Leonorainhishead.But the alternative was

returning to Denmark Street,listening to the rain

hammering against the badlyfittingwindowbesidehisbedunder the eaves, with photoalbums full of Charlotte tooclose, in the boxes on thelanding…Bettertomove,towork,to

think about other people’sproblems…Blinking in the rain, he

glanced up at the houses hewas passing and glimpsed inhis peripheral vision thefigurefollowingtwentyyards

behindhim.Though thedarkcoatwasshapeless,Strikehadtheimpressionfromtheshort,quick steps, that the figurewasfemale.Now Strike noticed

something curious about theway she was walking,something unnatural. Therewas none of the self-preoccupation of the lonestroller on a cold wet day.Her head was not bowed inprotection against the

elements, nor was shemaintaining a steady pacewith the simple view ofachieving a destination. Shekept adjusting her speed intinybut, toStrike,noticeableincrements, and every fewstepsthehiddenfacebeneaththe hood presented itself tothe chilly onslaught of thedriving rain, then vanishedagain into shadow. She waskeepinghiminhersights.What had Leonora said at

theirfirstmeeting?I think I’ve been followed.

Tall, dark girl with roundshoulders.Strike experimented by

speeding up and slowingdown infinitesimally. Thespacebetweenthemremainedconstant; her hidden faceflickered up and down morefrequently, a pale pink blur,tocheckhisposition.Shewasnotexperiencedat

followingpeople.Strike,who

was an expert, would havetaken the opposite pavement,pretended to be talking on amobile phone; concealed hisfocused and singular interestinthesubject…Forhisownamusement,he

faked a sudden hesitation, asthoughhehadbeencaughtbya doubt as to the rightdirection. Caught off guard,thedark figure stoppeddead,paralysed. Strike strolled onagainandafterafewseconds

heard her footsteps echoingon the wet pavement behindhim.Shewastoofoolishevento realise that she had beenrumbled.Westbourne Park station

came into sight a little wayahead:along,lowbuildingofgolden brick. He wouldconfrontherthere,askherthetime, get a good look at herface.Turningintothestation,he

drewquicklytothefarsideof

the entrance,waiting for her,outofsight.Some thirty seconds later

he glimpsed the tall, darkfigure jogging towards theentrance through theglittering rain, hands still inher pockets; she wasfrightened that she mighthavemissedhim,thathewasalreadyonatrain.He took a swift, confident

step out into the doorway toface her – the false foot

slippedon thewet tiled floorandskidded.‘Fuck!’With an undignified

descent into half-splits, helosthisfootingandfell;inthelong, slow-motion secondsbefore he reached the dirtywet floor, landing painfullyonthebottleofwhiskyinhiscarrierbag,hesawherfreezein silhouette in the entrance,then vanish like a startleddeer.

‘Bollocks,’ he gasped,lying on the sopping tileswhile people at the ticketmachines stared. He hadtwisted his leg again as hefell;itfeltasthoughhemighthavetornaligament;thekneethathadbeenmerelysorewasnow screaming in protest.Inwardly cursing imperfectlymopped floors and prostheticankles of rigid construction,Striketriedtogetup.Nobodywanted to approach him. No

doubt they thought he wasdrunk – Nick and Ilsa’swhisky had now escaped thecarrier bag and was rollingclunkilyacrossthefloor.Finally a London

Underground employeehelped him to his feet,mutteringabouttherebeingasignwarningofthewetfloor;hadn’t the gentleman seen it,wasn’t it prominent enough?HehandedStrikehiswhisky.Humiliated,Strikemuttereda

thankyouandlimpedovertothe ticket barriers, wantingonly to escape the countlessstaringeyes.Safely on a southbound

train he stretched out histhrobbing leg and probed hiskneeasbesthecouldthroughhissuittrousers.Itfelttenderand sore, exactly as it hadafterhehadfallendownthosestairs last spring. Furious,now, with the girl who hadbeen following him, he tried

to make sense of what hadhappened.Whenhadshe joinedhim?

Had she been watching theQuine place, seen him goinside? Might she (anunflattering possibility) havemistaken Strike for OwenQuine? Kathryn Kent hadcertainly done so, briefly, inthedark…Strikegot tohis feet some

minutes before changing atHammersmith to better

prepare himself for whatmight be a perilous descent.By the time he reached hisdestination of Barons Court,he was limping heavily andwishing that he had a stick.He made his way out of aticket hall tiled in Victorianpea green, placing his feetwithcareonthefloorcoveredingrimywetprints.Toosoonhe had left the dry shelter ofthe small jewel of a station,with its art nouveau lettering

and stone pediments, andproceeded in the relentlessrain towards the rumblingdual carriageway that laycloseby.Tohis relief andgratitude,

he realised that he hademerged on that very stretchof Talgarth Road where thehousehesoughtstood.ThoughLondonwasfullof

these kinds of architecturalanomalies,hehadneverseenbuildings that jarred so

obviously with theirsurroundings.Theoldhousessat in a distinctive row, darkred brick relics of a moreconfident and imaginativetime, while traffic rumbledunforgivingly past them inboth directions, for this wasthe main artery into Londonfromthewest.They were ornate late-

Victorian artists’ studios,their lower windows leadedand latticed and oversized

arched north-facing windowson their upper floors, likefragments of the vanishedCrystalPalace.Wet,coldandsore though he was, Strikepaused for a few seconds tolook up at number 179,marvelling at its distinctivearchitecture and wonderinghowmuch theQuineswouldstand to make if Fancourtever changed his mind andagreedtosell.He heaved himself up the

white front steps. The frontdoor was sheltered from therainbyabrickcanopy richlyornamentedwithcarvedstoneswags, scrolls and badges.Strike brought out the keysone by one with cold, numbfingers.Thefourthonehetriedslid

home without protest andturned as though it had beendoingsoforyears.Onegentleclick and the front door slidopen. He crossed the

thresholdandclosedthedoorbehindhim.Ashock, like a slap in the

face, like a falling bucket ofwater. Strike fumbled withhiscoatcollar,draggingitupover his mouth and nose toprotect them. Where heshould have smelled onlydustandoldwood,somethingsharp and chemical wasoverwhelming him, catchinginhisnoseandthroat.He reached automatically

for a switch on the wallbesidehim,producingafloodof light from two bare lightbulbs hanging from theceiling. The hallway, whichwas narrow and empty, waspanelled in honey-colouredwood. Twisted columns ofthe same material supportedan arch halfway along itslength.At first glance it wasserene, gracious, well-proportioned.But with eyes narrowed

Strike slowly took in thewide, burn-like stains on theoriginal woodwork. Acorrosive,acridfluid–whichwasmakingthestill,dustyairburn – had been splashedeverywhere in what seemedtohavebeenanactofwantonvandalism; it had strippedvarnish from the agedfloorboards, blasted thepatina off the bare woodstairs ahead, even beenthrownover thewallsso that

large patches of paintedplaster were bleached anddiscoloured.After a few seconds of

breathing through his thickserge collar, it occurred toStrike that the place was toowarm for an uninhabitedhouse. The heating had beencrankeduphigh,whichmadethefiercechemicalsmellwaftmorepungentlythanif ithadbeen left to disperse in thechillofawinter’sday.

Paper rustled under hisfeet.Lookingdown,hesawasmattering of takeawaymenus and an envelopeaddressed TO THEOCCUPIER/CARETAKER.He stooped and picked it up.It was a brief, angryhandwritten note from thenext-door neighbour,complainingaboutthesmell.Strikeletthenotefallback

onto the doormat andmovedforwards into the hall,

observing the scars left onevery surface where thechemical substance had beenthrown. To his left was adoor;heopenedit.Theroombeyondwas dark and empty;ithadnotbeentarnishedwiththe bleach-like substance. Adilapidated kitchen, alsodevoidoffurnishings,wastheonlyotherroomonthelowerfloor. The deluge ofchemicals had not spared it;evenastalehalfloafofbread

on the sideboard had beendoused.Strikeheadedupthestairs.

Somebody had climbed ordescended them, pouring thevicious, corrosive substancefromacapaciouscontainer;ithad spattered everywhere,even onto the landingwindowsill, where the painthadbubbledandsplitapart.On the first floor, Strike

came to ahalt.Even throughthethickwoolofhisovercoat

he could smell somethingelse, something that thepungent industrial chemicalcould not mask. Sweet,putrid, rancid: the stench ofdecayingflesh.Hedidnottryeitherofthe

closeddoorsonthefirstfloor.Instead, with his birthdaywhisky swaying stupidly inits plastic bag, he followedslowly in thefootstepsof thepourer of acid, up a secondflight of stained stairs from

which the varnish had beenburned away, the carvedbanisters scorched bare oftheirwaxyshine.The stench of decay grew

stronger with every stepStrike took. It reminded himof the time they stuck longsticks into the ground inBosniaandpulledthemouttosniff the ends, the one fail-safewayof finding themassgraves.He pressed his collarmore tightly to his mouth as

he reached the top floor, tothe studio where a Victorianartisthadonceworked in theunchangingnorthernlight.Strike did not hesitate on

the threshold except for thesecondsittooktotughisshirtsleevedowntocoverhisbarehand, so that hewouldmakenomarkon thewoodendoorashepushed itopen.Silencebut for a faint squeak ofhinges,andthenthedesultorybuzzingofflies.

Hehadexpecteddeath,butnotthis.Acarcass:trussed,stinking

androtting,emptyandgutted,lying on the floor instead ofhanging from a metal hookwheresurelyitbelonged.Butwhat looked like aslaughtered pig wore humanclothing.It lay beneath the high

archedbeams,bathedinlightfrom that giganticRomanesque window, and

thoughitwasaprivatehouseand the traffic sloshed stillbeyond the glass, Strike feltthat he stood retching in atemple, witness to sacrificialslaughter,toanactofunholydesecration.Sevenplatesandsevensets

ofcutleryhadbeensetaroundthe decomposing body asthoughitwereagiganticjointof meat. The torso had beenslit from throat to pelvis andStrikewastallenoughtosee,

even from the threshold, thegaping black cavity that hadbeen left behind. Theintestines were gone, asthough they had been eaten.Fabric and flesh had beenburned away all over thecorpse, heightening the vileimpression that it had beencooked and feasted upon. Inplaces the burned,decomposing cadaver wasshining, almost liquid inappearance. Four hissing

radiators were hastening thedecay.Therottedfacelayfurthest

away from him, near thewindow. Strike squinted at itwithoutmoving,tryingnottobreathe.Awispofyellowingbeard clung still to the chinand a single burned-out eyesocketwasjustvisible.And now, with all his

experience of death andmutilation,Strikehadtofightdowntheurgetovomitinthe

almost suffocating mingledstenches of chemical andcorpse.He shifted his carrierbag up his thick forearm,drewhismobilephoneoutofhis pocket and tookphotographs of the scenefrom as many angles as hecould manage withoutmovingfurtherintotheroom.Then he backed out of thestudio, allowing the door toswingshut,whichdidnothingto mitigate the almost solid

stink,andcalled999.Slowly and carefully,

determinednottoslipandfalleventhoughhewasdesperateto regain fresh, clean, rain-washed air, Strike proceededback down the tarnishedstairstowaitforthepoliceinthestreet.

17

Best while you have ituseyourbreath,There is no drinkingafterdeath.JohnFletcher,TheBloody

Brother

It was not the first time thatStrike had visited New

Scotland Yard at theinsistence of the Met. Hisprevious interview had alsoconcerned a corpse, and itoccurred to the detective, ashe sat waiting in aninterrogation room manyhours later, the pain in hisknee less acute after severalhours of enforced inaction,that he had had sex thepreviouseveningthentoo.Alone in a room hardly

bigger than the average

office’s stationery cupboard,histhoughtsstucklikefliestothe rotting obscenity he hadfound in the artist’s studio.The horror of it had not lefthim. In his professionalcapacity he had viewedbodies thathadbeendraggedinto positions intended tosuggest suicide or accident;hadexaminedcorpsesbearinghorrific traces of attempts todisguise the cruelty towhichthey had been subjected

before death; he had seenmen, women and childrenmaimed and dismembered;but what he had seen at 179TalgarthRoadwassomethingentirely new. The malignityof what had been done therehad been almost orgiastic, acarefullycalibrateddisplayofsadistic showmanship. Worstto contemplatewas the orderin which acid had beenpoured, the bodydisembowelled: had it been

torture?HadQuinebeenaliveor dead while his killer laidout place settings aroundhim?The huge vaulted room

where Quine’s body laywould now, no doubt, beswarming with men in full-body protective suits,gathering forensic evidence.Strike wished he were therewith them. Inactivity aftersuch a discoverywas hatefulto him. He burned with

professional frustration. Shutout from the moment thepolice had arrived, he hadbeen relegated to a mereblunderer who had stumbledonto the scene (and ‘scene’,he thought suddenly,was therightwordinmorewaysthanone: the body tied up andarrangedinthelightfromthatgiantchurch-likewindow…asacrifice to some demonicpower… seven plates, sevensetsofcutlery…)

The frosted glass windowof the interrogation roomblocked out everythingbeyond it but the colour ofthe sky, now black. He hadbeen in this tiny room for along time and still the policehad not finished taking hisstatement. It was difficult togauge how much of theirdesire to prolong theinterview was genuinesuspicion, how muchanimosity. It was right, of

course, that the person whodiscovered a murder victimshould be subjected tothorough questioning,because they often knewmore than they were willingto tell, and not infrequentlyknew everything. However,in solving the Lula Landrycase Strike might be said tohavehumiliatedtheMet,whohad so confidentlypronouncedherdeathsuicide.Strike did not think he was

being paranoid in thinkingthat the attitude of the crop-haired female detectiveinspectorwhohadjustlefttheroom contained adetermination to make himsweat.Nordidhethinkthatithad been strictly necessaryfor quite so many of hercolleaguestolookinonhim,some of them lingering onlyto stare at him, othersdeliveringsnideremarks.If they thought they were

inconveniencing him, theywerewrong.Hehadnowhereelse to be and they had fedhim quite a decent meal. Iftheyhadonlylethimsmoke,he would have been quitecomfortable.Thewomanwhohadbeenquestioninghimforan hour had told him hemight go outside,accompanied,intotherainfora cigarette, but inertia andcuriosity had kept him in hisseat.His birthdaywhisky sat

beside him in its carrier bag.He thought that if they kepthim here much longer hemightbreakitopen.Theyhadleft him a plastic beaker ofwater.The door behind him

whispered over the densegreycarpet.‘MysticBob,’saidavoice.Richard Anstis of the

Metropolitan Police and theTerritorial Army entered theroom grinning, his hair wet

with rain, carrying a bundleofpapersunderhisarm.Oneside of his face was heavilyscarred, the skin beneath hisright eye pulled taut. Theyhad saved his sight at thefield hospital in Kabul whileStrike had lain unconscious,doctors working to preservethekneeofhisseveredleg.‘Anstis!’saidStrike,taking

the policeman’s profferedhand.‘Whatthe—?’‘Pulled rank, mate, I’m

goingtohandlethisone,’saidAnstis,droppingintotheseatlately vacated by the surlyfemaledetective. ‘You’renotpopular round here, youknow.Luckyforyou,you’vegot Uncle Dickie on yourside,vouchingforyou.’He always said that Strike

had saved his life, andperhapsitwastrue.Theyhadbeen under fire on a yellowdirt road in Afghanistan.Strike himself was not sure

whathadmadehimsensetheimminent explosion. Theyouth running from theroadside ahead with whatlooked like his youngerbrother could simply havebeen fleeing the gunfire. Allhe knew was that he hadyelled at the driver of theVikingtobrake,aninjunctionnot followed – perhaps notheard – that he had reachedforward, grabbed Anstis bythe back of the shirt and

hauled him one-handed intothe back of the vehicle. HadAnstis remained where hewas he would probably havesuffered the fate of youngGary Topley, who had beensitting directly in front ofStrike, and of whom theycould find only the head andtorsotobury.‘Need to run through this

story one more time, mate,’said Anstis, spreading out infront of him the statement

thathemusthavetakenfromthefemaleofficer.‘AllrightifIdrink?’asked

Strikewearily.Under Anstis’s amused

gaze, Strike retrieved theArran single malt from thecarrier bag and added twofingerstothelukewarmwaterinhisplasticcup.‘Right: you were hired by

his wife to find the deadman… we’re assuming thebody’sthiswriter,this—’

‘Owen Quine, yeah,’supplied Strike, as Anstissquinted over his colleague’shandwriting. ‘His wife hiredmesixdaysago.’‘And at that point he’d

beenmissing—?’‘Tendays.’‘Butshehadn’tbeentothe

police?’‘No.Hedid this regularly:

dropped out of sight withouttellinganyonewherehewas,then coming home again.He

liked taking off for hotelswithouthiswife.’‘Whydid shebringyou in

thistime?’‘Things are difficult at

home. There’s a disableddaughter and money’s short.He’d been away a bit longerthan usual. She thought he’dgoneoff to awriter’s retreat.Shedidn’tknowthenameofthe place, but I checked andhewasn’tthere.’‘Still don’t see why she

calledyouratherthanus.’‘She says she called your

lot in once before when hewent walkabout and he wasangry about it. Apparentlyhe’dbeenwithagirlfriend.’‘I’ll check that,’ said

Anstis,makinganote.‘Whatmadeyougotothathouse?’‘I found out last night the

Quinesco-ownedit.’Aslightpause.‘Hiswifehadn’tmentioned

it?’

‘No,’ said Strike. ‘Herstory is that he hated theplace andneverwentnear it.She gave the impressionshe’dhalfforgottentheyevenownedit—’‘Is that likely?’ murmured

Anstis,scratchinghischin.‘Ifthey’reskint?’‘It’s complicated,’ said

Strike. ‘The other owner’sMichaelFancourt—’‘I’veheardofhim.’‘—and she says he won’t

let them sell. There was badblood between Fancourt andQuine.’ Strike drank hiswhisky;itwarmedthroatandstomach. (Quine’s stomach,his entire digestive tract, hadbeen cut out.Where the hellwas it?) ‘Anyway, I wentalong at lunchtime and therehewas–ormostofhimwas.’Thewhiskyhadmadehim

crave a cigarette worse thanever.‘Thebody’sa real fucking

mess, fromwhat I’ve heard,’saidAnstis.‘Wannasee?’Strike pulled his mobile

phone from his pocket,brought up the photographsof the corpse and handed itacrossthedesk.‘Holy shit,’ said Anstis.

After a minute of silentcontemplation of the rottingcorpse he asked, disgusted,‘What are those aroundhim…plates?’

‘Yep,’saidStrike.‘That mean anything to

you?’‘Nothing,’saidStrike.‘Anyideawhenhewaslast

seenalive?’‘Thelasttimehiswifesaw

himwasthenightofthefifth.He’djusthaddinnerwithhisagent, who’d told him hecouldn’t publish his latestbook because he’s libelledChrist knows how manypeople, includingacoupleof

verylitigiousmen.’Anstis looked down at the

notesleftbyDIRawlins.‘You didn’t tell Bridget

that.’‘Shedidn’t ask.Wedidn’t

strikeupmuchofarapport.’‘How long’s this book

beenintheshops?’‘It isn’t in the shops,’ said

Strike,addingmorewhiskytohis beaker. ‘It hasn’t beenpublished yet. I told you, herowedwithhisagentbecause

she told him he couldn’tpublishit.’‘Haveyoureadit?’‘Mostofit.’‘Did his wife give you a

copy?’‘No, she says she’s never

readit.’‘She forgot she owned a

secondhouseandshedoesn’tread her own husband’sbooks,’ said Anstis withoutemphasis.‘Herstoryisthatshereads

themoncethey’vegotpropercovers on,’ said Strike. ‘Forwhat it’s worth, I believeher.’‘Uh-huh,’saidAnstis,who

was now scribbling additionsto Strike’s statement. ‘Howdid you get a copy of themanuscript?’‘I’dprefernottosay.’‘Couldbeaproblem,’said

Anstis,glancingup.‘Notforme,’saidStrike.‘We might need to come

backtothatone,Bob.’Strike shrugged, then

asked:‘Hashiswifebeentold?’‘Shouldhavebeenbynow,

yeah.’Strike had not called

Leonora. The news that herhusband was dead must bebroken in person bysomebodywith thenecessarytraining.Hehaddonethejobhimself, many times, but hewas out of practice; in any

case, his allegiance thisafternoon had been to thedesecrated remains of OwenQuine, to stand watch overthem until he had deliveredthemsafely into thehandsofthepolice.He had not forgottenwhat

Leonora would be goingthrough while he wasinterrogatedatScotlandYard.Hehadimaginedheropeningthe door to the police officer– or two of them, perhaps –

the first thrill of alarmat thesight of the uniform; thehammer blow dealt to theheart by the calm,understanding, sympatheticinvitation to retire indoors;the horror of thepronouncement (althoughthey would not tell her, atleast at first, about the thickpurple ropes binding herhusband, or the dark emptycavern that a murderer hadmade of his chest and belly;

they would not say that hisface had been burned awaybyacidorthatsomebodyhadlaidoutplatesaroundhimasthough he were a giantroast… Strike rememberedthe platter of lamb thatLucyhad handed around nearlytwenty-fourhourspreviously.Hewasnotasqueamishman,but the smooth malt seemedto catch in his throat and hesetdownhisbeaker).‘How many people know

what’s in this book, d’youreckon?’askedAnstisslowly.‘No idea,’ said Strike.

‘Could be a lot by now.Quine’s agent, ElizabethTassel – spelled like itsounds,’ he added helpfully,asAnstisscribbled,‘sentittoChristian Fisher at CrossfirePublishing and he’s a manwho likes togossip.Lawyersgot involved to try and stopthetalk.’‘More and more

interesting,’ muttered Anstis,writing fast. ‘You wantanythingelsetoeat,Bob?’‘Iwantasmoke.’‘Won’t be long,’ promised

Anstis.‘Who’shelibelled?’‘The question is,’ said

Strike, flexing his sore leg,‘whetherit’slibel,orwhetherhe’s exposed the truth aboutpeople. But the characters Irecognised were – give us apen and paper,’ he said,because it was quicker to

write than todictate.He saidthe names aloud as he jottedthem down: ‘MichaelFancourt, the writer; DanielChard,who’sheadofQuine’spublisher; Kathryn Kent,Quine’sgirlfriend—’‘There’sagirlfriend?’‘Yeah, they’ve been

together over a year,apparently.Iwenttoseeher–Stafford Cripps House, partof Clement Attlee Court –andsheclaimedhewasn’tat

her flat and she hadn’t seenhim… Liz Tassel, his agent;JerryWaldegrave, his editor,and’ – a fractional hesitation–‘hiswife.’‘He’sputhiswife in there

aswell,hashe?’‘Yeah,’ said Strike,

pushingthelistoverthedeskto Anstis. ‘But there are aload of other characters Iwouldn’t recognise. You’vegot a wide field if you’relookingforsomeoneheputin

thebook.’‘Have you still got the

manuscript?’‘No.’ Strike, expecting the

question, lied easily. LetAnstisgetacopyofhisown,without Nina’s fingerprintsonit.‘Anything else you can

think of that might behelpful?’Anstisasked,sittingupstraight.‘Yeah,’saidStrike.‘Idon’t

thinkhiswifedidit.’

Anstis shot Strike aquizzical look not unmixedwith warmth. Strike wasgodfather tothesonwhohadbeen born to Anstis just twodaysbeforebothofthemhadbeenblownoutoftheViking.Strike had met TimothyCormoranAnstisahandfuloftimes and had not beenimpressedinhisfavour.‘OK,Bob, sign this for us

and I can give you a lifthome.’

Strike read through thestatement carefully, tookpleasure in correcting DIRawlins’s spelling in a fewplaces,andsigned.Hismobile rang as he and

Anstiswalkeddownthe longcorridor towards the lifts,Strike’s knee protestingpainfully.‘CormoranStrike?’‘It’s me, Leonora,’ she

said,soundingalmostexactlyassheusuallydid,exceptthat

hervoicewasperhapsa littlelessflat.Strike gestured to Anstis

thathewasnotreadytoenterthe lift and drew aside fromthe policeman, to a darkwindowbeneathwhichtrafficwas winding in the endlessrain.‘Have the police been to

seeyou?’heaskedher.‘Yeah. I’m with them

now.’‘I’m very sorry, Leonora,’

hesaid.‘You all right?’ she asked

gruffly.‘Me?’ said Strike,

surprised.‘I’mfine.’‘They ain’t giving you a

hardtime?Theysaidyouwasbeing interviewed. I said to’em, “He only found Owencos I asked him, what’s hebinarrestedfor?”’‘They hadn’t arrestedme,’

said Strike. ‘Just needed astatement.’

‘But they’ve kept you allthistime.’‘How d’you know how

long—?’‘I’m here,’ she said. ‘I’m

downstairs in the lobby. Iwanna see you, I made ’embringme.’Astonished, with the

whisky sitting on his emptystomach, he said the firstthingthatoccurredtohim.‘Who’s looking after

Orlando?’

‘Edna,’ said Leonora,taking Strike’s concern forher daughter as a matter ofcourse.‘Whenaretheygonnaletyougo?’‘I’monmywayoutnow,’

hesaid.‘Who’sthat?’askedAnstis

when Strike had rung off.‘Charlotte worrying aboutyou?’‘Christ, no,’ said Strike as

theysteppedtogetherintothelift. He had completely

forgotten that he had nevertold Anstis about the break-up.AsafriendfromtheMet,Anstis was sealed off in acompartment on his ownwheregossipcouldnottravel.‘That’s over. Ended monthsago.’‘Really? Tough break,’

said Anstis, lookinggenuinely sorry as the liftbegan to move downwards.But Strike thought that someof Anstis’s disappointment

wasforhimself.Hehadbeenoneof thefriendsmost takenwith Charlotte, with herextraordinary beauty and herdirty laugh. ‘Bring Charlotteover’ had been Anstis’sfrequentrefrainwhenthetwomen had found themselvesfree of hospitals and thearmy, back in the city thatwastheirhome.Strike felt an instinctive

desiretoshieldLeonorafromAnstis,butitwasimpossible.

Whentheliftdoorsslidopenthere she was, thin andmousy,with her limp hair incombs, her old coatwrappedaroundher and an air of stillwearing bedroom slipperseven though her feet wereclad in scuffed black shoes.She was flanked by the twouniformed officers, onefemale, who had evidentlybroken the news of Quine’sdeath and then brought herhere.Strikededucedfromthe

guarded glances they gaveAnstisthatLeonorahadgiventhem reason to wonder; thather reaction to the news thather husband was dead hadstruckthemasunusual.Dry-faced and matter-of-

fact,LeonoraseemedrelievedtoseeStrike.‘There you are,’ she said.

‘Why’d they keep you solong?’Anstis looked at her

curiously, but Strike did not

introducethem.‘Shallwegooverhere?’he

askedher, indicatingabenchalong thewall.Ashe limpedoffbesideherhefeltthethreepolice officers draw togetherbehindthem.‘How are you?’ he asked

her, partly in the hope thatshe might exhibit some signof distress, to assuage thecuriosityofthosewatching.‘Dunno,’ she said,

droppingontotheplasticseat.

‘I can’t believe it. I neverthought he’d go there, thesilly sod. I s’pose someburglargotinanddoneit.Heshould’vegonetoahotellikealways,shouldn’the?’They had not told her

much, then. He thought thatshe was more shocked thanshe appeared, more than sheknew herself. The act ofcoming to him seemed thedisorientated action ofsomebodywhodidnotknow

whatelsetodo,excepttoturnto the person who wassupposedtobehelpingher.‘Wouldyoulikemetotake

youhome?’Strikeaskedher.‘I ’spect they’ll giveme a

lift back,’ she said, with thesame sense of untroubledentitlement she had broughttothestatementthatElizabethTassel would pay Strike’sbill. ‘I wanted to see you tocheckyouwasallrightandIhadn’tgotyouintrouble,and

Iwanted to askyou if you’llkeepworkingforme.’‘Keep working for you?’

Strikerepeated.For a split-second he

wondered whether it waspossiblethatshehadnotquitegrasped what had happened,that she thought Quine wasstill out there somewhere tobe found. Did her fainteccentricity of manner masksomething more serious,some fundamental cognitive

problem?‘They think I know

something about it,’ saidLeonora.‘Icantell.’Strike hesitated on the

verge of saying ‘I’m surethat’s not true,’ but it wouldhavebeena lie.Hewasonlytoo aware that Leonora,wifeof a feckless, unfaithfulhusband,whohadchosennotto contact the police and toallow ten days to elapsebefore making a show of

looking for him, who had akeytotheemptyhousewherehisbodyhadbeen foundandwho would undoubtedly beable to take him by surprise,would be the first and mostimportant suspect.Nevertheless,heasked:‘Whyd’youthinkthat?’‘I can tell,’ she repeated.

‘Way they were talking tome. And they’ve said theywanna look in our house, inhisstudy.’

Itwasroutine,buthecouldseehowshewouldfeelthistobeintrusiveandominous.‘Does Orlando know

what’shappened?’heasked.‘ItoldherbutIdon’tthink

she realises,’ said Leonora,and for the first time he sawtears in her eyes. ‘She says,“LikeMrPoop”–hewasourcat thatwas run over – but Idon’t know if sheunderstands, not really. Youcan’t always tell with

Orlando. I haven’t told hersomeonekilledhim.Can’tgetmyheadaroundit.’Therewasashortpausein

which Strike hoped,irrelevantly, that he was notgivingoffwhiskyfumes.‘Willyoukeepworkingfor

me?’ she asked him directly.‘You’re better’n them, that’swhyIwantedyouin thefirstplace.Willyou?’‘Yes,’hesaid.‘CosIcan tell they thinkI

hadsomething todowith it,’she repeated, standing up,‘waytheywastalkingtome.’She drew her coat more

tightlyaroundher.‘I’d better get back to

Orlando. I’m glad you’re allright.’She shuffled off to her

escort again. The femalepolice officer looked takenabacktobetreatedlikeataxidriver but after a glance atAnstis acceded to Leonora’s

requestforalifthome.‘The hell was that about?’

Anstis asked him after thetwowomenhadpassedoutofearshot.‘She was worried you’d

arrestedme.’‘Biteccentric,isn’tshe?’‘Yeah,abit.’‘You didn’t tell her

anything, did you?’ askedAnstis.‘No,’ said Strike, who

resented the question. He

knew better than to passinformation about a crimescenetoasuspect.‘You wanna be careful,

Bob,’saidAnstisawkwardly,as they passed through therevolvingdoorsintotherainynight. ‘Not to get underanyone’s feet. It’s murdernow and you haven’t gotmany friends round theseparts,mate.’‘Popularity’s overrated.

Listen,I’llgetacab–no,’he

said firmly, over Anstis’sprotestations, ‘I need tosmokebefore Igoanywhere.Thanks, Rich, foreverything.’They shook hands; Strike

turned up his collar againstthe rain and with a wave offarewell limpedoffalong thedark pavement. He wasalmostasgladtohaveshakenoffAnstis as to take the firstsweetpullonhiscigarette.

18

For this I find, wherejealousyisfed,Horns in the mind areworsethanonthehead.BenJonson,EveryManin

HisHumour

Strike had completelyforgotten that Robin had left

the office in what hecategorised as a sulk onFriday afternoon. He onlyknew that she was the oneperson he wanted to talk toabout what had happened,andwhileheusuallyavoidedtelephoning her atweekends,the circumstances feltexceptional enough to justifyatext.Hesentitfromthetaxihefoundafterfifteenminutestramping wet, cold streets inthedark.

Robin was curled up athome in an armchair withInvestigative Interviewing:Psychology and Practice, abook she had bought online.Matthew was on the sofa,speaking on the landline tohismotherinYorkshire,whowas feelingunwell again.Herolled his eyes wheneverRobin reminded herself tolook up and smilesympathetically at hisexasperation.

Whenhermobilevibrated,Robin glanced at it irritably;shewas trying toconcentrateonInvestigativeInterviewing.

FoundQuinemurdered.C

She letoutamingledgasp

and shriek that madeMatthew start. The bookslippedoutofherlapandfell,disregarded, to the floor.Seizing the mobile, she ran

withittothebedroom.Matthew talked to his

mother for twenty minutesmore, thenwent and listenedat the closed bedroom door.He could hear Robin askingquestions and being givenwhat seemed to be long,involved answers. Somethingabout the timbreofhervoiceconvinced him that it wasStrikeontheline.Hissquarejawtightened.When Robin finally

emerged from the bedroom,shocked and awestruck, shetoldherfiancéthatStrikehadfoundthemissingmanhehadbeenhunting,andthathehadbeen murdered. Matthew’snatural curiosity tugged himone way, but his dislike ofStrike, and the fact that hehaddaredcontactRobinonaSunday evening, pulled himanother.‘Well, I’m glad

something’s happened to

interestyou tonight,’hesaid.‘Iknowyou’reboredshitlessbyMum’shealth.’‘You bloody hypocrite!’

gaspedRobin,windedby theinjustice.The row escalated with

alarming speed. Strike’sinvitation to the wedding;Matthew’s sneering attitudetoRobin’sjob;whattheirlifetogether was going to be;what each owed the other:Robin was horrified by how

quickly the veryfundamentals of theirrelationshipweredraggedoutfor examination andrecrimination,butshedidnotback down. A familiarfrustrationandanger towardsthemeninherlifehadherinits grip – to Matthew, forfailing to see why her jobmattered to her so much; toStrike,forfailingtorecogniseherpotential.(But he had called her

when he had found thebody… She had managed toslipinaquestion–‘Whoelsehaveyoutold?’–andhehadanswered, without any signthat he knew what it wouldmean to her, ‘No one, onlyyou.’)Meanwhile, Matthew was

feeling extremely hard doneby. He had noticed latelysomething that he knew heought not to complain about,andwhichgratedallthemore

for his feeling that he mustlump it: before she workedfor Strike, Robin had alwaysbeen first to back down in arow,firsttoapologise,butherconciliatorynatureseemed tohave been warped by thestupidbloodyjob…They only had one

bedroom.Robin pulled spareblankets from on top of thewardrobe, grabbed cleanclothes from inside it andannounced her intention to

sleep on the sofa. Sure thatshe would cave before long(the sofa was hard anduncomfortable) Matthew didnottrytodissuadeher.But he had beenwrong in

expectinghertosoften.Whenhe woke the followingmorning it was to find anempty sofa and Robin gone.His anger increasedexponentially. She haddoubtlessheadedforworkanhour earlier than usual, and

his imagination – Matthewwasnotusuallyimaginative–showed him that big, uglybastard opening the door ofhis flat, not the officebelow…

19

…ItoyouwillopenThebookofablacksin,deepprintedinme.…mydiseaseliesinmysoul.

ThomasDekker,TheNobleSpanishSoldier

Strikehadsethisalarmforanearlyhour,with the intentionof securing some peaceful,uninterrupted time withoutclients or telephone. He roseat once, showered andbreakfasted, took great careover the fastening of theprosthesis onto a definitelyswollen knee and, forty-fiveminutes afterwaking, limpedintohisofficewiththeunreadportion of Bombyx Moriunder his arm. A suspicion

that he had not confided toAnstis was driving him tofinishthebookasamatterofurgency.After making himself a

mugofstrongteahesatdownat Robin’s desk, where thelight was best, and began toread.Having escaped the Cutter

and entered the city that hadbeenhisdestination,Bombyxdecided to rid himself of thecompanions of his long

journey, Succuba and theTick. This he did by takingthem toabrothelwherebothappeared satisfied to work.Bombyx departed alone insearch of Vainglorious, afamous writer and the manwhomhehopedwouldbehismentor.Halfway along a dark

alleyway, Bombyx wasaccosted by a woman withlong red hair and a demonicexpression,whowastakinga

handfulofdeadratshomeforsupper. When she learnedBombyx’s identity Harpyinvited him to her house,whichturnedouttobeacavelittered with animal skulls.Strike skim-read the sex,whichtookupfourpagesandinvolved Bombyx beingstrungupfromtheceilingandwhipped.Then,liketheTick,Harpy attempted to breast-feed from Bombyx, but inspite of being tied up he

managed to beat her off.While his nipples leaked adazzling supernatural light,Harpywept and revealed herown breasts, from whichleakedsomethingdarkbrownandglutinous.Strike scowled over this

image.NotonlywasQuine’sstylestartingtoseemparodic,giving Strike a sense ofsickened surfeit, the sceneread like an explosion ofmalice,aneruptionofpent-up

sadism. Had Quine devotedmonths,perhapsyears,ofhislifetotheintentionofcausingasmuch pain and distress aspossible? Was he sane?Couldamaninsuchmasterlycontrol of his style, littlethough Strike liked it, beclassifiedasmad?He took a drink of tea,

reassuringly hot and clean,andreadon.Bombyxwasonthe point of leaving Harpy’shouse in disgust when

another character burst inthrough her door: Epicoene,whom the sobbing Harpyintroduced as her adopteddaughter. A young girl,whose open robes revealed apenis, Epicoene insisted thatshe and Bombyx were twinsouls, understanding, as theydid, both the male and thefemale. She invited him tosample her hermaphrodite’sbody, but first to hear hersing. Apparently under the

impression that she had abeautiful voice, she emittedbarks like a seal untilBombyx ran from her withhisearscovered.Now Bombyx saw for the

firsttime,highonahillinthemiddleofthecity,acastleoflight. He climbed the steepstreets towards it until hailedfrom a dark doorway by amale dwarf, who introducedhimself as the writerVainglorious. He had

Fancourt’s eyebrows,Fancourt’s surly expressionand sneering manner, andofferedBombyxabedforthenight, ‘having heard of yourgreattalent’.To Bombyx’s horror, a

young woman was chainedupinsidethehouse,writingata roll-top desk. Burningbrands lay white hot in thefire, to which were attachedphrasesintwistedmetalsuchas pertinacious gudgeon and

chrysostomatic intercourse.Evidently expecting Bombyxto be amused, Vaingloriousexplained that he had set hisyoung wife Effigy to writeher own book, so that shewould not bother him whilehe created his nextmasterpiece. Unfortunately,Vainglorious explained,Effigy had no talent, forwhich shemust be punished.Heremovedoneofthebrandsfrom the fire, at which

Bombyx fled the house,pursued by Effigy’s shrieksofpain.Bombyx sped on towards

the castle of light where heimagined he would find hisrefuge.OverthedoorwasthenamePhallus Impudicus, butnobody answered Bombyx’sknock. He therefore skirtedthecastle,peering in throughwindowsuntilhesawanakedbald man standing over thecorpseofagoldenboywhose

body was covered in stabwounds, each of whichemitted the same dazzlinglight that issued fromBombyx’s own nipples.Phallus’serectpenisappearedtoberotting.‘Hi.’Strike started and looked

up.Robinwas standing therein her trench coat, her facepink, long red-gold hairloose, tousled and gilded inthe early sunlight streaming

through the window. Justthen, Strike found herbeautiful.‘Whyareyousoearly?’he

heardhimselfask.‘Wanted to know what’s

goingon.’She stripped off her coat

and Strike looked away,mentally castigating himself.Naturally she looked good,appearingunexpectedlywhenhismindhadbeenfullof theimage of a naked bald man,

displayingadiseasedpenis…‘D’youwantanothertea?’‘That’d be great, thanks,’

he said without lifting hiseyes from the manuscript.‘Give me five, I want tofinishthis…’Andwith a feeling that he

was diving again intocontaminated water, he re-immersed himself in thegrotesque world of BombyxMori.AsBombyxstaredthrough

the window of the castle,transfixed by the horriblesight of Phallus Impudicusand the corpse, he foundhimself roughly seized by acrowd of hooded minions,dragged inside the castle andstripped naked in front ofPhallus Impudicus. By thistime, Bombyx’s belly wasenormous and he appearedready to give birth. PhallusImpudicus gave ominousdirections to his minions,

which left thenaiveBombyxconvinced that he was to betheguestofhonouratafeast.Six of the characters that

Strike had recognised –Succuba,theTick,theCutter,Harpy, Vainglorious andImpudicus–werenowjoinedby Epicoene. The sevenguests sat down at a largetable on which stood a largejug, the contents of whichwere smoking, and a man-sizedemptyplatter.

When Bombyx arrived inthe hall, he found that therewas no seat for him. Theother guests rose, movedtowards him with ropes andoverpowered him. He wastrussed up, placed on theplatter and slit open. Themass that had been growinginsidehimwasrevealedtobea ball of supernatural light,which was ripped out andlocked inacasketbyPhallusImpudicus.

The contents of thesmokingjugwererevealedtobe vitriol, which the sevenattackers poured gleefullyoverthestill-living,shriekingBombyx.Whenatlasthefellsilent,theybegantoeathim.The book ended with the

guestsfilingoutofthecastle,discussing their memories ofBombyx without guilt,leaving behind them anempty hall, the still-smokingremains of the corpse on the

tableandthelockedcasketoflight hanging, lamp-like,abovehim.‘Shit,’saidStrikequietly.He looked up. Robin had

placeda fresh teabesidehimwithouthisnoticing.Shewasperched on the sofa, waitingquietlyforhimtofinish.‘It’s all in here,’ said

Strike. ‘What happened toQuine.It’shere.’‘Whatd’youmean?’‘TheheroofQuine’sbook

dies exactly the way Quinedied. Tied up, guts torn out,somethingacidicpouredoverhim. In the book they eathim.’Robinstaredathim.‘The plates. Knives and

forks…’‘Exactly,’saidStrike.Withoutthinking,hepulled

his mobile out of his pocketandbroughtupthephotoshehad taken, then caught sightofherfrightenedexpression.

‘No,’hesaid,‘sorry,forgotyou’renot—’‘Giveittome,’shesaid.What had he forgotten?

That she was not trained orexperienced, not apolicewoman or a soldier?Shewanted to live up to hismomentaryforgetfulness.Shewantedtostepup,tobemorethanshewas.‘Iwanttosee,’shelied.He handed over the

telephone with obvious

misgivings.Robindidnotflinch,butas

shestaredattheopenholeinthe cadaver’s chest andstomach her own insidesseemed to shrink in horror.Raising her mug to her lips,she found that she did notwanttodrink.Theworstwasthe angled close-up of theface,eatenawaybywhateverhad been poured on it,blackened and with thatburned-outeyesocket…

Theplatesstruckherasanobscenity.Strikehadzoomedin on one of them; the placesettinghadbeenmeticulouslyarranged.‘My God,’ she said

numbly, handing the phoneback.‘Now read this,’ said

Strike, handing her therelevantpages.She did so in silence.

When she had finished, shelooked up at him with eyes

that seemed to have doubledinsize.‘MyGod,’shesaidagain.Her mobile rang. She

pulled it out of the handbagon the sofa beside her andlooked at it. Matthew. Stillfurious at him, she pressed‘ignore’.‘How many people,’ she

asked Strike, ‘d’you thinkhavereadthisbook?’‘Couldbea lotof themby

now.Fisheremailedbitsofit

all over town; between himand the lawyers’ letters, it’sbecomehotproperty.’And a strange, random

thoughtcrossedStrike’smindashespoke:thatQuinecouldnot have arranged betterpublicityifhehadtried…buthecouldnothavepouredacidoverhimselfwhiletiedup,orcutouthisownguts…‘It’s beenkept in a safe at

Roper Chard that half thecompany seems to know the

codefor,’hewenton.‘That’showIgotholdofit.’‘But don’t you think the

killer’s likely to be someonewho’sinthe—?’Robin’smobilerangagain.

She glanced down at it:Matthew. Again, she pressed‘ignore’.‘Not necessarily,’ said

Strike, answering herunfinished question. ‘But thepeoplehe’swrittenaboutaregoing to be high on the list

when the police startinterviewing. Of thecharacters I recognise,Leonora claims not to havereadit,sodoesKathrynKent—’‘Do you believe them?’

askedRobin.‘I believe Leonora. Not

sure about Kathryn Kent.Howdidthelinego?“Toseethee tortur’d would give mepleasure”?’‘I can’t believe a woman

would have done that,’ saidRobin at once, glancing atStrike’smobilenowlyingonthedeskbetweenthem.‘Did you never hear about

the Australian woman whoskinnedherlover,decapitatedhim, cooked his head andbuttocks and tried to servehimuptohiskids?’‘You’renotserious.’‘I’mtotallyserious.Lookit

up on the net.Whenwomenturn, they really turn,’ said

Strike.‘Hewasabigman…’‘If it was a woman he

trusted?Awomanhemetforsex?’‘Whodoweknowforsure

hasreadit?’‘ChristianFisher,Elizabeth

Tassel’s assistant Ralph,Tassel herself, JerryWaldegrave, Daniel Chard –they’re all characters, exceptRalph and Fisher. NinaLascelles—’

‘Who areWaldegrave andChard? Who’s NinaLascelles?’‘Quine’seditor,theheadof

hispublisherandthegirlwhohelped me nick this,’ saidStrike, giving themanuscriptaslap.Robin’s mobile rang for

thethirdtime.‘Sorry,’ she said

impatiently,andpickeditup.‘Yes?’‘Robin.’

Matthew’s voice soundedstrangelycongested.Henevercriedandhehadneverbeforeshown himself particularlyovercome by remorse at anargument.‘Yes?’shesaid,alittleless

sharply.‘Mum’s had another

stroke.She’s–she’s—’Anelevatordrop in thepit

ofherstomach.‘Matt?’Hewascrying.

‘Matt?’ she repeatedurgently.‘’S dead,’ he said, like a

littleboy.‘I’m coming,’ said Robin.

‘Where are you? I’ll comenow.’Strike was watching her

face.Hesawtidingsofdeaththere and hoped it wasnobody she loved, neither ofher parents, none of herbrothers…‘Allright,’shewassaying,

already on her feet. ‘Staythere.I’mcoming.‘It’s Matt’s mother,’ she

toldStrike.‘She’sdied.’It felt utterly unreal. She

couldnotbelieveit.‘Theywereonlytalkingon

the phone last night,’ shesaid. Remembering Matt’srolling eyes and the muffledvoice she had just heard, shewas overwhelmed withtenderness and sympathy.‘I’msosorrybut—’

‘Go,’saidStrike.‘TellhimI’msorry,willyou?’‘Yes,’saidRobin,tryingto

fasten her handbag, herfingers grown clumsy in heragitation.ShehadknownMrsCunliffe since primaryschool.Sheslungherraincoatoverher arm.Theglassdoorflashed and closed behindher.Strike’s eyes remained

fixedforafewsecondsontheplace where Robin had

vanished. Then he lookeddown at his watch. It wasbarely nine o’clock. Thebrunette divorcée whoseemeralds lay in his safe wasdue at the office in just overhalfanhour.Heclearedandwashedthe

mugs, then took out thenecklace he had recovered,locked up the manuscript ofBombyx Mori in the safeinstead,refilledthekettleandcheckedhisemails.

They’ll postpone thewedding.He did not want to feel

glad about it. Pulling out hismobile,hecalledAnstis,whoansweredalmostatonce.‘Bob?’‘Anstis, I don’t know

whether you’ve already gotthis, but there’s somethingyou should know. Quine’slast novel describes hismurder.’‘Saythatagain?’

Strike explained. It wasclear from the brief silenceafterhehadfinishedspeakingthat Anstis had not yet hadtheinformation.‘Bob,Ineedacopyofthat

manuscript.IfIsendsomeoneover—?’‘Giveme three quarters of

anhour,’saidStrike.He was still photocopying

when his brunette clientarrived.‘Where’s your secretary?’

were her first words, turningtohimwithacoquettishshowofsurprise,asthoughshewassurehehadarrangedforthemtobealone.‘Off sick. Diarrhoea and

vomiting,’ said Strikerepressively. ‘Shall we gothrough?’

20

IsConscienceacomradeforanoldSoldier?FrancisBeaumontand

JohnFletcher,TheFalseOne

Late that evening Strike satalone at his desk while the

traffic rumbled through therainoutside,eatingSingaporenoodles with one hand andscribbling a list for himselfwiththeother.Therestoftheday’sworkover,hewas freeto turn his attention fully tothe murder of Owen Quineandinhisspiky,hard-to-readhandwritingwasjottingdownthose things that must bedone next. Beside some ofthem he had jotted the letterA for Anstis, and if it had

crossed Strike’s mind that itmight be considered arrogantor deluded of a privatedetectivewithnoauthorityinthe investigation to imaginehehad thepower todelegatetasks to the police officer incharge of the case, thethoughtdidnottroublehim.HavingworkedwithAnstis

inAfghanistan,Strikedidnothave a particularly highopinionofthepoliceofficer’sabilities. He thought Anstis

competentbutunimaginative,an efficient recogniser ofpatterns,a reliablepursuerofthe obvious. Strike did notdespise these traits – theobvious was usually theanswer and the methodicalticking of boxes the way toproveit–butthismurderwaselaborate, strange, sadisticand grotesque, literary ininspiration and ruthless inexecution. Was Anstiscapableofcomprehendingthe

mindthathadnurturedaplanofmurder in the fetid soil ofQuine’sownimagination?Strike’s mobile rang,

piercing in the silence. Onlywhenhehadput it tohis earandheardLeonoraQuinedidhe realise that he had beenhopingitwouldbeRobin.‘Howareyou?’heasked.‘I’ve had the police here,’

she said, cutting through thesocialniceties.‘They’vebeenall through Owen’s study. I

didn’twanna,butEdnasaidIshould let ’em. Can’t we beleft in peace after what justhappened?’‘They’vegotgroundsfora

search,’ said Strike. ‘Theremight be something inOwen’s study that’ll givethemaleadonhiskiller.’‘Likewhat?’‘I don’t know,’ saidStrike

patiently, ‘but I thinkEdna’sright. It was best to let themin.’

Therewasasilence.‘Are you still there?’ he

asked.‘Yeah,’shesaid,‘andnow

they’ve left it locked up so Ican’t get in it. And theywanna come back. I don’tlikethembeinghere.Orlandodon’tlikeit.Oneof’em,’shesoundedoutraged, ‘asked if Iwanted to move out of thehouseforabit. Isaid,“No,Ibloody don’t.” Orlando’snever stayed anywhere else,

shecouldn’tdealwithit. I’mnotgoinganywhere.’‘The police haven’t said

they want to question you,havethey?’‘No,’shesaid.‘Onlyasked

iftheycangointhestudy.’‘Good. If theywant to ask

youquestions—’‘I should get a lawyer,

yeah.That’swhatEdnasaid.’‘Would it be all right if I

come and see you tomorrowmorning?’heasked.

‘Yeah.’ She sounded glad.‘Comeroundten,Ineedtogoshoppingfirstthing.Couldn’tgetoutallday.Ididn’twannaleave them in the housewithoutmehere.’Strike hung up, reflecting

again that Leonora’s mannerwas unlikely to be standingher in good stead with thepolice. Would Anstis see, asStrike did, that Leonora’sslight obtuseness, her failureto produce what others felt

was appropriate behaviour,herstubbornrefusaltolookatwhatshedidnotwishtolookat – arguably the veryqualitiesthathadenabledhertoenduretheordealof livingwith Quine – would havemade it impossible forher tokill him? Or would heroddities, her refusal to shownormal grief reactionsbecause of an innate thoughperhaps unwise honesty,cause the suspicion already

lying in Anstis’s mundanemind to swell, obliteratingotherpossibilities?There was an intensity,

almost a feverishness, aboutthewayStrikereturnedtohisscribbling, left hand stillshovelling food into hismouth. Thoughts camefluently, cogently: jottingdownthequestionshewantedanswered, locations hewanted cased, the trails hewanted followed. It was a

planofactionforhimselfandameansofnudgingAnstisintherightdirection,ofhelpingopenhis eyes to the fact thatit was not always the wifewhen a husband was killed,even if the man had beenfeckless, unreliable andunfaithful.At last Strike cast his pen

down,finishedthenoodlesintwo large mouthfuls andclearedhisdesk.Hisnotesheput into the cardboard folder

withOwenQuine’s name onthespine,havingfirstcrossedout ‘Missing Person’ andsubstituted the word‘Murder’. He turned off thelightsandwasonthepointoflocking the glass door whenhe thought of something andreturnedtoRobin’scomputer.And there it was, on the

BBC website. Not headlinenews, of course, becausewhatever Quine might havethought, he had not been a

very famous man. It camethree stories below the mainnews that theEUhadagreeda bailout for the IrishRepublic.

ThebodyofamanbelievedtobewriterOwenQuine,58,hasbeenfoundinahouseinTalgarthRoad,London.Policehavelaunchedamurderinquiryfollowingthe

discovery,whichwasmadeyesterdaybyafamilyfriend.

There was no photograph

of Quine in his Tyroleancloak, nor were there detailsof the horrors to which thebodyhadbeensubjected.Butit was early days; there wastime.Upstairsinhisflat,someof

Strike’s energydesertedhim.Hedroppedontohisbedand

rubbedhiseyeswearily, thenfell backwards and lay there,fully dressed, his prosthesisstill attached. Thoughts hehad managed to keep at baynowpressedinuponhim…Whyhadhenotalertedthe

police to the fact that Quinehad been missing for nearlytwoweeks?Why had he notsuspected that Quine mightbedead?Hehadhadanswersto these questions when DIRawlinshadputthemtohim,

reasonable answers, saneanswers,buthefounditmuchmore difficult to satisfyhimself.Hedidnotneedtotakeout

his phone to see Quine’sbody. The vision of thatbound, decaying corpseseemed imprinted on hisretinas. How much cunning,howmuchhatred,howmuchperversityhadittakentoturnQuine’s literary excrescenceinto reality? What kind of

human being could bringthemselvestoslitamanopenandpouracidoverhim,toguthimandlayplatesaroundhisemptycorpse?Strikecouldnotridhimself

of the unreasonableconviction that he oughtsomehowtohavesmelledthescene from afar, like thecarrionbirdhehadtrainedtobe. How had he – with hisonce-notoriousinstinctforthestrange, the dangerous, the

suspicious – not realised thatthe noisy, self-dramatising,self-publicising Quine hadbeen gone too long, that hewastoosilent?Because the silly bastard

kept crying wolf… andbecauseI’mknackered.He rolled over, heaved

himself off the bed andheaded for thebathroom,buthis thoughts kept scurryingback to the body: the gapinghole in the torso, theburned-

out eye sockets. The killerhad moved around thatmonstrositywhile itwas stillbleeding, when Quine’sscreams had perhaps barelystopped echoing through thegreat vaulted space, andgently straightened forks…and there was anotherquestion for his list: what, ifanything, had the neighboursheard of Quine’s finalmoments?Strike got into bed at last,

coveredhiseyeswithalarge,hairy forearm and listened tohisownthoughts,whichweregabbling at him like aworkaholic twin who wouldnotpipedown.Forensicshadalready had more thantwenty-four hours. Theywouldhave formedopinions,even if all testswere not yetin. Hemust call Anstis, findoutwhattheyweresaying…Enough, he told his tired,

hyperactivebrain.Enough.

Andby thesamepowerofwill that in the army hadenabled him to fall instantlyasleep on bare concrete, onrockyground,onlumpycampbeds that squeaked rustycomplaints about his bulkwhenever he moved, he slidsmoothly into sleep like awarship sliding out on darkwater.

21

Ishethendead?What,deadatlast,quite,quiteforeverdead?WilliamCongreve,The

MourningBride

At a quarter to nine the nextmorningStrikemadehisway

slowlydownthemetalstairs,asking himself, not for thefirst time,whyhedidnotdosomething about getting thebirdcage lift fixed. His kneewas still sore and puffy afterhis fall, so he was allowingover an hour to get toLadbroke Grove, because hecould not afford to keeptakingtaxis.Agust of icy air stunghis

face as he opened the door,theneverythingwentwhiteas

a flash went off inches fromhis eyes. He blinked – theoutlines of threemen dancedinfrontofhim–hethrewuphis hand against anothervolleyofflashes.‘Why didn’t you inform

the police that Owen Quinewasmissing,MrStrike?’‘Did you know he was

dead,MrStrike?’For a split-second he

considered retreat, slammingthe door on them, but that

meant being trapped andhavingtofacethemlater.‘No comment,’ he said

coollyandwalked into them,refusingtoalterhiscoursebya hair’s breadth, so that theywereforcedtostepoutofhispath, two asking questionsand one running backwards,snapping and snapping. Thegirl who so often joinedStrike for smoking breaks inthe doorway of the guitarshopwasgapingat thescene

throughthewindow.‘Why didn’t you tell

anyonehe’dbeenmissingformore than a fortnight, MrStrike?’‘Whydidn’tyounotifythe

police?’Strikestrodeinsilence,his

hands in his pockets and hisexpression grim. Theyscurried along beside him,trying to make him talk, apair of razor-beaked seagullsdive-bombing a fishing

trawler.‘Trying to show them up

again,MrStrike?’‘Get one over on the

police?’‘Publicity good for

business,MrStrike?’Hehadboxedinthearmy.

Inhisimaginationhewheeledaround and delivered a lefthook to the floating rib area,so that the little shitcrumpled…‘Taxi!’heshouted.

Flash,flash,flashwentthecamera as he got into it;thankfully the lights aheadturned green, the taximovedsmoothlyawayfromthekerband they gave up runningafterafewsteps.Fuckers, Strike thought,

glancingoverhisshoulderasthe taxi rounded a corner.SomebastardattheMetmusthave tipped them off that hehadfoundthebody.Itwouldnot have been Anstis, who

hadheldbacktheinformationfrom the official statement,but one of the embitteredbastards who had notforgivenhimforLulaLandry.‘You famous?’ asked the

cabbie, staring at him in therear-viewmirror.‘No,’ said Strike shortly.

‘Drop me at Oxford Circus,willyou?’Disgruntledatsuchashort

fare, the cabbie mutteredunderhisbreath.

Strike took out his mobileandtextedRobinagain.

2journalistsoutsidedoorwhenIleft.SayyouworkforCrowdy.

ThenhecalledAnstis.‘Bob.’‘I’ve just been

doorstepped. They know Ifoundthebody.’‘How?’‘You’reaskingme?’

Apause.‘It was always going to

come out, Bob, but I didn’tgiveittothem.’‘Yeah, I saw the “family

friend”line.They’retryingtomakeout Ididn’t tellyou lotbecause I wanted thepublicity.’‘Mate,Inever—’‘Be good to have that

rebuttedbyanofficialsource,Rich.MudsticksandI’vegotalivelihoodtomakehere.’

‘I’ll get it done,’ promisedAnstis. ‘Listen, why don’tyou come over for dinnertonight? Forensics have gotbackwiththeirfirstthoughts;begoodtotalkitover.’‘Yeah, great,’ said Strike

asthetaxiapproachedOxfordCircus.‘Whattime?’

He remained standing on theTube train, because sittingmeanthaving togetupagainand that put more strain on

his sore knee. As he wasgoing through Royal Oak hefelt hismobile buzz and sawtwo texts, the first from hissisterLucy.

ManyHappyReturns,Stick!Xxx

He had completely

forgotten that today was hisbirthday. He opened thesecondtext.

HiCormoran,thanksforwarningaboutjournos,justmetthem,they’restillhangingroundtheoutsidedoor.Seeyoulater.Rx

Grateful that the day was

temporarily dry, Strikereached theQuine house justbefore ten. It looked just asdingyanddepressinginweaksunlightasithadthelasttimehe had visited, but with a

difference:therewasapoliceofficerstandinginfrontofit.He was a tall young copperwith a pugnacious-lookingchin andwhenhe sawStrikewalkingtowardshimwiththeghostofalimp,hiseyebrowscontracted.‘Can I ask who you are,

sir?’‘Yeah, I expect so,’ said

Strike,walking past him andringing thedoorbell.Anstis’sdinner invitation

notwithstanding, he was notfeeling sympathetic to thepolice just now. ‘Should bejust about within yourcapabilities.’The door opened and

Strike found himself face tofacewitha tall,ganglinggirlwith sallow skin, a mop ofcurlylightbrownhair,awidemouth and an ingenuousexpression. Her eyes, whichwereaclear,palegreen,werelarge and set far apart. She

waswearingwhatwas eithera long sweatshirt or a shortdress that ended above bonyknees and fluffy pink socks,and she was cradling a largeplush orang-utan to her flatchest.ThetoyapehadVelcroattachments on its paws andwashangingaroundherneck.‘Hullo,’ she said. She

swayed very gently, side toside, putting weight first ononefoot,thenontheother.‘Hello,’ said Strike. ‘Are

youOrlan—?’‘Can I have your name,

please, sir?’ asked the youngpolicemanloudly.‘Yeah, all right – if I can

ask why you’re standingoutside this house,’ saidStrikewithasmile.‘There’s been press

interest,’ said the youngpoliceman.‘A man came,’ said

Orlando, ‘and with a cameraandMumsaid—’

‘Orlando!’ called Leonorafrom inside thehouse. ‘Whatareyoudoing?’She came stumping down

the hall behind her daughter,gaunt and white-faced in anancient navy blue dress withitshemhangingdown.‘Oh,’ she said, ‘it’s you.

Comein.’As he stepped over the

threshold,Strikesmiledatthepoliceman,whoglaredback.‘What’s your name?’

Orlando asked Strike as thefront door closed behindthem.‘Cormoran,’hesaid.‘That’safunnyname.’‘Yeah, it is,’ said Strike

andsomethingmadehimadd,‘Iwasnamedafteragiant.’‘That’s funny,’ said

Orlando,swaying.‘Go in,’ said Leonora

curtly, pointing Striketowards the kitchen. ‘I needtheloo.Bewithyouinamo.’

Strike proceeded down thenarrow hallway. The door ofthe studywas closed and, hesuspected,stilllocked.Onreachingthekitchenhe

discoveredtohissurprisethathe was not the only visitor.Jerry Waldegrave, the editorfrom Roper Chard, wassitting at the kitchen table,clutching a bunch of flowersin sombre purples and blues,his pale face anxious. Asecondbunchofflowers,still

in its cellophane, protrudedfrom a sink half filled withdirty crockery. Supermarketbagsoffoodsatunpackedonthesides.‘Hi,’ said Waldegrave,

scrambling to his feet andblinking earnestly at Strikethrough his horn-rimmedglasses. Evidently he did notrecognise the detective fromtheirpreviousmeetingonthedark roof garden because heasked, as he held out his

hand,‘Areyoufamily?’‘Familyfriend,’saidStrike

astheyshookhands.‘Terrible thing,’ said

Waldegrave. ‘Had to comeand see if I could doanything. She’s been in thebathroom ever since Iarrived.’‘Right,’saidStrike.Waldegrave resumed his

seat.Orlandoedgedcrabwiseinto the dark kitchen,cuddling her furry orang-

utan. A very long minutepassedwhileOrlando,clearlythemostatease,unabashedlystaredatbothofthem.‘You’vegotnicehair,’she

announced at last to JerryWaldegrave. ‘It’s like ahairstack.’‘I suppose it is,’ said

Waldegraveandhe smiledather.Sheedgedoutagain.Another brief silence

followed, during whichWaldegravefidgetedwiththe

flowers, his eyes dartingaroundthekitchen.‘Can’t believe it,’ he said

atlast.They heard the loud

flushingofatoiletupstairs,athumping on the stairs, andLeonora returned withOrlandoatherheels.‘Sorry,’shesaidtothetwo

men.‘I’mabitupset.’Itwasobviousthatshewas

referringtoherstomach.‘Look,Leonora,’saidJerry

Waldegrave in an agony ofawkwardness, getting to hisfeet, ‘I don’twant to intrudewhen you’ve got your friendhere—’‘Him? He’s not a friend,

he’s a detective,’ saidLeonora.‘Sorry?’Strike remembered that

Waldegrave was deaf in oneear.‘He’s called a name like a

giant,’saidOrlando.

‘He’s a detective,’ saidLeonora loudly, over herdaughter.‘Oh,’ said Waldegrave,

taken aback. ‘I didn’t – why—?’‘Cos I need one,’ said

Leonora shortly. ‘The policethinkIdoneittoOwen.’There was a silence.

Waldegrave’sdiscomfortwaspalpable.‘My daddy died,’ Orlando

informed the room.Her gaze

wasdirectandeager,seekinga reaction. Strike, who feltthat something was requiredofoneofthem,said:‘Iknow.It’sverysad.’‘Edna said it was sad,’

replied Orlando, as thoughshehadhoped for somethingmore original, and she slidoutoftheroomagain.‘Sit down,’ Leonora

invited the two men. ‘Theyfor me?’ she added,indicating the flowers in

Waldegrave’shand.‘Yes,’ he said, fumbling a

littleashehanded themoverbut remaining on his feet.‘Look,Leonora, Idon’twantto take up any of your timejustnow,youmustbesobusywith–witharrangementsand—’‘They won’t let me have

his body,’ said Leonorawithdevastating honesty, ‘so Ican’t make no arrangementsyet.’

‘Oh, and there’s a card,’saidWaldegrave desperately,feeling in his pockets.‘Here… well, if there’sanythingwecando,Leonora,anything—’‘Can’tseewhatanyonecan

do,’ said Leonora shortly,taking the envelope heproffered.Shesatdownatthetable where Strike hadalready pulled up a chair,gladtotaketheweightoffhisleg.

‘Well, I think I’ll be off,leave you to it,’ saidWaldegrave. ‘Listen,Leonora, I hate to ask at atime like this, but BombyxMori… have you got a copyhere?’‘No,’shesaid.‘Owentook

itwithhim.’‘I’msosorry,but itwould

help us if… could I have alook and see if any of it’sbeenleftbehind?’She peered up at him

through those huge, outdatedglasses.‘Police’ve taken anything

heleft,’shesaid.‘Theywentthrough the study likeadoseof salts yesterday. Locked itupandtakenthekey–Ican’tevengointheremyselfnow.’‘Oh, well, if the police

need…no,’saidWaldegrave,‘fair enough. No, I’ll seemyselfout,don’tgetup.’Hewalkedup thehall and

they heard the front door

closebehindhim.‘Dunnowhyhecame,’said

Leonora sullenly. ‘Make himfeellikehe’sdonesomethingnice,Isuppose.’Sheopenedthecardhehad

given her. There was awatercolour of violets on thefront. Inside were manysignatures.‘Being all nice now,

becausetheyfeelguilty,’saidLeonora, throwing the carddown on the Formica-topped

table.‘Guilty?’‘They never appreciated

him. You got to marketbooks,’shesaid,surprisingly.‘Yougottopromote’em.It’sup to the publishers to give’em a push. They wouldn’tnever get him on TV oranythinglikeheneeded.’Strike guessed that these

were complaints she hadlearnedfromherhusband.‘Leonora,’ he said, taking

out his notebook. ‘Is it allright if Iaskyouacoupleofquestions?’‘I s’pose. I don’t know

nothing,though.’‘Have you heard from

anyone who spoke to Owenor sawhim after he left hereonthefifth?’Sheshookherhead.‘Nofriends,nofamily?’‘Noone,’shesaid. ‘D’you

wantacupoftea?’‘Yeah, that’d be great,’

saidStrike,whodidnotmuchfancy anything made in thisgrubbykitchen,butwantedtokeephertalking.‘Howwelld’youknowthe

people atOwen’spublisher?’heaskedoverthenoisyfillingofthekettle.Sheshrugged.‘Hardly at all. Met that

Jerry when Owen done abooksigningonce.’‘You’re not friendly with

anyoneatRoperChard?’

‘No. Why would I be? ItwasOwenworkedwiththem,notme.’‘And you haven’t read

Bombyx Mori, have you?’Strikeaskedhercasually.‘I’ve toldyou thatalready.

I don’t like reading ’em tillthey’re published. Why’severyone keep asking methat?’ she said, looking upfromtheplasticbaginwhichshe had been rummaging forbiscuits.

‘Whatwas thematterwiththe body?’ she demandedsuddenly. ‘Whathappened tohim? They won’t tell me.They took his toothbrush forDNA to identify him. Whywon’ttheyletmeseehim?’He had dealt with this

question before, from otherwives, from distraughtparents. He fell back, as sooftenbefore,onpartialtruth.‘He’d been lying there for

awhile,’hesaid.

‘Howlong?’‘Theydon’tknowyet.’‘Howwasitdone?’‘I don’t think they know

thatexactly,yet.’‘Buttheymust…’She fell silent as Orlando

shuffled back into the room,clutching not just her plushorang-utanbutalsoasheafofbrightlycoloureddrawings.‘Where’sJerrygone?’‘Back to work,’ said

Leonora.

‘He’sgotnicehair.Idon’tlike your hair,’ she toldStrike.‘It’sfuzzy.’‘I don’t like it much,

either,’hesaid.‘He don’t want to look at

picturesnow,Dodo,’saidhermother impatiently, butOrlando ignored her motherand spread her paintings outonthetableforStriketosee.‘Ididthem.’They were recognisably

flowers, fish and birds. A

child’s menu could be readthrough the back of one ofthem.‘They’re very good,’ said

Strike.‘Leonora,d’youknowifthepolicefoundanybitsofBombyx Mori yesterday,when they searched thestudy?’‘Yeah,’ she said, dropping

teabags into chipped mugs.‘Two old typewriter ribbons;they’d fallen down the backof the desk. They come out

andaskmewhere the restof’emwere;Isaid,hetook’emwhenhewent.’‘I like Daddy’s study,’

announcedOrlando, ‘becausehe gives me paper fordrawing.’‘It’sa tip, that study,’ said

Leonora, switching the kettleon. ‘Took ’em ages to lookthrougheverything.’‘AuntieLizwent in there,’

saidOrlando.‘When?’ asked Leonora,

glaring at her daughter withtwomugsinherhands.‘When she came and you

were in the loo,’ saidOrlando. ‘She walked intoDaddy’sstudy.Iseenher.’‘Shedon’thavenorightto

go in there,’ said Leonora.‘Wasshepokingaround?’‘No,’ said Orlando. ‘She

just walked in and then shewalked out and she saw mean’shewascrying.’‘Yeah,’ said Leonora with

a satisfied air. ‘She wastearful with me an’ all.Anotheronefeelingguilty.’‘Whendidshecomeover?’

StrikeaskedLeonora.‘First thing Monday,’ said

Leonora. ‘Wanted to see ifshe could help. Help! She’sdoneenough.’Strike’s tea was so weak

andmilkyitlookedasthoughithadneverknowna teabag;hispreferencewasforabrewthe colourof creosote.Ashe

took a polite, token sip, heremembered ElizabethTassel’s avowed wish thatQuine had died when herDobermannbithim.‘I like her lipstick,’

announcedOrlando.‘You like everyone’s

everything today,’ saidLeonoravaguely,sittingbackdown with her own mug ofweak tea. ‘I asked her whyshe done it, why she toldOwenhecouldn’tpublishhis

book, and upset him likethat.’‘And what did she say?’

askedStrike.‘That he’s gone and put a

loadofrealpeopleinit,’saidLeonora. ‘I dunno whythey’re so upset about that.He always does it.’ Shesipped her tea. ‘He’s putmeinloadsof’em.’Strike thought of Succuba,

the ‘well-worn whore’, andfound himself despising

OwenQuine.‘Iwantedtoaskyouabout

TalgarthRoad.’‘Idon’tknowwhyhewent

there,’ she said immediately.‘He hated it. He wanted tosell it for years but thatFancourtwouldn’t.’‘Yeah, I’ve been

wonderingaboutthat.’Orlando had slid onto the

chairbesidehim,onebarelegtwistedunderneathherassheaddedvibrantly coloured fins

to a picture of a large fishwith a pack of crayons sheappearedtohavepulledfromthinair.‘How come Michael

Fancourt’sbeenabletoblockthesalealltheseyears?’‘It’s something to do with

howitwasleftto’embythatbloke Joe. Something abouthow it was to be used. Idunno. You’d have to askLiz,sheknowsallaboutit.’‘When was the last time

Owen was there, do youknow?’‘Years ago,’ she said. ‘I

dunno.Years.’‘I want more paper to

draw,’Orlandoannounced.‘I haven’t got any more,’

said Leonora. ‘It’s all inDaddy’s study.Use the backofthis.’She seized a circular from

the cluttered work surfaceandpusheditacrossthetableto Orlando, but her daughter

shoved it away and left thekitchenatalanguidwalk,theorang-utanswingingfromherneck. Almost at once theyheard her trying to force thedoorofthestudy.‘Orlando, no!’ barked

Leonora, jumping up andhurrying into the hall. Striketook advantage of herabsencetoleanbackandpouraway most of his milky teainto the sink; it spattereddown the bouquet clinging

traitorouslytothecellophane.‘No, Dodo. You can’t do

that.No.We’renotallowed–we’re not allowed, get off it—’A high-pitched wail and

then a loud thuddingproclaimed Orlando’s flightupstairs. Leonora reappearedin the kitchenwith a flushedface.‘I’ll be paying for that all

day now,’ she said. ‘She’sunsettled. Don’t like the

policehere.’Sheyawnednervously.‘Have you slept?’ Strike

asked.‘Not much. Cos I keep

thinking,Who? Who’d do itto him? He upsets people, Iknow that,’ she saiddistractedly, ‘but that’s justhow he is. Temperamental.He gets angry over littlethings.He’salwaysbeenlikethat, he don’tmean anythingbyit.Who’dkillhimforthat?

‘Michael Fancourt muststillhaveakeytothehouse,’she went on, twisting herfingers together as shejumped subject. ‘I thoughtthatlastnightwhenIcouldn’tsleep. I know MichaelFancourt don’t like him, butthat’s ages ago. Anyway,Owen never did that thingMichaelsaidhedid.Heneverwrote it. But MichaelFancourt wouldn’t killOwen.’ She looked up at

Strike with clear eyes asinnocent as her daughter’s.‘He’s rich, isn’t he?Famous…hewouldn’t.’Strike had always

marvelled at the strangesanctity conferred uponcelebritiesbythepublic,evenwhile the newspapersdenigrated, hunted orhounded them. No matterhow many famous peoplewere convicted of rape ormurder, still the belief

persisted, almost pagan in itsintensity:nothim. Itcouldn’tbehim.He’sfamous.‘And that bloody Chard,’

burst out Leonora, ‘sendingOwen threatening letters.Owen never liked him. Andthen he signs the card andsays if there’s anything hecando…where’sthatcard?’The card with the picture

of violets had vanished fromthetable.‘She’s got it,’ said

Leonora, flushing angrily.‘She’s taken it.’ And soloudly that it made Strikejump she bellowed ‘DODO!’attheceiling.It was the irrational anger

of a person in the first rawstages of grief and, like herupset stomach, revealed justhow she was sufferingbeneaththesurlysurface.‘DODO!’ shoutedLeonora

again. ‘What have I told youabouttakingthingsthatdon’t

belong—?’Orlando reappeared with

startling suddenness in thekitchen, still cuddling herorang-utan. She must havecrept back down withoutthem hearing, as quiet as acat.‘You took my card!’ said

Leonora angrily. ‘What haveItoldyouabouttakingthingsthat don’t belong to you?Whereisit?’‘I like the flowers,’ said

Orlando, producing theglossy but now crumpledcard, which her mothersnatchedfromher.‘It’s mine,’ she told her

daughter. ‘See,’ shewenton,addressing Strike andpointing to the longesthandwritten message, whichwas in precise copperplate:‘“Do letme know if there isanything you need. DanielChard.”Bloodyhypocrite.’‘Daddy didn’t like

Dannulchar,’ said Orlando.‘Hetoldme.’‘He’sabloodyhypocrite,I

know that,’ said Leonora,who was squinting at theothersignatures.‘Hegivemeapaintbrush,’

said Orlando, ‘after hetouchedme.’Therewasashort,pregnant

silence.Leonoralookedupather. Strike had frozen withhismughalfwaytohislips.‘What?’

‘Ididn’t likehim touchingme.’‘What are you talking

about?Whotouchedyou?’‘AtDaddy’swork.’‘Don’t talk so silly,’ said

hermother.‘WhenDaddytookmeand

Isaw—’‘He took her in a month

agoormore,becauseIhadadoctor’s appointment,’LeonoratoldStrike,flustered,on edge. ‘I don’t knowwhat

she’sonabout.’‘… and I saw the pictures

forbooksthattheyputon,allcoloured,’ said Leonora, ‘an’Dannulchardidtouch—’‘Youdon’tevenknowwho

Daniel Chard is,’ saidLeonora.‘He’s got no hair,’ said

Orlando. ‘And after Daddytookme tosee the ladyan’ Igavehermybestpicture.Shehadnicehair.’‘What lady?What are you

talking—?’‘WhenDannulchartouched

me,’saidOrlandoloudly.‘HetouchedmeandIshoutedandafter he gave me apaintbrush.’‘You don’t want to go

roundsayingthingslikethat,’saidLeonoraandherstrainedvoice cracked. ‘Aren’t we inenough – Don’t be stupid,Orlando.’Orlando grew very red in

the face. Glaring at her

mother, she left the kitchen.This time she slammed thedoor hard behind her; it didnot close, but bounced openagain. Strike heard herstampingupthestairs;afterafew steps she startedshriekingincomprehensibly.‘Now she’s upset,’ said

Leonora dully, and tearstoppled out of her pale eyes.Strike reached over to theragged kitchen roll on theside, ripped some off and

pressed it into her hand. Shecried silently, her thinshouldersshaking,andStrikesat in silence, drinking thedregsofhishorribletea.‘Met Owen in a pub,’ she

mumbled unexpectedly,pushing up her glasses andblottingherwetface.‘Hewasthereforthefestival.Hay-on-Wye.I’dneverheardofhim,but I could tell he wassomeone,wayhewasdressedandtalking.’

And a faint glow of heroworship, almost extinguishedby years of neglect andunhappiness, of putting upwithhisairsandtantrums,oftrying to pay the bills andcarefor theirdaughter in thisshabby little house, flickeredagain behind her tired eyes.Perhaps it had rekindledbecause her hero, like all thebest heroes, was dead;perhaps it would burn forever now, like an eternal

flame, and she would forgettheworstandcherishtheideaofhimshehadonce loved…aslongasshedidnotreadhisfinalmanuscript, andhisviledepictionofher…‘Leonora, I wanted to ask

you something else,’ Strikesaid gently, ‘and then I’ll beoff. Have you had anymoredog excrement through yourletterboxinthelastweek?’‘In the last week?’ she

repeatedthickly,stilldabbing

her eyes. ‘Yeah.Tuesdaywedid, I think. Or Wednesday,was it? But yeah. One moretime.’‘And have you seen the

woman you thought wasfollowingyou?’She shook her head,

blowinghernose.‘Maybe I imagined it, I

dunno…’‘And are you all right for

money?’‘Yeah,’ she said, blotting

her eyes. ‘Owen had lifeinsurance.Imadehimtakeitout,cosofOrlando.Sowe’llbeallright.Edna’sofferedtolend me till it comesthrough.’‘Then I’ll be off,’ said

Strike, pushing himself backtohisfeet.She trailed him up the

dingy hall, still sniffing, andbefore the door had closedbehind him he heard hercalling:

‘Dodo!Dodo, comedown,Ididn’tmeanit!’The young policeman

outside stood partiallyblocking Strike’s path. Helookedangry.‘I know who you are,’ he

said. His mobile phone wasstill clutched in his hand.‘You’reCormoranStrike.’‘No flies on you, are

there?’ said Strike. ‘Out ofthewaynow,sonny,someofus have got proper work to

do.’

22

… what murderer, hell-hound,devilcanthisbe?BenJonson,Epicoene,orTheSilentWoman

Forgettingthatgettingupwasthe difficult part when hiskneewassore,Strikedropped

intoacornerseatontheTubetrainandrangRobin.‘Hi,’ he said, ‘have those

journalistsgone?’‘No, they’re still hanging

round outside.You’re on thenews,didyouknow?’‘I saw theBBCwebsite. I

rangAnstisandaskedhimtohelp play down the stuffaboutme.Hashe?’He heard her fingers

tappingonthekeyboard.‘Yeah, he’s quoted: “DI

RichardAnstishasconfirmedrumours that the body wasfound by private investigatorCormoran Strike, who madenews earlier this year whenhe—”’‘Nevermindthatbit.’‘“Mr Strikewas employed

by the family to find MrQuine,who oftenwent awaywithout informing anyone ofhiswhereabouts.MrStrikeisnot under suspicion andpolice are satisfied with his

account of the discovery ofthebody.”’‘Good old Dickie,’ said

Strike. ‘This morning theywere implying I concealbodies to drum up business.Surprised the press are thisinterested in a dead fifty-eight-year-old has-been. It’snotasthoughtheyknowhowgrislythekillingwasyet.’‘It isn’t Quine who’s got

them interested,’ Robin toldhim.‘It’syou.’

ThethoughtgaveStrikenopleasure.Hedidnotwanthisface in the papers or on thetelevision. The photographsof him that had appeared inthewake of theLulaLandrycase had been small (roomhadbeenrequiredforpicturesof the stunning model,preferably partially clothed);his dark, surly features didnotreproducewellinsmudgynewsprint and he hadmanaged to avoid a full-face

pictureasheenteredcourt togive evidence againstLandry’s killer. They haddredged up old photographsof him in uniform, but thesehad been years old,when hehad been several stonelighter. Nobody hadrecognised him onappearance alone since hisbriefburstoffameandhehadno wish to further endangerhisanonymity.‘I don’twant to run into a

bunch of hacks. Not,’ headded wryly, as his kneethrobbed, ‘that I could run ifyoupaidme.Couldyoumeetme—’Hisfavouritelocalwasthe

Tottenham, but he did notwant to expose it to thepossibility of future pressincursions.‘—in the Cambridge in

aboutfortyminutes?’‘Noproblem,’shesaid.Only afterhehadhungup

did it occur to Strike, first,that he ought to have askedafter the bereaved Matthew,and second, that he ought tohave asked her to bring hiscrutches.Thenineteenth-centurypub

stood on Cambridge Circus.Strike found Robin upstairsonaleatherbanquetteamongbrass chandeliers and gilt-framedmirrors.‘Are you all right?’ she

askedinconcernashelimped

towardsher.‘Forgot I didn’t tell you,’

he said, lowering himselfgingerly into the chairopposite herwith a groan. ‘Iknackeredmy knee again onSunday, trying to catch awoman who was followingme.’‘Whatwoman?’‘She tailed me from

Quine’s house to the Tubestation,where I fellover likea tit and she took off. She

matches the description of awoman Leonora says hasbeen hanging around sinceQuine disappeared. I couldreallyuseadrink.’‘I’llget it,’saidRobin,‘as

it’s your birthday. And I gotyouapresent.’She lifted onto the table a

small basket covered incellophane, adorned withribbon and containingCornishfoodanddrink:beer,cider,sweetsandmustard.He

feltridiculouslytouched.‘You didn’t have to do

that…’Butshewasalreadyoutof

earshot,at thebar.Whenshereturned, carrying a glass ofwine and a pint of LondonPride, he said, ‘Thanks verymuch.’‘You’re welcome. So do

you think this strangewoman’s been watchingLeonora’shouse?’Strike took a long,

welcomepullonhispint.‘And possibly putting dog

shit through her front door,yeah,’saidStrike.‘Ican’tseewhat she had to gain fromfollowingme, though, unlessshe thought I was going toleadhertoQuine.’Hewincedasheraisedthe

damaged leg onto a stoolunderthetable.‘I’m supposed to be doing

surveillance on Brocklehurstand Burnett’s husband this

week. Great bloody time toknackermyleg.’‘I could follow them for

you.’The excited offer was out

of Robin’smouth before sheknew it, but Strike gave noevidenceofhavingheardher.‘How’sMatthewdoing?’‘Not great,’ said Robin.

ShecouldnotdecidewhetherStrike had registered hersuggestionornot.‘He’sgonehome to bewith his dad and

sister.’‘Masham,isn’tit?’‘Yes.’ She hesitated, then

said:‘We’regoingtohavetopostponethewedding.’‘Sorry.’Sheshrugged.‘We couldn’t do it so

soon… it’s been a horribleshockforthefamily.’‘Did you get onwell with

Matthew’s mother?’ Strikeasked.‘Yes, of course. She

was…’But in fact, Mrs Cunliffe

had always been difficult; ahypochondriac, or so Robinhad thought. She had beenfeelingguiltyaboutthatinthelasttwenty-fourhours.‘… lovely,’ said Robin.

‘So how’s poor Mrs Quinedoing?’Strikedescribedhisvisitto

Leonora, including the briefappearance of JerryWaldegrave and his

impressionsofOrlando.‘What exactly’s wrong

withher?’Robinasked.‘Learning difficulties they

callit,don’tthey?’He paused, remembering

Orlando’s ingenuous smile,hercuddlyorang-utan.‘She said something

strangewhileIwasthereandit seemed to be news to hermother.She toldus shewentinto work with her fatheronce, and that the head of

Quine’s publisher touchedher.NameofDanielChard.’He saw reflected in

Robin’s face theunacknowledgedfear that thewords had conjured back inthedingykitchen.‘How,touchedher?’‘She wasn’t specific. She

said,“Hetouchedme”and“Idon’t like being touched”.And that he gave her apaintbrush after he’ddone it.It might not be that,’ said

Strike in response toRobin’sloaded silence, her tenseexpression. ‘He might’veaccidentallyknocked intoherand given her something toplacate her. She kept goingoffononewhile Iwas there,shrieking because she didn’tget what she wanted or hermumhadagoather.’Hungry, he tore open the

cellophane on Robin’s gift,pulledoutachocolatebarandunwrappeditwhileRobinsat

inthoughtfulsilence.‘Thing is,’ said Strike,

breaking the silence, ‘Quineimplied inBombyxMori thatChard’s gay. I think that’swhathe’ssaying,anyway.’‘Hmm,’ said Robin,

unimpressed. ‘And do youbelieve everything Quinewroteinthatbook?’‘Well, judging by the fact

thatheset lawyersonQuine,it upset Chard,’ said Strike,breakingoffa largechunkof

chocolateandputtingitinhismouth. ‘Mind you,’ hecontinued thickly, ‘theChardinBombyxMori’samurderer,possibly a rapist and hisknob’s fallingoff, so thegaystuff might not have beenwhatgothisgoat.’‘It’s a constant theme in

Quine’s work, sexualduality,’ said Robin andStrikestaredather,chewing,his brows raised. ‘I nippedinto Foyles on the way to

work and bought a copy ofHobart’sSin,’ she explained.‘It’s all about ahermaphrodite.’Strikeswallowed.‘He must’ve had a thing

about them; there’s one inBombyx Mori too,’ he said,examining the cardboardcoveringofhischocolatebar.‘This was made in Mullion.That’s down the coast fromwhere I grew up… How’sHobart’sSin–anygood?’

‘Iwouldn’tbefussedaboutreading past the first fewpagesif itsauthorhadn’t justbeen murdered,’ admittedRobin.‘Probably do wonders for

his sales, getting bumpedoff.’‘My point is,’ Robin

pressed on doggedly, ‘thatyou can’t necessarily trustQuinewhenitcomestootherpeople’s sex lives, becausehis characters all seem to

sleep with anyone andanything.I lookedhimuponWikipedia. One of the keyfeatures of his books is howcharacters keep swappingtheir gender or sexualorientation.’‘BombyxMori’s like that,’

grunted Strike, helpinghimself to more chocolate.‘Thisisgood,wantabit?’‘I’m supposed to be on a

diet,’ said Robin sadly. ‘Forthewedding.’

Strike did not think sheneeded to lose anyweight atall, but said nothing as shetookapiece.‘I’ve been thinking,’ said

Robin diffidently, ‘about thekiller.’‘Alwayskeentohearfrom

thepsychologist.Goon.’‘I’m not a psychologist,’

shehalflaughed.Shehaddroppedoutofher

psychology degree. Strikehad never pressed her for an

explanation,norhadsheevervolunteered one. It wassomething they had incommon, dropping out ofuniversity. He had left whenhis mother had died of amysterious overdose and,perhaps because of this, hehad always assumed thatsomething traumatic hadmadeRobinleavetoo.‘I’ve just been wondering

why they tied his murder soobviouslytothebook.Onthe

surface it looks like adeliberate act of revenge andmalice, to show the worldthat Quine got what hedeservedforwritingit.’‘Looks like that,’ agreed

Strike,whowas still hungry;he reached over to aneighbouring table andplucked a menu off it. ‘I’mgoingtohavesteakandchips,wantsomething?’Robin chose a salad at

random and then, to spare

Strike’s knee,went up to thebartogivetheirorder.‘But on the other hand,’

Robincontinued,sittingbackdown, ‘copy-catting the lastsceneof thebookcouldhaveseemed like a good way ofconcealingadifferentmotive,couldn’tit?’She was forcing herself to

speak matter-of-factly, asthough they were discussingan abstract problem, butRobin had not been able to

forgetthepicturesofQuine’sbody: the dark cavern of thegouged-outtorso,theburned-out crevices where once hadbeen mouth and eyes. If shethought aboutwhat had beendone toQuine toomuch, sheknew that she might not beable to eat her lunch, or thatshe might somehow betrayherhorrortoStrike,whowaswatching her with adisconcertingly shrewdexpressioninhisdarkeyes.

‘It’sallrighttoadmitwhathappened to him makes youwant to puke,’ he saidthrough a mouthful ofchocolate.‘It doesn’t,’ she lied

automatically. Then, ‘Well,obviously – I mean, it washorrific—’‘Yeah,itwas.’If he had been back with

his SIB colleagues he wouldhave been making jokesabout itbynow.Strikecould

remember many afternoonsladen with pitch-blackhumour: itwas the onlywayto get through certaininvestigations. Robin,however, was not yet readyfor professionally callousself-defence and her attemptatdispassionatediscussionofa man whose guts had beentornoutprovedit.‘Motive’s a bitch, Robin.

Nine times out of ten youonly find out why when

you’ve found out who. It’smeans and opportunity wewant. Personally,’ he took agulp of beer, ‘I think wemightbelookingforsomeonewithmedicalknowledge.’‘Medical—?’‘Or anatomical. It didn’t

look amateur, what they didto Quine. They could’vehacked him to bits, trying toremove the intestines, but Icouldn’t see any false starts:oneclean,confidentincision.’

‘Yes,’ said Robin,struggling to maintain herobjective, clinical manner.‘That’strue.’‘Unlesswe’redealingwith

someliterarymaniacwhojustgotholdofagoodtextbook,’mused Strike. ‘Seems astretch,butyoudon’tknow…Ifhewastiedupanddruggedand they had enough nerve,they might’ve been able totreat it like a biologylesson…’

Robin could not restrainherself.‘I know you always say

motive’s for lawyers,’ shesaid a little desperately(Strike had repeated thismaximmany times since shehad come to work for him),‘but humour me for amoment.Thekillermusthavefelt that to murder Quine inthesamewayasthebookwasworth it for some reason thatoutweighed the obvious

disadvantages—’‘Whichwere?’‘Well,’ said Robin, ‘the

logistical difficulties ofmaking it such an – anelaboratekilling,andthefactthat the pool of suspectswould be confined to peoplewho’vereadthebook—’‘Or heard about it in

detail,’ said Strike, ‘and yousay “confined”, but I’m notsurewe’re lookingatasmallnumber of people. Christian

Fishermadeithisbusinesstospread the contents of thebookasfarandaswideashecould.RoperChard’scopyofthemanuscript was in a safeto which half the companyseemstohavehadaccess.’‘But…’saidRobin.She broke off as a sullen

barman came over to dumpcutlery and paper napkins ontheirtable.‘But,’ she resumed when

he had sloped away, ‘Quine

can’t have been killed thatrecently,canhe?Imean,I’mnoexpert…’‘Nor am I,’ said Strike,

polishing off the last of thechocolate and contemplatingthe peanut brittle with lessenthusiasm,‘butIknowwhatyoumean. That body lookedasthoughithadbeenthereatleastaweek.’‘Plus,’ said Robin, ‘there

must have been a time lagbetweenthemurdererreading

Bombyx Mori and actuallykillingQuine.Therewasalotto organise. They had to getropes and acid and crockeryintoanuninhabitedhouse…’‘And unless they already

knew he was planning to gotoTalgarthRoad,theyhadtotrack Quine down,’ saidStrike, deciding against thepeanut brittle because hissteak and chips wereapproaching, ‘or lure himthere.’

The barman set downStrike’s plate and Robin’sbowl of salad, greeted theirthanks with an indifferentgruntandretreated.‘Sowhenyoufactor in the

planning and practicalities, itdoesn’tseempossiblethatthekillercanhaveread thebookany later than two or threedays after Quine wentmissing,’ said Strike, loadingup his fork. ‘Trouble is, thefurther back we set the

moment when the killerstarted plotting Quine’smurder,theworseitlooksformyclient.AllLeonorahadtodo was walk a few steps upher hall; the manuscript washers for the reading as soonasQuinefinishedit.Cometothink of it, he could’ve toldher how he was planning toenditmonthsago.’Robinatehersaladwithout

tastingit.‘And does Leonora Quine

seem…’ she begantentatively.‘Like the kind of woman

who’d disembowel herhusband? No, but the policefancy her and if you’relooking for motive, she’slousywith it. Hewas a craphusband: unreliable,adulterous and he likeddepicting her in disgustingwaysinhisbooks.’‘Youdon’tthinkshedidit,

doyou?’

‘No,’ Strike said, ‘butwe’re going to need a lotmorethanmyopiniontokeepheroutofjail.’Robin took their empty

glasses back to the bar forrefills without asking; Strikefeltveryfondofherasshesetanotherpintinfrontofhim.‘We’ve also got to look at

thepossibility that somebodygot the wind up that Quinewas going to self-publishovertheinternet,’saidStrike,

shovelling chips into hismouth, ‘a threat he allegedlymade to a packed restaurant.That might constitute amotive for killing Quine,undertherightconditions.’‘You mean,’ said Robin

slowly, ‘if the killerrecognised something in themanuscript that they didn’twant to get a wideraudience?’‘Exactly.Thebook’spretty

cryptic in parts. What if

Quine had found outsomething serious aboutsomebody and put a veiledreferenceinthebook?’‘Well, that would make

sense,’ said Robin slowly,‘becauseIkeepthinking,Whykill him? The fact is, nearlyall of these people hadmoreeffective means of dealingwith the problem of alibellous book, didn’t they?They could have told Quinethey wouldn’t represent it or

publishit,ortheycouldhavethreatened him with legalaction, like this Chard man.Hisdeath’sgoingtomakethesituation much worse foranyone who’s a character inthe book, isn’t it? There’salready much more publicitythan there would have beenotherwise.’‘Agreed,’ said Strike. ‘But

you’re assuming the killer’sthinkingrationally.’‘This wasn’t a crime of

passion,’ retorted Robin.‘Theyplanned it.Theyreallythoughtitthrough.Theymusthave been ready for theconsequences.’‘True again,’ said Strike,

eatingchips.‘I’vebeenhavingabitofa

look at Bombyx Mori thismorning.’‘After you got bored with

Hobart’sSin?’‘Yes…well,itwastherein

thesafeand…’

‘Read thewhole thing, themorethemerrier,’saidStrike.‘Howfardidyouget?’‘I skipped around,’ said

Robin. ‘I read the bit aboutSuccuba and the Tick. It’sspiteful,but itdoesn’tfeelasthough there’s anything…well… hidden there. He’sbasically accusing both hiswife and his agent of beingparasitesonhim,isn’the?’Strikenodded.‘Butlateron,whenyouget

to Epi – Epi – how do yousayit?’‘Epicoene? The

hermaphrodite?’‘Is that a real person, do

you think? What’s with thesinging? It doesn’t feel asthoughit’sreallysinginghe’stalkingabout,doesit?’‘And why does his

girlfriendHarpyliveinacavefull of rats? Symbolism, orsomethingelse?’‘And the bloodstained bag

over the Cutter’s shoulder,’saidRobin,‘andthedwarfhetriestodrown…’‘And thebrands in thefire

atVainglorious’shouse,’saidStrike, but she lookedpuzzled. ‘You haven’t gotthat far? But JerryWaldegraveexplained that toa bunch of us at the RoperChard party. It’s aboutMichaelFancourtandhisfirst—’Strike’s mobile rang. He

pulleditoutandsawDominicCulpepper’s name. With asmallsigh,heanswered.‘Strike?’‘Speaking.’‘What the fuck’s going

on?’Strike did not waste time

pretending not to knowwhatCulpepperwastalkingabout.‘Can’t discuss it,

Culpepper. Could prejudicethepolicecase.’‘Fuck that – we’ve got a

copper talking to us already.He says this Quine’s beenslaughteredexactlythewayabloke’s killed in his latestbook.’‘Yeah?Andhowmuchare

youpayingthestupidbastardto shoot his mouth off andscrewupthecase?’‘Bloody hell, Strike, you

getmixedupinamurderlikethisandyoudon’teventhinkofringingme?’‘I don’t know what you

think our relationship isabout,mate,’saidStrike,‘butas faras I’mconcerned, Idojobsforyouandyoupayme.That’sit.’‘I put you in touch with

Ninasoyoucouldget in thatpublisher’sparty.’‘The least you could do

after I handed you a load ofextrastuffyou’dneveraskedfor on Parker,’ said Strike,spearing stray chips with hisfree hand. ‘I could’ve

withheld that and shopped itallroundthetabloids.’‘Ifyouwantpaying—’‘No, I don’t want paying,

dickhead,’ said Strikeirritably, asRobin turnedherattentiontactfullytotheBBCwebsite on her own phone.‘I’mnot going to help screwup amurder investigation bydragging in the News of theWorld.’‘I could get you ten grand

if you throw in a personal

interview.’‘Bye,Cul—’‘Wait! Just tell me which

bookitis–theonewherehedescribesthemurder.’Strike pretended to

hesitate.‘The Brothers Balls…

Balzac,’hesaid.Smirking, he cut the call

and reached for the menu toexamine the puddings.Hopefully Culpepper wouldspend a long afternoon

wading through torturedsyntaxandpalpatedscrotums.‘Anything new?’ Strike

asked as Robin looked upfromherphone.‘Not unless you count the

DailyMailsayingthatfamilyfriends thought PippaMiddleton would make abettermarriagethanKate.’Strikefrownedather.‘I was just looking at

random things while youwere on the phone,’ said

Robin,alittledefensively.‘No,’saidStrike,‘notthat.

I’ve just remembered –Pippa2011.’‘I don’t—’ said Robin,

confused,andstillthinkingofPippaMiddleton.‘Pippa2011 – on Kathryn

Kent’s blog. She claimed tohave heard a bit of BombyxMori.’Robin gasped and set to

workonhermobile.‘It’s here!’ she said, a few

minutes later. ‘“What wouldyousayifItoldyouhe’dreadit to me”! And that was…’Robin scrolled upwards, ‘onOctober the twenty-first.October the twenty-first! Shemight’ve known the endingbefore Quine evendisappeared.’‘That’s right,’ said Strike.

‘I’m having apple crumble,wantanything?’When Robin had returned

from placing yet another

orderatthebar,Strikesaid:‘Anstis has asked me to

dinner tonight. Says he’s gotsome preliminary stuff infromforensics.’‘Does he know it’s your

birthday?’askedRobin.‘Christ, no,’ said Strike,

and he sounded so revoltedby the idea that Robinlaughed.‘Whywouldthatbebad?’‘I’ve already had one

birthday dinner,’ said Strike

darkly. ‘Best present I couldget from Anstis would be atimeofdeath.Theearliertheyset it, thesmaller thenumberof likely suspects: the oneswho got their hands on themanuscript early.Unfortunately, that includesLeonora, but you’ve got thismysterious Pippa, ChristianFisher—’‘WhyFisher?’‘Means and opportunity,

Robin: he had early access,

he’s got to go on the list.Then there’s ElizabethTassel’s assistant Ralph,Elizabeth Tassel herself andJerry Waldegrave. DanielChard presumably saw itshortly after Waldegrave.Kathryn Kent denies readingit, but I’m taking thatwith abarrel of salt. And thenthere’sMichaelFancourt.’Robinlookedup,startled.‘Howcanhe—?’Strike’smobilerangagain;

it was Nina Lascelles. Hehesitated, but the reflectionthat her cousin might havetoldherhehadjustspokentoStrike persuaded him to takethecall.‘Hi,’hesaid.‘Hi, Famous Person,’ she

said. He heard an edge,inexpertlycoveredbybreathyhigh spirits. ‘I’ve been tooscared to call you in caseyou’re being inundated withpress calls and groupies and

things.’‘Notsomuch,’saidStrike.

‘How’re things at RoperChard?’‘Insane. Nobody’s doing

anywork;it’sallwecantalkabout.Wasitreally,honestlymurder?’‘Lookslikeit.’‘God,Ican’tbelieveit…I

don’tsupposeyoucantellmeanything,though?’sheasked,barely suppressing theinterrogativenote.

‘The police won’t wantdetails getting out at thisstage.’‘Itwastodowiththebook,

wasn’t it?’shesaid.‘BombyxMori.’‘Icouldn’tsay.’‘And Daniel Chard’s

brokenhisleg.’‘Sorry?’hesaid,thrownby

thenonsequitur.‘Just so many odd things

happening,’ she said. Shesounded keyed up,

overwrought.‘Jerry’sallovertheplace.DanielranghimupfromDevonjustnowandwasyellingathimagain–halftheofficeheardbecauseJerryputhim on speakerphone byaccident and then couldn’tfind the button to turn himoff. He can’t leave hisweekendhousebecauseofhisbrokenleg.Daniel,Imean.’‘Why was he yelling at

Waldegrave?’‘Security onBombyx,’ she

said. ‘The police have got afull copy of the manuscriptfromsomewhereandDaniel’snothappyaboutit.‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I just

thought I’d ring and saycongrats – I suppose youcongratulateadetectivewhenthey find a body, or don’tyou? Call me when you’renotsobusy.’She rang off before he

couldsayanythingelse.‘NinaLascelles,’hesaidas

thewaiterreappearedwithhisapple crumble and a coffeeforRobin.‘Thegirl—’‘Who stole the manuscript

foryou,’saidRobin.‘Your memory would’ve

been wasted in HR,’ saidStrike,pickinguphisspoon.‘Are you serious about

MichaelFancourt?’sheaskedquietly.‘Course,’ said Strike.

‘Daniel Chard must’ve toldhim what Quine had done –

he wouldn’t have wantedFancourt to hear it fromanyone else, would he?Fancourt’s a majoracquisition for them. No, Ithink we’ve got to assumethatFancourtknew,earlyon,whatwasin—’NowRobin’smobilerang.‘Hi,’saidMatthew.‘Hi, how are you?’ she

askedanxiously.‘Notgreat.’Somewhere in the

background, someone turnedupthemusic:‘FirstdaythatIsaw you, thought you werebeautiful…’‘Where are you?’ asked

Matthewsharply.‘Oh… in a pub,’ said

Robin.Suddenly the air seemed

full of pub noises; clinkingglasses, raucous laughterfromthebar.‘It’sCormoran’sbirthday,’

shesaidanxiously.(Afterall,

Matthew and his colleagueswent to the pub on eachother’sbirthdays…)‘That’s nice,’ said

Matthew, sounding furious.‘I’llcallyoulater.’‘Matt,no–wait—’Mouth full of apple

crumble, Strike watched outofthecornerofhiseyeasshegotupandmovedawaytothebar without explanation,evidently trying to redialMatthew.Theaccountantwas

unhappy that his fiancée hadgone out to lunch, that shewas not sitting shiva for hismother.Robin redialled and

redialled. She got through atlast. Strike finished both hiscrumbleandhisthirdpintandrealised that he needed thebathroom.His knee, which had not

troubled him much while heate, drank and talked toRobin, complained violently

when he stood. By the timehegotbacktohisseathewassweatingalittlewiththepain.Judgingby theexpressiononher face, Robin was stilltrying to placate Matthew.Whenatlastshehungupandrejoined him, he returned ashort answer to whether ornothewasallright.‘Youknow,Icouldfollow

theBrocklehurstgirlforyou,’she offered again, ‘if yourleg’stoo—?’

‘No,’snappedStrike.He felt sore, angry with

himself, irritatedbyMatthewand suddenly a bit nauseous.He ought not to have eatenthe chocolate before havingsteak, chips, crumble andthreepints.‘I need you to go back to

the office and type upGunfrey’s last invoice. Andtext me if those bloodyjournalists are still around,because I’ll go straight from

heretoAnstis’s,iftheyare.‘We really need to be

thinking about takingsomeone else on,’ he addedunderhisbreath.Robin’s expression

hardened.‘I’ll go and get typing,

then,’ she said. She snatchedupher coat andbagand left.Strikecaughtaglimpseofherangry expression, but anirrational vexation preventedhimfromcallingherback.

23

For my part, I do notthink she hath a soul soblackToactadeedsobloody.JohnWebster,TheWhite

Devil

Anafternoon in thepubwith

his leg propped up had notmuchreducedtheswellinginStrike’s knee. After buyingpainkillersandacheapbottleofredonthewaytotheTube,he set out for Greenwichwhere Anstis lived with hiswife Helen, commonlyknownasHelly.The journeytotheirhouseinAshburnhamGrovetookhimoveranhourdue toadelayon theCentralline;hestoodthewholeway,keepinghisweightonhisleft

leg, regretting anew thehundredpoundshehadspenton taxis to and from Lucy’shouse.By the time he got off the

Docklands Light Railwayspots of rain were againpepperinghisface.Heturneduphiscollarandlimpedawayinto the darkness for whatshould have been a five-minutewalk, butwhich tookhimnearlyfifteen.Only as he turned the

corner into the neat terracedstreet with its well-tendedfront gardens did it occur toStrikethatheought,perhaps,tohavebroughtagift forhisgodson. He felt as littleenthusiasmforthesocialpartof the evening ahead as hefelt eager to discuss withAnstis the forensicinformation.StrikedidnotlikeAnstis’s

wife.Hernosinesswasbarelyconcealed beneath a

sometimescloyingwarmth;itemerged from time to timelike a flick knife flashingsuddenly from beneath a furcoat. She gushed gratitudeand solicitousness every timeStrike swam into her orbit,but he could tell that sheitched for details of hischequered past, forinformation about his rockstar father, his dead, drug-taking mother, and he couldwell imagine that she would

yearnfordetailsofhisbreak-upwithCharlotte,whomshehad always treated with aneffusiveness that failed tomaskdislikeandsuspicion.At the party following the

christening of TimothyCormoranAnstis–whichhadbeen postponed until he waseighteenmonthsold,becausehis father and his godfatherhad to be airlifted out ofAfghanistan and dischargedfrom their respective

hospitals–Hellyhadinsistedon making a tearful, tipsyspeech about how Strike hadsavedherbaby’sdaddy’slife,andhowmuchitmeanttoherto have him agree to beTimmy’sguardianangel,too.Strike,whohadnotbeenabletothinkofanyvalidreasontorefuse being the boy’sgodfather, had stared at thetableclothwhileHelly spoke,careful not to meetCharlotte’s eye in case she

made him laugh. She hadbeen wearing – heremembered it vividly – hisfavourite peacock bluewrap-over dress, which had clungto every inch of her perfectfigure.Having awoman thatbeautiful on his arm, evenwhilehewasstilloncrutches,had acted as a counterweightto the half a leg still not yetfit for a prosthesis. It hadtransformed him from theManWithOnlyOne Foot to

themanwhohadmanaged–miraculously, as he knewnearly every man who cameinto contact with her mustthink – to snag a fiancée sostunning that men stoppedtalking inmid-sentencewhensheenteredtheroom.‘Cormy, darling,’ crooned

Helly when she opened thedoor. ‘Look at you, allfamous… we thought you’dforgottenus.’Nobody else ever called

him Cormy. He had neverbothered to tell her hedislikedit.She treated him, without

encouragement, to a tenderhug that he knew wasintended to suggest pity andregret for his single status.The house was warm andbrightly lit after the hostilewinter night outside and hewas glad to see, as heextricated himself fromHelly,Anstisstrideintoview,

holding a pint of Doom Barasawelcominggift.‘Ritchie,lethimgetinside.

Honestly…’ButStrikehadacceptedthe

pint and taken severalgrateful mouthfuls before hebotheredtotakeoffhiscoat.Strike’s three-and-a-half-

year-oldgodsonburstintothehall, making shrill enginenoises. He was very like hismother,whosefeatures,smalland pretty though theywere,

wereoddlybunchedupinthemiddle of her face. Timothysported Superman pyjamasandwas swipingat thewallswithaplasticlightsaber.‘Oh, Timmy, darling,

don’t, our lovely newpaintwork… He wanted tostay up and see his UncleCormoran.Wetellhimaboutyouallthetime,’saidHelly.Strike contemplated the

small figure withoutenthusiasm, detecting very

little reciprocal interest fromhis godson.Timothywas theonlychildStrikeknewwhosebirthday he had a hope ofremembering, not that thishad ever led Strike to buyhim a present. The boy hadbeenborntwodaysbeforetheViking had exploded on thatdusty road in Afghanistan,taking with it Strike’s lowerright leg andpart ofAnstis’sface.Strike had never confided

in anyone how, during longhours in his hospital bed, hehad wondered why it hadbeen Anstis he had grabbedand pulled towards the backof the vehicle. He had goneover it in his mind: thestrange presentiment,amounting almost tocertainty, that they wereabout to explode, and thereaching out and seizing ofAnstis,whenhecouldequallyhave grabbed Sergeant Gary

Topley.Was it becauseAnstis had

spent most of the previousday Skyping Helen withinearshot of Strike, looking atthe newborn son he mightotherwise never have met?Was that why Strike’s handhad reached withouthesitation for the older man,the Territorial Armypoliceman, and not Red CapTopley, engaged butchildless? Strike did not

know.Hewasnotsentimentalaboutchildrenandhedislikedthe wife he had saved fromwidowhood.Heknewhimselfto be merely one amongmillionsofsoldiers,deadandliving, whose split-secondactions, prompted by instinctas much as training, hadforever altered other men’sfates.‘Doyouwant to readTim

his bedtime story, Cormy?We’ve got a new book,

haven’twe,Timmy?’Strike could think of little

he wanted to do less,especially if it involved thehyperactiveboysittingonhislap and perhaps kicking hisrightknee.Anstisledthewayintothe

open-plan kitchen and diningarea. The walls were cream,the floorboards bare, a longwooden table stood nearFrenchwindowsattheendofthe room, surrounded by

chairs upholstered in black.Strikehadthevagueideathatthey had been a differentcolourwhenhehadlastbeenhere, with Charlotte. Hellybustled in behind them andthrust a highly colouredpicture book into Strike’shands.He had no choice buttositdownonadining-roomchair,withhisgodsonplacedfirmlybesidehim,andtoreadthe story of Kyla theKangaroo Who Loved to

Bounce which was (as hewould not usually havenoticed) published by RoperChard. Timothy did notappear remotely interested inKyla’santicsandplayedwithhislightsaberthroughout.‘Bedtime Timmy, give

Cormyakiss,’Hellytoldherson,who,withStrike’ssilentblessing,merelywriggledoffhis chair and ran out of thekitchenyellingprotests.Hellyfollowed. Mother and son’s

raisedvoicesgrewmuffledastheythumpedupstairs.‘He’ll wake Tilly,’

predicted Anstis and, sureenough, when Hellyreappeared it was with ahowling one-year-old in herarms,whomshe thrustatherhusbandbeforeturningtotheoven.Strike sat stolidly at the

kitchen table, growingsteadilyhungrier, and feelingprofoundly grateful that he

didnothavechildren.It tooknearly three quarters of anhour for the Anstises topersuade Tilly back into herbed. At last the casserolereachedthetableand,withit,another pint of Doom Bar.StrikecouldhaverelaxedbutforthesensethatHellyAnstiswas now gearing up for theattack.‘Iwas so, so sorry to hear

aboutyouandCharlotte,’shetoldhim.

His mouth was full, so hemimed vague appreciation ofhersympathy.‘Ritchie!’ she said

playfully as her husbandmade to pour her a glass ofwine.‘Idon’tthinkso!We’reexpecting again,’ she toldStrike proudly, one hand onherstomach.Heswallowed.‘Congratulations,’ he said,

staggered that they lookedsopleased at the prospect of

anotherTimothyorTilly.Right on cue, their son

reappeared and announcedthat he was hungry. ToStrike’s disappointment, itwasAnstiswho left the tableto deal with him, leavingHellystaringbeadilyatStrikeover a forkful of boeufbourguignon.‘So she’s getting married

on the fourth. I can’t evenimagine what that feels likeforyou.’

‘Who’s getting married?’Strikeasked.Hellylookedamazed.‘Charlotte,’shesaid.Dimly, down the stairs,

camethesoundofhisgodsonwailing.‘Charlotte’s getting

married on the fourth ofDecember,’ said Helly, andwith her realisation that shewas the first to give him thenews came a look ofburgeoning excitement; but

then something in Strike’sexpressionseemedtounnerveher.‘I… I heard,’ she said,

droppinghergazetoherplateasAnstisreturned.‘Little bugger,’ he said.

‘I’ve told him I’ll smack hisbumforhimifhegetsoutofbedagain.’‘He’s just excited,’ said

Helly, who still seemedflusteredbytheangershehadsensed in Strike, ‘because

Cormy’shere.’Thecasserolehadturnedto

rubber and polystyrene inStrike’s mouth. How couldHelly Anstis know whenCharlotte was gettingmarried?TheAnstiseshardlymoved in the samecircles asher or her future husband,who (as Strike despisedhimself for remembering)wasthesonoftheFourteenthViscount of Croy. What didHelly Anstis know about the

world of private gentlemen’sclubs,ofSavileRowtailoringandcoked-upsupermodelsofwhich the Hon. Jago Rosshad been a habitué all histrust-funded life? She knewnomore than Strike himself.Charlotte, to whom it wasnative territory, had joinedStrike in a social no-man’s-land when they had beentogether, a place whereneitherwas comfortablewiththe other’s social set, where

two utterly disparate normscollided and everythingbecame a struggle forcommonground.Timothy was back in the

kitchen,cryinghard.Bothhisparentsstoodupthistimeandjointly moved him backtowards his bedroom whileStrike,hardlyawarethattheyhad gone, was left todisappear into a fug ofmemories.Charlottehadbeenvolatile

to the point that one of herstepfathers had once tried tohavehercommitted.She liedasotherwomenbreathed;shewasdamagedtohercore.Thelongest consecutive periodthat she and Strike had evermanaged together was twoyears, yet as often as theirtrust in each other hadsplintered they had beendrawn back together, eachtime (so it seemed to Strike)more fragile than they had

been before, but with thelonging for each otherstrengthening. For sixteenyearsCharlottehaddefiedthedisbelief and disdain of herfamily and friends to return,over and over again, to alarge,illegitimateandlatterlydisabledsoldier.Strikewouldhave advised any friend toleave and not look back, buthehadcometoseeherlikeavirus in his blood that hedoubted he would ever

eradicate; the best he couldhope for was to control itssymptoms. The final breachhad come eight monthspreviously,justbeforehehadbecome newsworthy throughthe Landry case. She hadfinally told an unforgivablelie, he had left her for goodand she had retreated into aworld where men still wentgrouse shooting and womenhadtiarasinthefamilyvault;aworldshehad toldhimshe

despised (although it lookedas though thathadbeena lietoo…).The Anstises returned,

minus Timothy but with asobbingandhiccuppingTilly.‘Bet you’re glad you

haven’t got any, aren’t you?’saidHelly gaily, sitting backdown at the table with Tillyon her lap. Strike grinnedhumourlessly and did notcontradicther.There had been a baby: or

moreaccuratelytheghost,thepromise of a baby and then,supposedly, the death of ababy. Charlotte had told himthatshewaspregnant,refusedto consult a doctor, changedher mind about dates, thenannounced that all was overwithout a shred of proof thatithadeverbeenreal.Itwasalie most men would havefound impossible to forgiveandforStrike ithadbeen,assurely shemust haveknown,

the lie to end all lies and thedeath of that tiny amount oftrust that had survived yearsofhermythomania.Marrying on the fourth of

December, in eleven days’time… how could HellyAnstisknow?Hewasperverselygrateful,

now, for the whining andtantrumsof the two children,which effectively disruptedconversation all through apudding of rhubarb flan and

custard. Anstis’s suggestionthattheytakefreshbeersintohis study to go over theforensic report was the bestStrikehadheardallday.Theyleft a slightly sulky Helly,who clearly felt that she hadnot had her money’s worthout of Strike, to manage thenowverysleepyTillyandtheunnervingly wide-awakeTimothy,whohadreappearedto announce that he hadspilled his drinking water all

overhisbed.Anstis’sstudywasasmall,

book-lined roomoff thehall.He offered Strike thecomputerchairandsatonanold futon. The curtains werenotdrawn;Strikecouldseeamisty rain falling like dustmotes in the light of anorangestreetlamp.‘Forensicssayit’sasharda

job as they’ve ever had,’Anstis began, and Strike’sattentionwas immediatelyall

his. ‘All this is unofficial,mind, we haven’t goteverythinginyet.’‘Havetheybeenabletotell

whatactuallykilledhim?’‘Blow to the head,’ said

Anstis. ‘The back of hisskull’s been stoved in. Itmight not’ve beeninstantaneous, but the braintraumaalonewould’vekilledhim. They can’t be sure hewasdeadwhenhewascarvedopen, but he was almost

certainlyunconscious.’‘Small mercies. Any idea

whetherhewastiedupbeforeorafterhewasknockedout?’‘There’s some argument

aboutthat.There’sapatchofskin under the ropes on oneof his wrists that’s bruised,whichtheythinkindicateshewas tied up before he waskilled, but we’ve noindication whether he wasstillconsciouswhentheropeswere put on him. The

problem is, all that bloodyacideverywhere’stakenawayany marks on the floor thatmight’veshownastruggle,orthe body being dragged. Hewasabig,heavyguy—’‘Easier tohandleifhewas

trussed up,’ agreed Strike,thinking of short, thinLeonora, ‘but it’dbegood toknowtheanglehewashitat.’‘From just above,’ said

Anstis,‘butaswedon’tknowwhether he was hit standing,

sittingorkneeling…’‘I thinkwe canbe sure he

waskilledinthatroom,’saidStrike, following his owntrain of thought. ‘I can’t seeanyone being strong enoughtocarryabodythatheavyupthosestairs.’‘The consensus is that he

diedmoreor lesson thespotwhere the body was found.That’s where the greatestconcentrationoftheacidis.’‘D’youknowwhatkindof

aciditwas?’‘Oh, didn’t I say?

Hydrochloric.’Strike struggled to

remember something of hischemistry lessons. ‘Don’tthey use that to galvanisesteel?’‘Among other things. It’s

ascaustica substanceasyoucan legally buy and it’s usedin a load of industrialprocesses. Heavy-dutycleaning agent as well. One

weird thing about it is, itoccurs naturally in humans.Inourgastricacid.’Strike sipped his beer,

considering.‘In the book, they pour

vitriolonhim.’‘Vitriol’s sulphuric acid,

andhydrochloricacidderivesfromit.Seriouslycorrosivetohumantissue–asyousaw.’‘Where the hell did the

killer get that amount of thestuff?’

‘Believe it or not, it lookslike it was already in thehouse.’‘Whythehell—?’‘Stillhaven’tfoundanyone

who can tell us. There wereempty gallon containers onthe kitchen floor, and dustycontainers of the samedescription in a cupboardunder the stairs, full of thestuff and unopened. Theycame from an industrialchemicals company in

Birmingham. There weremarksontheemptyonesthatlookedasthoughthey’dbeenmadebyglovedhands.’‘Very interesting,’ said

Strike,scratchinghischin.‘We’restilltryingtocheck

when and how they werebought.’‘What about the blunt

object that bashed his headin?’‘There’s an old-fashioned

doorstopinthestudio–solid

ironandshapedlikeone,witha handle: almost certainlythat. It fits with theimpressioninhisskull.That’shadhydrochloric acidpouredall over it like nearlyeverythingelse.’‘How’s time of death

looking?’‘Yeah, well, that’s the

tricky bit. The entomologistwon’t commit himself, saysthe condition of the corpsethrows out all the usual

calculations.The fumes fromthe hydrochloric acid alonewould’ve kept insects awayforawhile,soyoucan’tdatethedeathfrominfestation.Noself-respectingblowflywantstolayeggsinacid.Wehadamaggot or twoonbits of thebody that weren’t doused inthe stuff, but the usualinfestationdidn’toccur.‘Meanwhile, theheating in

the house had been crankedright up, so the body

might’ve rotted a bit fasterthan itwouldordinarilyhavedone in thisweather.But thehydrochloric acid would’vetended to mess with normaldecomposition. Parts of himareburnedtothebone.‘Thedecidingfactorwould

havebeen theguts, lastmealand so on, but they’d beenlifted clean out of the body.Looks like they left with thekiller,’ said Anstis. ‘I’venever heard of that being

done before, have you?Poundsofrawintestinetakenaway.’‘No,’ said Strike, ‘it’s a

newoneonme.’‘Bottom line: forensics are

refusing to committhemselves to a time frameexcept to say he’s been deadat least tendays.But Ihadaprivate word with Underhill,who’s the best of them, andhetoldmeofftherecordthathethinksQuine’sbeendeada

goodtwoweeks.Hereckons,though, even when they’vegot everything in theevidence’ll still be equivocalenough to give defendingcounselalottoplaywith.’‘What about

pharmacology?’askedStrike,his thoughts circling back toQuine’sbulk,thedifficultyofhandlingabodythatbig.‘Well, he might’ve been

drugged,’agreedAnstis. ‘Wehaven’t had blood results

backyetandwe’reanalysingthe contents of the bottles inthekitchenaswell.But’–hefinished his beer and setdowntheglasswithaflourish– ‘there’s another way hecould’vemadethingseasyfora killer. Quine liked beingtiedup–sexgames.’‘Howd’youknowthat?’‘The girlfriend,’ said

Anstis.‘KathrynKent.’‘You’ve already talked to

her,haveyou?’

‘Yep,’ said Anstis. ‘Wefound a taxi driver whopicked up Quine at nineo’clockon the fifth, acoupleof streets away from hishouse, and dropped him inLillieRoad.’‘Right by Stafford Cripps

House,’ said Strike. ‘So hewentstraightfromLeonoratothegirlfriend?’‘Well, no, he didn’t. Kent

was away, staying with herdying sister, and we’ve got

corroboration– she spent thenightatthehospice.Shesaysshe hasn’t seen him for amonth, but was surprisinglyforthcomingontheirsexlife.’‘Didyouaskfordetails?’‘I got the impression she

thought we knew more thanwe did. They came pouringoutwithoutmuchprodding.’‘Suggestive,’ said Strike.

‘Shetoldmeshe’dneverreadBombyxMori—’‘Shetoldusthattoo.’

‘—buthercharactertiesupand assaults the hero in thebook.Maybeshewanteditonrecordthatshetiespeopleupforsex,nottortureormurder.What about the copy of themanuscript Leonora says hetook awaywith him?All thenotes and the old typewriterribbons?Didyoufindthem?’‘Nope,’ saidAnstis. ‘Until

wefindoutwhetherhestayedsomewhere else before hewenttoTalgarthRoad,we’re

going to assume the killertook them. The place wasemptyexceptforabitoffoodanddrinkinthekitchenandacamping mattress andsleeping bag in one of thebedrooms.ItlookslikeQuinewas dossing down there.Hydrochloric acid’s beenpouredaround that roomtoo,alloverQuine’sbed.’‘No fingerprints?

Footprints?Unexplainedhair,mud?’

‘Nothing. We’ve still gotpeopleworkingon theplace,but the acid’s obliteratedeverything in its path. Ourpeoplearewearingmasksjustso the fumes don’t rip theirthroatsout.’‘Anyone apart from this

taxidriveradmittedtoseeingQuinesincehedisappeared?’‘Nobody’s seen him

entering Talgarth Road butwe’ve got a neighbour atnumber 183 who swears she

sawQuine leave it at one inthe morning. Early hours ofthe sixth.Theneighbourwasletting herself in after abonfire-nightparty.’‘It was dark and she was

twodoorsdown,sowhatsheactuallysawwas…?’‘Silhouette of a tall figure

inacloak,carryingaholdall.’‘A holdall,’ repeated

Strike.‘Yep,’saidAnstis.‘Didthecloakedfigureget

intoacar?’‘No,itwalkedoutofsight,

but obviously a car couldhave been parked round thecorner.’‘Anyoneelse?’‘I’ve got an old geezer in

Putney swearing he sawQuineontheeighth.Ranghislocal police station anddescribedhimaccurately.’‘WhatwasQuinedoing?’‘Buying books in the

BridlingtonBookshop,where

theblokeworks.’‘Howconvincingawitness

ishe?’‘Well, he’s old, but he

claimshecanrememberwhatQuine bought and thephysical description’s good.And we’ve got anotherwomanwho lives in the flatsacross the road from thecrimescenewhoreckonsshepassed Michael Fancourtwalking past the house, alsoonthemorningoftheeighth.

You know, that author withthebighead?Famousone?’‘Yeah, I do,’ said Strike

slowly.‘Witnessclaimsshelooked

backathimoverhershoulderand stared, because sherecognisedhim.’‘He was just walking

past?’‘Sosheclaims.’‘Anybody checked that

withFancourtyet?’‘He’sinGermany,buthe’s

said he’s happy to cooperatewith us when he gets back.Agent bending overbackwardstobehelpful.’‘Any other suspicious

activity around TalgarthRoad?Camerafootage?’‘The only camera’s at the

wrongangle for thehouse, itwatches traffic – but I’msaving the best till last.We’ve got a differentneighbour – other side, fourdoorsdown–whoswearshe

saw a fat woman in a burqaletting herself in on theafternoon of the fourth,carryingaplasticbag fromahalal takeaway. He says henoticed because the househad been empty so long. Heclaims she was there for anhour,thenleft.’‘He’s sure she was in

Quine’shouse?’‘Sohesays.’‘Andshehadakey?’‘That’shisstory.’

‘Aburqa,’ repeatedStrike.‘Bloodyhell.’‘I wouldn’t swear his

eyesight’sgreat;he’sgotverythicklensesinhisglasses.Hetold me he didn’t know ofany Muslims living in thestreet, so it had caught hisattention.’‘Sowe’ve got two alleged

sightings of Quine since hewalkedoutonhiswife:earlyhoursofthesixth,andontheeighth,inPutney.’

‘Yeah,’ said Anstis, ‘but Iwouldn’t pin too much hopeoneitherofthem,Bob.’‘You think he died the

night he left,’ said Strike,morestatementthanquestion,andAnstisnodded.‘Underhillthinksso.’‘Nosignoftheknife?’‘Nothing.Theonlyknifein

thekitchenwas averyblunt,everyday one. Definitely notuptothejob.’‘Who do we know had a

keytotheplace?’‘Your client,’ said Anstis,

‘obviously. Quine himselfmust’ve had one. Fancourt’sgot two, he’s already told usthat by phone. The Quineslentonetohisagentwhenshewas organising some repairsforthem;shesaysshegaveitback. A next-doorneighbour’s got a key so hecan lethimself in if anythinggoeswrongwiththeplace.’‘Didn’t he go in once the

stinkgotbad?‘One side did put a note

throughthedoorcomplainingabout the smell, but the keyholder left for twomonths inNewZealandafortnightago.We’ve spoken to him byphone. Last time he was inthe housewas in aboutMay,when he took delivery of acouple of packages whilesome workmen were in andput them in the hall. MrsQuine’svagueaboutwhoelse

might have been lent a keyovertheyears.‘She’sanoddwoman,Mrs

Quine,’ Anstis went onsmoothly,‘isn’tshe?’‘Haven’t thought about it,’

liedStrike.‘You know the neighbours

heard her chasing him, thenighthedisappeared?’‘Ididn’tknow.’‘Yeah. She ran out of the

house after him, screaming.The neighbours all say’ –

Anstis was watching Strikeclosely – ‘that she yelled “Iknow where you’re off to,Owen!”’‘Well, she thought she did

know,’ Strike said with ashrug. ‘She thought he wasgoing to the writer’s retreatChristian Fisher told himabout.BigleyHall.’‘She’s refusing to move

outofthehouse.’‘She’s got a mentally

handicapped daughter who’s

never slept anywhere else.Can you imagine LeonoraoverpoweringQuine?’‘No,’ said Anstis, ‘but we

know it turned him on to betiedup,andIdoubttheyweremarried for thirty-odd yearswithoutherknowingthat.’‘Youthinktheyhadarow,

then she tracked him downand suggested a bit ofbondage?’Anstis gave the suggestion

of a small, token laugh, then

said:‘It doesn’t look great for

her,Bob.Angrywifewiththekeytothehouse,earlyaccessto the manuscript, plenty ofmotive ifsheknewabout themistress, especially if therewas any question of Quineleaving her and the daughterforKent.Onlyherwordforitthat “I know where you’regoing” meant this writer’sretreat and not the house onTalgarthRoad.’

‘Sounds convincing whenyou put it like that,’ Strikesaid.‘Butyoudon’tthinkso.’‘She’s my client,’ said

Strike. ‘I’m being paid tothinkofalternatives.’‘Has she told you where

she used to work?’ askedAnstis,with theairof amanabout toplayhis trumpcard.‘BackinHay-on-Wye,beforetheyweremarried?’‘Go on,’ said Strike, not

without a degree ofapprehension.‘In her uncle’s butcher’s

shop,’saidAnstis.Outside the study door

Strike heard TimothyCormoran Anstis thuddingdown the stairs again,screaming his head off atsome fresh disappointment.For the first time in theirunsatisfactory acquaintance,Strike felt a realempathy fortheboy.

24

Allwellbredpersonslie– Besides, you are awoman; youmust neverspeakwhatyouthink…WilliamCongreve,Love

forLove

Strike’s dreams that night,

fuelled by a day’sconsumption of Doom Bar,by talk of blood, acid andblowflies, were strange andugly.Charlotte was getting

married and he, Strike, wasrunning to an eerie Gothiccathedral, running on twowhole, functioning legs,becauseheknewthatshehadjust given birth to his childand he needed to see it, tosaveit.Thereshewas, in the

vast,darkemptyspace,aloneat the altar, struggling into ablood red gown, andsomewhere out of sight,perhaps in a cold vestry, layhisbaby,naked,helplessandabandoned.‘Whereisit?’heasked.‘You’re not seeing it.You

didn’t want it. Anyway,there’ssomethingwrongwithit,’shesaid.He was afraid of what he

would see if hewent to find

the baby. Her bridegroomwas nowhere to be seen butshe was ready for thewedding, in a thick scarletveil.‘Leaveit,it’shorrible,’she

saidcoldly,pushingpasthim,walkingaloneawayfromthealtar, back up the aisletowards the distant doorway.‘You’d only touch it,’ sheshouted over her shoulder. ‘Idon’t want you touching it.You’ll see it eventually. It’ll

have to be announced,’ sheaddedinavanishingvoice,asshebecameasliverofscarletdancing in the light of theopendoors,‘inthepapers…’Hewassuddenlyawake in

the morning gloom, hismouth dry and his kneethrobbing ominously in spiteofanight’srest.Winterhadslidinthenight

likeaglacieroverLondon.Ahardfrosthadicedtheoutsideof his attic window and the

temperatureinsidehisrooms,with their ill-fitting windowsand doors and the total lackof insulation under the roof,hadplummeted.Strike got up and reached

forasweaterlyingontheendofhisbed.Whenhecame tofixonhisprosthesis,hefoundthat his knee wasexceptionally swollen afterthe journey to and fromGreenwich.Theshowerwatertooklongerthanusualtoheat

up; he cranked up thethermostat, fearing burstpipesandfrozengutters,sub-zero living quarters and anexpensive plumber. Afterdrying himself off, heunearthed his old sportsbandagesfromtheboxonthelandingtostrapuphisknee.He knew, now, as clearly

as though he had spent thenight puzzling it out, howHelly Anstis knewCharlotte’s wedding plans.

He had been stupid not tothink of it before. Hissubconscioushadknown.Once clean, dressed and

breakfasted he headeddownstairs. Glancing out ofthe window behind his desk,he noted that the knifelikecold was keeping away thelittle cluster of journalistswho had waited in vain forhis return the previous day.Sleetpatteredonthewindowsashemovedbacktotheouter

officeandRobin’s computer.Here,inthesearchengine,hetyped:charlottecampbellhonjagorosswedding.Pitiless and prompt came

theresults.

Tatler,December2010:CovergirlCharlotteCampbellonherweddingtothefutureViscountofCroy…

‘Tatler,’ said Strike aloud

intheoffice.He only knew of the

magazine’sexistencebecauseits societypageswere full ofCharlotte’s friends. She hadbought it, sometimes, to readostentatiouslyinfrontofhim,commenting onmen she hadonce slept with, or whosestatelyhomesshehadpartiedin.And now she was the

Christmascovergirl.Evenstrappedup,hisknee

complained at having tosupport him down the metalstairs and out into the sleet.There was an early morningqueue at the counter of thenewsagents. Calmly hescanned the shelves ofmagazines: soap stars on thecheap ones and film stars onthe expensive; Decemberissues almost sold out, eventhough they were still inNovember.EmmaWatson inwhite on the cover ofVogue

(‘The Super Star Issue’),Rihanna in pink on MarieClaire (‘TheGlamourIssue’)andonthecoverofTatler…Pale, perfect skin, black

hair blown away from highcheekbones and wide hazel-green eyes, flecked like arusset apple. Two hugediamonds dangling from herears and a third on the handlying lightlyagainsther face.Adull,blunthammerblowtothe heart, absorbed without

theslightestexternalsign.Hetookthemagazine,thelastonthe shelf, paid for it andreturnedtoDenmarkStreet.It was twenty to nine. He

shuthimself inhisoffice, satdownathisdeskandlaidthemagazine down in front ofhim.

IN–CROY–ABLE!FormerWildChildturnedfutureViscountess,Charlotte

Campbell.The strapline ran across

Charlotte’sswanlikeneck.Itwasthefirsttimehehad

looked at her since she hadclawed his face in this veryoffice and run from him,straight into the arms of theHonourable Jago Ross. Hesupposed that they mustairbrushalltheirpictures.Herskin could not be thisflawless, the whites of her

eyes this pure, but they hadnot exaggerated anythingelse, not the exquisite bonestructure, nor (he was sure)the size of the diamond onherfinger.Slowly he turned to the

contentspageandthentothearticlewithin.Adouble-pagepictureofCharlotte,verythinin a glittering silver floor-length dress, standing in themiddleofalonggallerylinedwith tapestries; beside her,

leaning on a card table andlookinglikeadissolutearcticfox, was Jago Ross. Morephotographs over the page:Charlottesittingonanancientfour-poster,laughingwithherhead thrown back, the whitecolumn of her neck risingfrom a sheer cream blouse;Charlotte and Jago in jeansand wellington boots,walking hand in hand overthe parkland in front of theirfuture home with two Jack

Russells at their heels;Charlotte windswept on thecastle keep, looking over ashoulder draped in theViscount’startan.DoubtlessHellyAnstishad

considered it fourpounds tenwellspent.

On 4 December thisyear, the seventeenth-century chapel at theCastleofCroy (NEVER‘CroyCastle’–itannoys

the family) will bedusted off for its firstwedding in over acentury. CharlotteCampbell,breathtakingly beautifuldaughterof1960sItGirlTula Clermont andacademic andbroadcaster AnthonyCampbell,willmarrytheHon Jago Ross, heir tothe castle and to hisfather’s titles, principal

of which is Viscount ofCroy.The future

Viscountess is a notaltogetheruncontroversial additionto the Rosses of Croy,but Jago laughs at theidea that anyone in hisfamilycouldbelessthandelightedtowelcometheformer wild child intohis old and rather grandScottishfamily.

‘Actually, my motheralways hoped we’dmarry,’ he says. ‘Wewere boyfriend andgirlfriendatOxfordbutIsupposewewerejusttooyoung… found eachotheragaininLondon…both just out ofrelationships…’

Were you? thought Strike.

Were you both just out ofrelationships? Or were you

fuckingheratthesametimeIwas, so that she didn’t knowwhich of us had fathered thebaby she was worried shemightbecarrying?Changingthe dates to cover everyeventuality, keeping heroptionsopen…

…madeheadlinesinheryouth when she wentmissing from Bedalesforsevendays,causinganational search…

admitted to rehab at theageof25…‘Old news, move on,

nothing to see,’ saysCharlotte brightly.‘Look,Ihadalotoffunin my youth, but it’stime to settle down andhonestly,Ican’twait.’

Fun, was it? Strike asked

her stunning picture. Fun,standing on that roof andthreatening to jump? Fun,

calling me from thatpsychiatric hospital andbeggingmetogetyouout?

Ross, fresh from a verymessy divorce that haskept the gossip columnsbusy…‘Iwishwecouldhave settled it withoutthe lawyers,’ he sighs…‘Ican’twaittobeastep-mummy!’ trillsCharlotte…

(‘If I have to spend onemore evening with theAnstises’brattykids,Corm,IsweartoGodI’llbrainoneofthem.’ And, in Lucy’ssuburban back garden,watching Strike’s nephewsplaying football, ‘Why arethese children such shits?’The expression on Lucy’sround face when sheoverheardit…)Hisownname, leapingoff

thepage.

…includingasurprisingfling with JonnyRokeby’s eldest sonCormoran Strike, whomade headlines lastyear…

… a surprising fling with

JonnyRokeby’seldestson……JonnyRokeby’seldest…He closed the magazine

with a sudden, reflexivemovementandslidit intohis

bin.Sixteen years, on and off.

Sixteen years of the torture,the madness and occasionalecstasy. And then – after allthose times she had left him,throwingherselfintothearmsofothermenasotherwomencast themselves onto railwaytracks–hehadwalkedout.Indoing so, he had crossed anunforgivable Rubicon, for ithad always been understoodthatheshouldstandrock-like,

to be left and returned to,never flinching, never givingup.Butonthatnightwhenhehad confronted her with thetangle of lies she had toldabout the baby in her bellyand she had becomehysterical and furious, themountain had moved at last:out of the door, with anashtrayflungafterit.His black eye had barely

healed when she hadannouncedherengagementto

Ross. Three weeks it hadtaken her, because she knewonly one way to respond topain: to wound thetransgressor as deeply aspossible,with no thought forthe consequences to herself.Andheknewinhisbones,nomatter how arrogant hisfriendsmighttellhimhewasbeing,thattheTatlerpictures,the dismissal of theirrelationship in the terms thatwould hurt him most (he

couldhearher spelling it outfor the society mag: ‘he’sJonny Rokeby’s son’); theCastleofFuckingCroy…allofit,allofit,wasdonewithaview tohurtinghim,wantinghim to watch and to see, toregret and to pity. She hadknown what Ross was; shehad told Strike about thepoorly disguised alcoholismand violence, passed throughthe blue-blooded network ofgossip that had kept her

informed through the years.She had laughed about herluckyescape.Laughed.Self-immolation in a ball

gown.Watchmeburn,Bluey.Theweddingwasintendays’time and if hehad ever beensureofanythinginhislife,itwasthatifhecalledCharlotterightnowandsaid‘Runawaywith me,’ even after theirfilthy scenes, the hatefulthingsshehadcalledhim,thelies and the mess and the

severaltonsofbaggageunderwhich their relationship hadfinally splintered, she wouldsay yes. Running away washer life’s blood and he hadbeen her favouritedestination, freedom andsafetycombined;shehadsaidit tohimoverandoveragainafter fights that would havekilled themboth ifemotionalwounds could bleed: ‘I needyou. You’re my everything,you know that. You’re the

onlyplaceI’veeverfeltsafe,Bluey…’Heheardtheglassdooron

tothelandingopenandclose,the familiar sounds of Robinarriving at work, removinghercoat,fillingthekettle.Work had always been his

salvation.Charlottehadhatedthe way he could switch,from crazy, violent scenes,from her tears and her pleasand her threats, to immersehimself totally in a case.She

had never managed to stophim putting on his uniform,never prevented his return towork, never succeeded inforcing him away from aninvestigation. She deploredhisfocus,hisallegiancetothearmy, his ability to shut herout,seeingitasabetrayal,asabandonment.Now,on thiscoldwinter’s

morning, sitting in his officewith her picture in the binbeside him, Strike found

himselfcravingorders,acaseabroad, an enforced sojournon another continent. He didnot want to trail afterunfaithful husbands andgirlfriends, or insert himselfinto the petty disputes ofshoddy businessmen. OnlyonesubjecthadevermatchedCharlotteforthefascinationitexercisedoverhim:unnaturaldeath.‘Morning,’hesaid,limping

into the outer office, where

Robinwasmaking twomugsof tea. ‘We’ll have to bequickwiththese.We’regoingout.’‘Where?’ asked Robin in

surprise.Thesleetwasslidingwetly

down their windows. Shecould still feel how it hadburnedherfaceasshehurriedover the slippery pavements,desperatetogetinside.‘Got stuff to do on the

Quinecase.’

Itwasalie.Thepolicehadall the power;what could hedo that they were not doingbetter? And yet he knew inhisgut thatAnstis lacked thenose for the strange and thewarpedthatwouldbeneededtofindthiskiller.‘You’ve got Caroline

Inglesatten.’‘Shit.Well,I’llputheroff.

Thing is, forensics reckonQuinediedverysoonafterhedisappeared.’

Hetookamouthfulofhot,strong tea. He seemed morepurposeful, more energisedthan she had seen him for awhile.‘That puts the spotlight

rightbackonthepeoplewhohad early access to themanuscript.Iwanttofindoutwhere they all live, andwhethertheylivealone.Thenwe’re going to recce theirhouses. Find out how hard itwould’ve been to get in and

out carrying a bag of guts.Whether they might haveplaces they could bury orburnevidence.’Itwasnotmuch,butitwas

allhecoulddotoday,andhewas desperate to dosomething.‘You’recoming,’headded.

‘You’re always good at thisstuff.’‘What, being your

Watson?’shesaid,apparentlyindifferent.Theangershehad

carried with her out of theCambridge the previous dayhadnotquiteburnedout.‘Wecould find out about theirhouses online. Look at themonGoogleEarth.’‘Yeah, good thinking,’

rejoined Strike. ‘Why caselocationswhenyoucouldjustlookatout-of-datephotos?’Stung,shesaid:‘I’mmorethanhappy—’‘Good. I’ll cancel Ingles.

You get online and find out

addresses for ChristianFisher, Elizabeth Tassel,Daniel Chard, JerryWaldegrave and MichaelFancourt.We’ll nip along toClem Attlee Court and haveanotherlookfromthepointofview of hiding evidence;from what I saw in the darkthere were a lot of bins andbushes… Oh, and call theBridlington Bookshop inPutney.We can have awordwiththeoldblokewhoclaims

he met Quine there on theeighth.’He strode back into his

officeandRobinsatdownather computer. The scarf shehadjusthungupwasdrippingicily onto the floor, but shedid not care.Thememory ofQuine’s mutilated bodycontinued to haunt her, yetshewaspossessedofanurge(concealedfromMatthewlikea dirty secret) to find outmore,tofindouteverything.

What infuriated her wasthatStrike,whoofallpeopleshould have understood,could not see in herwhat soobviouslyburnedinhim.

25

Thus ’tis when a manwill be ignorantlyofficious, do services,andnotknowhiswhy…BenJonson,Epicoene,orTheSilentWoman

They left the office in a

sudden flurry of featherysnowflakes, Robin with thevarious addresses she hadtaken from an onlinedirectory on her mobilephone. Strike wanted torevisitTalgarthRoadfirst,soRobin toldhim the resultsofher directory searches whilestanding in a Tube carriagethat,atthetailendoftherushhour,wasfullbutnotpacked.Thesmellofwetwool,grimeand Gore-Tex filled their

nostrils as they talked,holding the same pole asthree miserable-lookingItalianbackpackers.‘Theoldmanwhoworksin

the bookshop’s on holiday,’she told Strike. ‘Back nextMonday.’‘All right,we’ll leave him

till then. What about oursuspects?’She raised an eyebrow at

theword,butsaid:‘Christian Fisher lives in

Camden with a woman ofthirty-two – a girlfriend, doyouthink?’‘Probably,’ agreed Strike.

‘That’s inconvenient… ourkiller needed peace andsolitude to dispose ofbloodstainedclothing–nottomentionagoodstone’sworthof human intestine. I’mlooking for somewhere youcanget inandoutofwithoutbeingseen.’‘Well, I looked at pictures

oftheplaceonGoogleStreetView,’ said Robin with acertain defiance. ‘The flat’sgot a common entrance withthreeothers.’‘And it’smiles away from

TalgarthRoad.’‘Butyoudon’treally think

Christian Fisher did it, doyou?’askedRobin.‘Strains credulity a bit,’

Strike admitted. ‘He barelyknewQuine–he’snot in thebook–can’tseeit.’

They alighted at Holborn,whereRobin tactfullyslowedher pace to Strike’s, notcommenting on his limp orthe way he was using hisupperbody topropelhimselfalong.‘What about Elizabeth

Tassel?’ he asked as hewalked.‘Fulham Palace Road,

alone.’‘Good,’ saidStrike. ‘We’ll

goandhavealookatthat,see

if she’s got any freshly dugflowerbeds.’‘Won’tthepolicebedoing

this?’Robinasked.Strike frowned. He was

perfectlyawarethathewasajackal slinking on theperipheryof thecase,hopingthe lionsmight leave a scraponaminorbone.‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘maybe

not. Anstis thinks Leonoradid it and he doesn’t changehis mind easily; I know, I

workedwithhimonacaseinAfghanistan. Speaking ofLeonora,’ he added casually,‘Anstis has found out sheusedtoworkinabutcher’s.’‘Ohbugger,’saidRobin.Strikegrinned.At timesof

tension,herYorkshire accentbecamemorepronounced:hehadheard‘boogger’.They got onto a much

emptier Piccadilly line trainto Barons Court; relieved,Strikefellintoaseat.

‘Jerry Waldegrave liveswith his wife, right?’ heaskedRobin.‘Yes, if she’s called

Fenella. In Hazlitt Road,Kensington. A JoannaWaldegrave lives in thebasement—’‘Their daughter,’ said

Strike.‘Buddingnovelist,shewasattheRoperChardparty.AndDanielChard?’‘Sussex Street, Pimlico,

with a couple called Nenita

andMannyRamos—’‘Soundlikeservants.’‘—and he’s got a property

in Devon as well: TithebarnHouse.’‘Which is presumably

where he’s currently laid upwithhisbrokenleg.’‘And Fancourt’s ex-

directory,’ she finished, ‘butthere’s loads of biographicalstuff about him online. Heowns an Elizabethan placejust outside Chew Magna

calledEndsorCourt.’‘ChewMagna?’‘It’s in Somerset. He lives

therewithhisthirdwife.’‘Bit far to go today,’ said

Strike regretfully. ‘Nobachelor pad near TalgarthRoad where he could stashgutsinthefreezer?’‘NotthatIcouldfind.’‘So where was he staying

when hewent to stare at thecrimescene?Orhadhecomeup for the day for a spot of

nostalgia?’‘Ifitreallywashim.’‘Yeah,ifitwashim…and

there’s Kathryn Kent too.Well, we know where shelivesandweknowit’salone.Quinegotdroppedoff inhervicinity on the night of thefifth,Anstissays,butshewasaway. Maybe Quine hadforgotten she was at hersister’s,’ Strike mused, ‘andmaybewhenhefoundoutshewasn’t home he went to

Talgarth Road instead? Shecould have come back fromthehospicetomeethimthere.We’ll have a look round herplacesecond.’AstheymovedwestStrike

toldRobinaboutthedifferentwitnesses who claimed tohaveseenawomaninaburqaentering the building on thefourth of November andQuine himself leaving thebuildingintheearlyhoursofthesixth.

‘But one or both of themcould be mistaken or lying,’heconcluded.‘Awomaninaburqa.You

don’t think,’ said Robintentatively, ‘the neighbourmight be a madIslamophobe?’Working for Strike had

opened her eyes to the arrayand intensity of phobias andgrudges she had neverrealised burned in thepublic’s breast. The tide of

publicity surrounding thesolving of the Landry casehad washed onto Robin’sdesk a number of letters thathad alternately disturbed andamusedher.There had been the man

whohadbeggedStriketoturnhis clearly considerabletalents to an investigation ofthe stranglehold of‘international Jewry’ on theworld banking system, aserviceforwhichheregretted

he would not be able to paybut for which he did notdoubt that Strike wouldreceiveworldwideacclaim.Ayoung woman had written atwelve-page letter from asecure psychiatric unit,begging Strike to help herprove that everybody in herfamilyhadbeenspiritedawayand replaced with identicalimpostors. An anonymouswriter of unknown genderhad demanded that Strike

help them expose a nationalcampaign of satanic abusewhich they knew to beoperating through the officesof the Citizens AdviceBureau.‘They could be loons,’

Strike agreed. ‘Nutters lovemurder. It does something tothem.Peoplehavetolistentothem,forastart.’Ayoungwomanwearinga

hijabwaswatchingthemtalkfrom an opposite seat. She

had large, sweet, liquid-browneyes.‘Assuming somebody

really did enter the house onthe fourth, I’ve got to say aburqa’sabloodygoodwayofgetting in and out withoutbeing recognised. Can youthink of another way oftotally concealing your faceandbodythatwouldn’tmakepeoplechallengeyou?’‘And theywere carrying a

halaltakeaway?’

‘Allegedly. Was his lastmeal halal? Is that why thekillerremovedtheguts?’‘Andthiswoman—’‘Could’vebeenaman…’‘—was seen leaving the

houseanhourlater?’‘That’swhatAnstissaid.’‘So they weren’t lying in

waitforQuine?’‘No, but they could have

been laying in plates,’ saidStrikeandRobinwinced.The young woman in the

hijab got off at GloucesterRoad.‘Idoubt there’dbeclosed-

circuit cameras in abookshop,’sighedRobin.Shehad become quitepreoccupied with CCTVsincetheLandrycase.‘I’d’ve thought Anstis

would have mentioned it,’agreedStrike.They emerged at Barons

Court into another squall ofsnow. Squinting against the

feathery flakes theyproceeded, under Strike’sdirection, up to TalgarthRoad. He was feeling theneed for a stick ever morestrongly.Onhis release fromhospital, Charlotte had givenhim an elegant antiqueMalacca cane that sheclaimed had belonged to agreat-grandfather. Thehandsome old stick had beentoo short for Strike, causinghim to list to the right as he

walked. When she hadpackaged up his things toremove from her flat, thecane had not been amongthem.It was clear, as they

approached the house, thatthe forensics team was stillbusy in number 179. Theentrance was taped up and asingle police officer, armsfolded tightly against thecold,stoodguardoutside.Sheturned her head as they

approached. Her eyes fixedonStrikeandnarrowed.‘Mr Strike,’ she said

sharply.A male plain-clothes

officer with ginger hair whohad been standing in thedoorwaytalkingtosomebodyjust inside whipped around,caught sight of Strike anddescended the slippery stepsatspeed.‘Morning,’ said Strike

brazenly. Robin was torn

between admiration for hischeek and trepidation; shehad an innate respect for thelaw.‘What are you doing back

here, Mr Strike?’ asked theginger-haired man suavely.His eyes wandered overRobininawaythatshefoundvaguelyoffensive.‘Youcan’tcomein.’‘Pity,’ said Strike. ‘We’ll

just have to peruse theperimeter,then.’

Ignoring the pair ofofficers watching his everymove, Strike limped pastthem to number 183 andproceeded through the gatesandup thefrontsteps.Robincould think of nothing to dobut follow him; she did itself-consciously,awareoftheeyesonherback.‘What are we doing?’ she

muttered as they reached theshelter of the brick canopyand were hidden from the

staring police. The houseseemedempty,butshewasalittle worried that someonemight be about to open thefrontdoor.‘Gauging whether the

woman who lives herecould’ve seen a cloakedfigure carrying a holdallleaving 179 at two in themorning,’ said Strike. ‘Andyou know what? I think shecould, unless that streetlamp’s out. OK, let’s try the

otherside.‘Parky,isn’tit?’Strikesaid

tothefrowningconstableandher companion as he andRobinwalkedbackpastthem.‘Four doors down, Anstissaid,’ he added quietly toRobin.‘Sothat’llbe171…’Again, Strike marched up

thefrontsteps,Robinwalkingfoolishlyafterhim.‘You know, I was

wondering whether hecould’vemistaken the house,

but 177’s got that red plasticdustbin in front. Burqawould’vewalkedupthestepsright behind it, whichwould’vemade iteasy to tell—’Thefrontdooropened.‘Can I help you?’ said a

well-spoken man in thick-lensedglasses.As Strike began to

apologise for coming to thewrong house, the ginger-haired officer shouted

something incomprehensiblefrom the pavement outside179. When nobodyresponded, he climbed overthe plastic tape blockingentrance to the property andbegantojogtowardsthem.‘That man,’ he shouted

absurdly, pointing at Strike,‘isnotapoliceman!’‘He didn’t say he was,’

replied thespectacledman inmeeksurprise.‘Well, I think we’re done

here,’StriketoldRobin.‘Aren’t you worried,’

Robin asked him as theywalked back towards theTube station, a little amusedbutmostlyeager to leave thescene, ‘what your friendAnstis is going to say aboutyou skulking around thecrimescenelikethis?’‘Doubt he’ll be happy,’

Strike said, looking aroundfor CCTV cameras, ‘butkeepingAnstishappyisn’t in

myjobdescription.’‘It was decent of him to

share the forensic stuff withyou,’Robinsaid.‘He did that to try and

warn me off the case. Hethinks everything points toLeonora. Trouble is, at themoment,everythingdoes.’The roadwas packedwith

traffic,whichwaswatchedbya single camera as far asStrike could see, but thereweremanysideroadsleading

off it down which a personwearing Owen Quine’sTyrolean cloak, or a burqa,might slide out of sightwithout anyone being thewiserastotheiridentity.Strike bought two

takeaway coffees in theMetro Café that stood in thestation building, then theypassedback through thepea-green ticket hall and set offforWestBrompton.

‘What you’ve got toremember,’ said Strike asthey stood at Earl’s Courtwaiting to change trains,Robin noticing how Strikekept all his weight on hisgood leg, ‘is that Quinedisappeared on the fifth.Bonfirenight.’‘God, of course!’ said

Robin.‘Flashes and bangs,’ said

Strike, gulping coffee fast soas to empty his cup before

theyhadtogeton;hedidnottrust himself to balancecoffee and himself on thewet, icy floors. ‘Rocketsgoing off in every direction,drawingeveryone’sattention.No big surprise that nobodysaw a figure in a cloakentering the building thatnight.’‘YoumeanQuine?’‘Notnecessarily.’Robin pondered this for a

while.

‘Do you think the man inthe bookshop’s lying aboutQuine going in there on theeighth?’‘Idon’tknow,’saidStrike.

‘Tooearlytosay,isn’tit?’But that, he realised, was

whathebelieved.Thesuddenactivity around a desertedhouse on the fourth and fifthwasstronglysuggestive.‘Funny, the things people

notice,’ said Robin as theyclimbed the red-and-green

stairs at West Brompton,Strike now grimacing everytime he put down his rightleg.‘Memory’sanoddthing,isn’t—’Strike’s knee suddenly felt

red hot and he slumpedagainst the railings along thebridge over the tracks. Asuitedmanbehindhimsworeimpatiently at finding asudden, sizeable impedimentinhispathandRobinwalkedon a few paces, still talking,

before realising that Strikewasnolongerbesideher.Shehurriedbacktofindhimpale,sweating and obligingcommuters to take a detouraround him as he stoodslumpedagainsttherailings.‘Felt something go,’ he

said throughgritted teeth, ‘inmyknee.Shit…shit!’‘We’llgetataxi.’‘Never get one in this

weather.’‘Thenlet’sgetbackonthe

train and go back to theoffice.’‘No,Iwant—’Hehadneverfelthisdearth

ofresourcesmorekeenlythanat this moment, standing ontheironlatticebridgebeneaththearchedglassceilingwheresnowwas settling. In the olddaystherehadalwaysbeenacarforhimtodrive.Hecouldhave summonedwitnesses tohim. He had been SpecialInvestigation Branch, in

charge,incontrol.‘Ifyouwanttodothis,we

need a taxi,’ Robin saidfirmly. ‘It’s a long walk upLillie Road from here.Haven’t—’She hesitated. They never

mentioned Strike’s disabilityexceptobliquely.‘Haven’tyougotastickor

something?’‘Wish I had,’ he said

throughnumblips.Whatwasthe point in pretending? He

was dreading having towalkeventotheendofthebridge.‘We can get one,’ said

Robin. ‘Chemists sometimessellthem.We’llfindone.’And then, after another

momentary hesitation, shesaid:‘Leanonme.’‘I’mtooheavy.’‘Tobalance.Usemelikea

stick.Doit,’shesaidfirmly.Heputhis armaroundher

shouldersandtheymadetheir

way slowly over the bridgeand paused beside the exit.The snow had temporarilypassed, but the cold was, ifanything, worse than it hadbeen.‘Why aren’t there seats

anywhere?’ asked Robin,glaringaround.‘Welcome to my world,’

said Strike, who hadwithdrawn his arm fromaround her shoulders theinstanttheyhadstopped.

‘What d’you think’shappened?’ Robin asked,lookingdownathisrightleg.‘I dunno. Itwas all puffed

up this morning. I probablyshouldn’t have put theprosthesison,butIhateusingcrutches.’‘Well, you can’t go

traipsingupLillieRoadinthesnow like this. We’ll get acab and you can go back totheoffice—’‘No. I want to do

something,’ he said angrily.‘Anstis is convinced it’sLeonora.Itisn’t.’Everything was pared

down to the essential whenyou were in this degree ofpain.‘All right,’ said Robin.

‘We’ll split up and you cango in a cab. OK?OK?’ shesaidinsistently.‘All right,’ he said,

defeated.‘YougouptoClemAttleeCourt.’

‘WhatamIlookingfor?’‘Cameras. Hiding places

for clothing and intestines.Kentcan’thavekept theminher flat if she took them;they’dstink.Takepicturesonyour phone – anything thatseemsuseful…’Itseemedpatheticallylittle

to him as he said it, but hehad to do something. Forsome reason, he keptremembering Orlando, withher wide, vacant smile and

hercuddlyorang-utan.‘Andthen?’askedRobin.‘SussexStreet,’saidStrike

after a few seconds’ thought.‘Same thing. And then givemea ringandwe’llmeetup.You’d better give me thenumbers of Tassel’s andWaldegrave’shouses.’She gave him a piece of

paper.‘I’llgetyouataxi.’Before he could thank her

she had marched away onto

thecoldstreet.

26

I must look to myfooting:In such slippery ice-pavementsmenhadneedTo be frost-nail’d well,they may break theirneckselse…

JohnWebster,TheDuchessofMalfi

It was fortunate that Strikestill had the five hundredpounds in cash in his walletthat had been given him tocutupateenageboy.Hetoldthe taxidriver to takehim toFulhamPalaceRoad,homeofElizabethTassel,tooknoteofthe route as he travelled andwould have arrived at herhouseinamerefourminuteshad he not spotted a Boots.

Heaskedthedrivertopullupand wait, and re-emergedfrom the chemists shortlyafterwards, walking muchmoreeasilywiththeaidofanadjustablestick.He estimated that a fit

woman might make thejourney on foot in less thanhalfanhour.ElizabethTassellivedfurtherfromthemurderscene than Kathryn Kent butStrike, who knew the areareasonablywell,wassurethat

shecouldhavemadeherwaythrough most residentialbackstreets while avoidingthe attention of cameras, andthat she might have avoideddetectionevenwithacar.Herhomelookeddraband

dingy on this bleak winter’sday. Another red brickVictorian house, but withnone of the grandeur orwhimsy of Talgarth Road, itstoodonacorner, frontedbya dank garden overshadowed

by overgrown laburnumbushes. Sleet fell again asStrike stood peering over thegarden gate, trying to keephis cigarette alight bycupping it inhishand.Thereweregardens front andback,both well shielded from thepublic view by the darkbushes quivering with theweight of the icy downpour.The upper windows of thehouse looked out over theFulham Palace Road

Cemetery, a depressing viewone month from midwinter,withbaretreesreachingbonyarms silhouetted into awhitesky,oldtombstonesmarchingintothedistance.Could he imagine

ElizabethTassel inher smartblack suit, with her scarletlipstick and her undisguisedfury at Owen Quine,returninghereundercoverofdarkness, stained with bloodand acid, carrying a bag full

ofintestines?The cold was nipping

viciouslyatStrike’sneckandfingers. He ground out thestubofhiscigaretteandaskedthe taxi driver, who hadwatchedwithcuriositytingedwith suspicion as hescrutinisedElizabethTassel’shouse, to take him toHazlittRoadinKensington.Slumpedin the back seat he gulpeddownpainkillerswithabottleofwaterthathehadboughtin

Boots.The cab was stuffy and

smelled of stale tobacco,ingrained dirt and ancientleather. The windscreenwipers swished like muffledmetronomes, rhythmicallyclearing the blurry view ofbroad, busy HammersmithRoad, where small officeblocks and short rows ofterraced houses sat side byside. Strike looked out atNazareth House Care Home:

more red brick, church-likeand serene, butwith securitygates and a lodge keeping afirmseparationbetweenthosecaredforandthosewhowerenot.Blythe House came into

view through the mistywindows, agrandpalace-likestructure with white cupolas,looking like a large pinkishcake in the grey sleet. Strikehadavaguenotionthatitwasusedasastoreforoneofthe

bigmuseumsthesedays.Thetaxi turned right into HazlittRoad.‘What number?’ asked the

driver.‘I’ll get out here,’ said

Strike, who did not wish todescend directly in front ofthe house, and had notforgotten that he still had topay back the money he wassquandering.Leaningheavilyon the stick and grateful forits rubber-coated end, which

gripped the slipperypavement well, he paid thedriver and walked along thestreet to takeacloser lookattheWaldegraveresidence.These were real

townhouses,fourstoreyshighincluding the basements,golden brick with classicalwhite pediments, carvedwreaths beneath the upperwindows and wrought-ironbalustrades.Mostofthemhadbeen converted into flats.

Therewereno front gardens,only steps descending to thebasements.A faintly ramshackle

flavour had permeated thestreet, a gentle middle-classdottiness that expressed itselfin the random collections ofpot plants on one balcony, abicycle on another and, on athird, limp, wet and possiblysoon-to-be-frozen washingforgotteninthesleet.ThehousethatWaldegrave

sharedwithhiswifewasoneof the very few that had notbeen converted into flats. Ashe stared up at it, Strikewondered how much a topeditor earned andrememberedNina’sstatementthatWaldegrave’swife‘camefrom money’. TheWaldegraves’ first-floorbalcony (he had to cross thestreettoseeitclearly)sportedtwo sodden deckchairsprintedwiththecoversofold

Penguinpaperbacks, flankinga tiny iron table of the kindfoundinParisianbistros.Helitanothercigaretteand

re-crossed the road to peerdown at the basement flatwhereWaldegrave’sdaughterlived, considering as he didsowhetherQuinemighthavediscussed the contents ofBombyxMori with his editorbefore delivering themanuscript. Could he haveconfided toWaldegrave how

he envisaged the final sceneofBombyxMori? And couldthat amiable man in horn-rimmed glasses have noddedenthusiastically and helpedhone the scene in all itsludicrous gore, knowing thathewouldonedayenactit?Therewere black bin bags

heapedaround the frontdoorofthebasementflat.ItlookedasthoughJoannaWaldegravehad been having acomprehensive clear-out.

Strike turned his back andcontemplated the fiftywindows, at a conservativeestimate, that overlooked theWaldegrave family’s twofront doors. Waldegravewouldhavehadtohavebeenvery lucky not to be seencomingandgoingoutof thisheavilyoverlookedhouse.But the troublewas,Strike

reflected gloomily, that evenifJerryWaldegravehadbeenspotted sneaking into his

house at two in the morningwith a suspicious, bulgingbag under his arm, a jurymight take some persuadingthat Owen Quine had notbeen alive and well at thetime. There was too muchdoubtaboutthetimeofdeath.Themurdererhadnowhadaslong as nineteen days inwhichtodisposeofevidence,alongandusefulperiod.Where could Owen

Quine’s guts have gone?

What, Strike asked himself,did you do with pounds andpounds of freshly severedhumanintestineandstomach?Bury them?Dump them in ariver? Throw them in acommunal bin? They wouldsurelynotburnwell…The front door of the

Waldegraves’ house openedandawomanwithblackhairandheavyfrownlineswalkeddown the three front steps.She was wearing a short

scarletcoatandlookedangry.‘I’ve been watching you

out of the window,’ shecalled to Strike as sheapproachedandherecognisedWaldegrave’s wife, Fenella.‘What do you think you’redoing? Why are you sointerestedinmyhouse?’‘I’mwaitingfortheagent,’

Strike lied at once, showingno sign of embarrassment.‘This is thebasement flat forrent,right?’

‘Oh,’shesaid,takenaback.‘No–that’sthreedown,’shesaid,pointing.He could tell that she

teetered on the verge of anapology but decided not tobother. Instead she clatteredpasthimonpatentstilettosillsuited to the snowyconditions towards a Volvoparkedashortwayaway.Herblackhairrevealedgreyrootsand their brief proximity hadbroughtwithitawhiffofbad

breath stained with alcohol.Mindful that she could seehim in her rear-view mirror,he hobbled in the directionshe had indicated, waiteduntil she had pulled away –very narrowly missing theCitroëninfrontofher– thenwalkedcarefullytotheendofthe road and down a sidestreet, where he was able topeer over a wall into a longrow of small private backgardens.

Therewas nothing of notein the Waldegraves’ exceptan old shed. The lawn wasscuffedandscrubbyandasetofrusticfurnituresatsadlyatits far end with a look ofhaving been abandoned longago. Staring at the untidyplot,Strikereflectedgloomilyonthepossibilityoflock-ups,allotments and garages hemightnotknowabout.With an inward groan at

the thoughtof the long,cold,

wet walk ahead, he debatedhisoptions.HewasnearesttoKensington Olympia, but itonly opened the District lineheneededatweekends.Asanoverground station,Hammersmith would beeasier to navigate thanBaron’sCourt, sohedecidedonthelongerjourney.He had just passed into

Blythe Road, wincing withevery step on his right leg,whenhismobilerang:Anstis.

‘What are you playing at,Bob?’‘Meaning?’ asked Strike,

limping along, a stabbing inhisknee.‘You’ve been hanging

aroundthecrimescene.’‘Went back for a look.

Public right ofway.Nothingactionable.’‘You were trying to

interviewaneighbour—’‘He wasn’t supposed to

open his front door,’ said

Strike. ‘I didn’t say a wordaboutQuine.’‘Look,Strike—’The detective noticed the

reversion to his actual namewithout regret. He had neverbeen fond of the nicknameAnstishadgivenhim.‘I told you, you’ve got to

keepoutofourway.’‘Can’t,Anstis,’ said Strike

matter-of-factly. ‘I’ve got aclient—’‘Forget your client,’ said

Anstis. ‘She’s looking moreand more like a killer withevery bit of information weget. My advice is, cut yourlossesbecauseyou’remakingyourself a lot of enemies. Iwarnedyou—’‘You did,’ said Strike.

‘You couldn’t have beenclearer.Nobody’sgoingtobeabletoblameyou,Anstis.’‘I’m not warning you off

because I’m trying to covermyarse,’snappedAnstis.

Strike kept walking insilence, the mobile pressedawkwardlytohisear.AfterashortpauseAnstissaid:‘We’ve got the

pharmacological report back.Small amount of bloodalcohol,nothingelse.’‘OK.’‘And we’re sending dogs

out toMuckingMarshes thisafternoon. Trying to keepahead of the weather. Theysaythere’sheavysnowonthe

way.’Mucking Marshes, Strike

knew, was the UK’s biggestlandfill site; it servicedLondon, the municipal andcommercial waste of whichwasfloateddowntheThamesinuglybarges.‘You think the guts were

dumped in a dustbin, doyou?’‘A skip. There’s a house

renovation going on roundthe corner from Talgarth

Road; they had two parkedout front until the eighth. Inthis cold the guts might nothave attracted flies. We’vechecked and that’s whereeverything the builders takeaway ends up: MuckingMarshes.’‘Well, good luck with

that,’saidStrike.‘I’m trying to save you

timeandenergy,mate.’‘Yeah.Verygrateful.’And after insincere thanks

forAnstis’shospitalityoftheprevious evening Strike rangoff. He then paused, leaningagainst a wall, the better todial a new number. A tinyAsian woman with apushchair, whom he had notheard walking behind him,had to swerve to avoid him,but unlike the man on theWest Brompton bridge shedid not swear at him. Thewalking stick, like a burqa,conferred protective status;

shegavehimasmallsmileasshepassed.Leonora Quine answered

withinthreerings.‘Bloody police are back,’

washergreeting.‘Whatdotheywant?’‘They’reasking to lookall

over the house and gardennow,’shesaid.‘DoIhavetolet’em?’Strikehesitated.‘I think it’s sensible to let

themdowhatever theywant.

Listen, Leonora,’ he felt nocompunction about revertingto a military peremptoriness,‘haveyougotalawyer?’‘No, why? I ain’t under

arrest.Notyet.’‘Ithinkyouneedone.’Therewasapause.‘D’you know any good

ones?’sheasked.‘Yes,’ said Strike. ‘Call

IlsaHerbert.I’llsendyouhernumbernow.’‘Orlando don’t like the

policepoking—’‘I’mgoing to textyou this

number, and I want you tocall Ilsa immediately. Allright?Immediately.’‘All right,’ she said

grumpily.He rang off, found his old

schoolfriend’snumberonhismobileandsentittoLeonora.He then called Ilsa andexplained, with apologies,whathehadjustdone.‘I don’t know why you’re

saying sorry,’ she saidcheerfully. ‘We love peoplewho are in trouble with thepolice, it’s our bread andbutter.’‘She might qualify for

legalaid.’‘Hardly anyone does these

days,’ said Ilsa. ‘Let’s justhopeshe’spoorenough.’Strike’s hands were numb

and he was very hungry. Heslid themobile back into hiscoatpocketand limpedon to

Hammersmith Road. Thereontheoppositepavementwasa snug-looking pub, blackpainted, the roundmetal signdepicting a galleon in fullsail.Heheadedstraightforit,noting how much morepatient waiting drivers werewhenyouwereusingastick.Two pubs in two days…

but theweatherwas bad andhis knee excruciating; Strikecould not muster any guilt.The Albion’s interior was as

cosyasitsexteriorsuggested.Long and narrow, an openfire burned at the far end;there was an upper gallerywith a balustrade and muchpolished wood. Beneath ablack iron spiral staircase tothefirst floorwere twoampsand a microphone stand.Black-and-white photographsof celebratedmusicianswerehungalongonecreamwall.The seats by the fire were

taken.Strikeboughthimselfa

pint, picked up a bar menuand headed to the tall tablesurrounded by barstools nexttothewindowontothestreet.As he sat down he noticed,sandwiched between picturesofDukeEllingtonandRobertPlant, his own long-hairedfather, sweaty post-performance, apparentlysharing a joke with the bassplayer whom he had once,according to Strike’smother,triedtostrangle.

(‘Jonnywasnevergoodonspeed,’Ledahad confided toher uncomprehending nine-year-oldson.)His mobile rang again.

With his eyes on his father’spicture,heanswered.‘Hi,’saidRobin.‘I’mback

attheoffice.Whereareyou?’‘The Albion on

HammersmithRoad.’‘You’vehadanoddcall. I

foundthemessagewhenIgotback.’

‘Goon.’‘It’s Daniel Chard,’ said

Robin. ‘He wants to meetyou.’Frowning,Striketurnedhis

eyes away from his father’sleatherjumpsuittogazedownthe pub at the flickering fire.‘Daniel Chardwants tomeetme?HowdoesDanielChardevenknowIexist?’‘ForGod’ssake,youfound

the body! It’s been all overthenews.’

‘Oh yeah – there’s that.Didhesaywhy?’‘He says he’s got a

proposition.’Avividmental imageof a

naked, bald man with anerect, suppurating penisflashedinStrike’smindlikeaprojector slide and wasinstantlydismissed.‘Ithoughthewasholedup

in Devon because he’dbrokenhisleg.’‘He is. He wonders

whether you’d mindtravellingdowntoseehim.’‘Oh,doeshe?’Strike pondered the

suggestion, thinking of hisworkload, the meetings hehad during the rest of theweek.Finally,hesaid:‘IcoulddoitFridayifIput

off Burnett. What the helldoes he want? I’ll need tohire a car.An automatic,’ headded, his leg throbbingpainfully under the table.

‘Couldyoudothatforme?’‘No problem,’ said Robin.

Hecouldhearherscribbling.‘I’vegot a lot to tell you,’

he said. ‘D’you want to joinme for lunch?They’ve got adecent menu. Shouldn’t takeyou more than twentyminutesifyougrabacab.’‘Two days running? We

can’t keep getting taxis andbuying lunch out,’ saidRobin, even though shesoundedpleasedattheidea.

‘That’s OK. Burnett lovesspendingherex’smoney.I’llchargeittoheraccount.’Strikehungup,decidedon

asteakandalepieandlimpedtothebartoorder.When he resumed his seat

hiseyesdriftedabsentlybackto his father in skin-tightleathers, with his hairplastered around his narrow,laughingface.The Wife knows about me

and pretends not to… she

won’t let him go even if it’sthebestthingforeveryone…Iknowwhereyou’reoffto,

Owen!Strike’sgazeslidalongthe

row of black-and-whitemegastars on the wall facinghim.Am I deluded? he asked

John Lennon silently, wholooked down at him throughround glasses, sardonic,pinch-nosed.Why did he not believe,

even in the face of what hehad toadmitweresuggestivesigns to the contrary, thatLeonora had murdered herhusband?Whydidheremainconvinced that she had cometohisofficenotasacoverbutbecause she was genuinelyangry that Quine had runaway like a sulky child? Hewould have sworn on oaththat it had never crossed hermind that her husbandmightbedead…Lostinthought,he

had finished his pint beforeheknewit.‘Hi,’saidRobin.‘That was quick!’ said

Strike,surprisedtoseeher.‘Not really,’ said Robin.

‘Traffic’squiteheavy.ShallIorder?’Male heads turned to look

at her as she walked to thebar,butStrikedidnotnotice.He was still thinking aboutLeonora Quine, thin, plain,greying,hunted.

WhenRobin returnedwithanother pint for Strike and atomato juice for herself sheshowed him the photographsthat she had taken on herphonethatmorningofDanielChard’s town residence. Itwas a white stucco villacomplete with balustrade, itsgleaming black front doorflankedbycolumns.‘It’s got an odd little

courtyard, sheltered from thestreet,’ said Robin, showing

Strikeapicture.Shrubsstoodinbig-belliedGrecianurns.‘Isuppose Chard could havedumped the guts into one ofthose,’ she said flippantly.‘Pulled out the tree andburiedthemintheearth.’‘Can’t imagine Chard

doing anything so energeticordirty,butthat’sthewaytokeep thinking,’ said Strike,remembering the publisher’simmaculate suit andflamboyant tie. ‘How about

ClemAttleeCourt–asfullofhidingplacesasIremember?’‘Loads of them,’ said

Robin, showing him a freshset of pictures. ‘Communalbins, bushes, all sorts. Theonly thing is, I just can’timagine being able to do itunseen, or that somebodywouldn’t notice them fairlyquickly. There are peoplearound all the time andeverywhere you go you’rebeing overlooked by about a

hundredwindows.Youmightmanageitinthemiddleofthenight, but there are camerastoo.‘ButIdidnoticesomething

else.Well…it’sjustanidea.’‘Goon.’‘There’s a medical centre

right in frontof thebuilding.Might they not sometimesdisposeof—’‘Human waste!’ said

Strike, lowering his pint.‘Bloody hell, that’s a

thought.’‘ShouldIgetontoit,then?’

asked Robin, trying toconceal the pleasure andprideshefeltatStrike’s lookof admiration. ‘Try and findouthowandwhen—?’‘Definitely!’ said Strike.

‘That’s a much better leadthan Anstis’s. He thinks,’ heexplained,answeringherlookof enquiry, ‘the guts weredumped in a skip close byTalgarthRoad, that thekiller

just carried them round thecornerandchuckedthemin.’‘Well, they could have,’

began Robin, but Strikefrowned exactly the wayMatthew did if ever shementionedanideaorabeliefofStrike’s.‘This killing was planned

to thehilt.We’renotdealingwith a murderer who’d justhavedumpedaholdallfullofhuman guts round the cornerfromthecorpse.’

They sat in silence whileRobin reflected wryly thatStrike’s dislike of Anstis’stheories might be due toinnate competitiveness morethananyobjectiveevaluation.Robinknewsomethingaboutmale pride; quite apart fromMatthew, she had threebrothers.‘So what were Elizabeth

Tassel’s and JerryWaldegrave’splaceslike?’Strike told her about

Waldegrave’s wife thinkinghe had been watching herhouse.‘Veryshirtyaboutit.’‘Odd,’saidRobin.‘IfIsaw

somebodystaringatourplaceI wouldn’t leap to theconclusion that they were –youknow–watchingit.’‘She’s a drinker like her

husband,’saidStrike.‘Icouldsmell it on her. Meanwhile,ElizabethTassel’splace isasgoodamurderer’shideoutas

I’veeverseen.’‘Whatd’youmean?’asked

Robin, half amused, halfapprehensive.‘Very private, barely

overlooked.’‘Well,Istilldon’tthink—’‘—it’s a woman. You

said.’Strike drank his beer in

silence for a minute or two,consideringacourseofactionthat he knew would irritateAnstis more than any other.

Hehadnorighttointerrogatesuspects.Hehadbeentoldtokeep out of the way of thepolice.Picking up his mobile, he

contemplateditforamoment,then called Roper Chard andasked to speak to JerryWaldegrave.‘Anstis toldyounot toget

under their feet!’Robin said,alarmed.‘Yeah,’saidStrike,theline

silent in his ear, ‘advice he’s

just repeated, but I haven’ttold you half what’s beengoingon.Tellyouin—’‘Hello?’ said Jerry

Waldegraveontheendoftheline.‘Mr Waldegrave,’ said

Strike and introducedhimself, though he hadalready given his name toWaldegrave’s assistant. ‘Wemet briefly yesterdaymorning,atMrsQuine’s.’‘Yes, of course,’ said

Waldegrave. He soundedpolitelypuzzled.‘AsIthinkMrsQuinetold

you, she’s hired me becauseshe’s worried that the policesuspecther.’‘I’m sure that can’t be

true,’ said Waldegrave atonce.‘That they suspect her, or

thatshekilledherhusband?’‘Well – both,’ said

Waldegrave.‘Wivesusuallycomeinfor

close scrutiny when ahusbanddies,’saidStrike.‘I’m sure they do, but I

can’t… well, I can’t believeany of it, actually,’ saidWaldegrave. ‘The wholething’s incredible andhorrible.’‘Yeah,’ said Strike. ‘Iwas

wonderingwhetherwe couldmeetsoIcouldaskyouafewquestions? I’m happy,’ saidthedetective,withaglanceatRobin, ‘to come to your

house – after work –whateversuits.’Waldegravedidnotanswer

immediately.‘Naturally I’ll do anything

tohelpLeonora,butwhatdoyouimagineIcantellyou?’‘I’m interested in Bombyx

Mori,’saidStrike.‘MrQuineput a lot of unflatteringportraitsinthebook.’‘Yeah,’ said Waldegrave.

‘Hedid.’Strike wondered whether

Waldegrave had beeninterviewedbythepoliceyet;whether he had already beenasked to explain the contentsof bloody sacks, thesymbolism of a drowneddwarf.‘All right,’ said

Waldegrave. ‘I don’t mindmeeting you. My diary’squite full this week. Couldyoumake…let’ssee…lunchonMonday?’‘Great,’ said Strike,

reflecting sourly that thiswould mean him footing thebill, and that he would havepreferred to see insideWaldegrave’s house.‘Where?’‘I’dratherstickclosetothe

office; I’ve got a fullafternoon. Would you mindSimpson’s-in-the-Strand?’Strike thought it an odd

choicebutagreed,hiseyesonRobin’s. ‘One o’clock? I’llget my secretary to book it.

Seeyouthen.’‘He’s going tomeet you?’

said Robin as soon as Strikehadhungup.‘Yeah,’ said Strike.

‘Fishy.’She shook her head, half

laughing.‘He didn’t seem

particularly keen, from all Icould hear. And don’t youthinkthefactthathe’sagreedtomeet at all looks like he’sgotaclearconscience?’

‘No,’saidStrike.‘I’vetoldyou this before; plenty ofpeople hang around the likesof me to gauge how theinvestigation’s going. Theycan’t leave well enoughalone, they feel compelled tokeepexplainingthemselves.‘Need a pee… hang on…

gotmoretotellyou…’Robin sipped her tomato

juice while Strike hobbledawayusingthenewstick.Another flurry of snow

passed the window, swiftlydispersing. Robin looked upat the black-and-whitephotographs opposite andrecognised, with a slightshock, Jonny Rokeby,Strike’sfather.Otherthanthefact that both were over sixfeet tall, they did notresemble each other in theslightest; ithadtakenaDNAtest toprovepaternity.Strikewas listed as oneof the rockstar’s progeny on Rokeby’s

Wikipedia entry. They hadmet,soStrikehadtoldRobin,twice. After staring for awhile at Rokeby’s very tightandrevealingleathertrousers,Robin forced herself to gazeout of the window again,afraid of Strike catching herstaringathisfather’sgroin.TheirfoodarrivedasStrike

returnedtothetable.‘The police are searching

thewholeofLeonora’shousenow,’ Strike announced,

pickinguphisknifeandfork.‘Why?’ asked Robin, fork

suspendedinmid-air.‘Why d’you think?

Looking for bloody clothing.Checking the garden forfreshly dug holes full of herhusband’s innards. I’ve puther on to a lawyer. Theyhaven’t got enough to arresther yet, but they’redetermined to findsomething.’‘Yougenuinelydon’tthink

shedidit?’‘No,Idon’t.’Strikehadclearedhisplate

beforehespokeagain.‘I’d love to talk to

Fancourt.Iwanttoknowwhyhe joinedRoper ChardwhenQuine was there and he wassupposedtohatehim.They’dhavebeenboundtomeet.’‘You thinkFancourt killed

Quinesohewouldn’thavetomeethimatofficeparties?’‘Good one,’ said Strike

wryly.He drained his pint glass,

picked up his mobile yetagain, dialled DirectoryEnquiries and shortlyafterwardswasputthroughtothe Elizabeth Tassel LiteraryAgency.Her assistant, Ralph,

answered. When Strike gavehis name, the young mansounded both fearful andexcited.‘Oh, I don’t know… I’ll

ask.Puttingyouonhold.’Buthe appeared tobe less

thanadeptwiththetelephonesystem, because after a loudclick the line remainedopen.Strike could hear a distantRalphinforminghisbossthatStrike was on the telephoneandherloud,impatientretort.‘Whatthebloodyhelldoes

hewantnow?’‘Hedidn’tsay.’Heavyfootsteps,thesound

ofthereceiverbeingsnatched

offthedesk.‘Hello?’‘Elizabeth,’ said Strike

pleasantly. ‘It’s me,CormoranStrike.’‘Yes,Ralph’sjust toldme.

Whatisit?’‘I was wondering if we

couldmeet. I’mstillworkingfor Leonora Quine. She’sconvinced that the policesuspect her of her husband’smurder.’‘Andwhatdoyouwant to

talktomefor?Ican’ttellyouwhethershedidornot.’Strike could imagine the

shocked faces of Ralph andSally, listening in the smellyoldoffice.‘I’ve got a few more

questionsaboutQuine.’‘Oh, for God’s sake,’

growled Elizabeth. ‘Well, Isuppose I could do lunchtomorrow if it suits.OtherwiseI’mbusyuntil—’‘Tomorrow would be

great,’ said Strike. ‘But itdoesn’t have to be lunch, Icould—?’‘Lunchsuitsme.’‘Great,’saidStrikeatonce.‘Pescatori, Charlotte

Street,’ she said. ‘Twelvethirty unless you heardifferently.’Sherangoff.‘They love their bloody

lunches, book people,’ Strikesaid. ‘Is it too much of astretch to think they don’t

want me at home in case Ispot Quine’s guts in thefreezer?’Robin’ssmilefaded.‘Youknow,youcouldlose

a friend over this,’ she said,pullingonher coat. ‘Ringingpeople up and asking toquestionthem.’Strikegrunted.‘Don’t you care?’ she

asked,astheyleftthewarmthfor biting cold, snowflakesburningtheirfaces.

‘I’ve got plenty morefriends,’ said Strike,truthfully,withoutbombast.‘We should have a beer

every lunchtime,’ he added,leaningheavilyonhisstickasthey headed off towards theTube, their heads bowedagainst the white blur.‘Breaksuptheworkingday.’Robin, who had adjusted

her stride to his, smiled. Shehadenjoyed todaymore thanalmost any since she had

started work for Strike, butMatthew, still in Yorkshire,helping plan his mother’sfuneral,mustnotknowaboutthe second trip to a pub intwodays.

27

That I should trust aman,whomIhadknownbetrayhisfriend!WilliamCongreve,The

Double-Dealer

An immense carpet of snowwas rolling down over

Britain. The morning newsshowed the north-east ofEngland already buried inpowdery whiteness, carsstrandedlikesomanyhaplesssheep, headlamps feeblyglinting. London waited itsturn beneath an increasinglyominous sky and Strike,glancing at the weather mapon his TV as he dressed,wondered whether his drivetoDevon thenextdaywouldbe possible, whether the M5

would even be navigable.DeterminedthoughhewastomeettheincapacitatedDanielChard, whose invitationstruckhimashighlypeculiar,he dreaded driving even anautomaticwithhis leg in thiscondition.Thedogswouldstillbeout

on Mucking Marshes. Heimaginedthemasheattachedthe prosthesis, his kneepuffierandmorepainfulthanever; their sensitive,

quivering noses probing thefreshest patches of landfillunder these threateninggunmetal clouds, beneathcircling seagulls. Theymightalready have started, giventhelimiteddaylight,draggingtheir handlers through thefrozengarbage, searching forOwen Quine’s guts. Strikehadworked alongside snifferdogs. Their wriggling rumpsand wagging tails alwaysadded an incongruously

cheerfulnotetosearches.He was disconcerted by

how painful it was to walkdownstairs. Of course, in anideal world he would havespent the previous day withanicepackpressedtotheendofhisstump,hislegelevated,nottrampingalloverLondonbecause he needed to stophimself thinking aboutCharlotte and her wedding,soon to take place in therestored chapel of the Castle

of Croy… not Croy Castle,becauseitannoysthefuckingfamily.Ninedaystogo…The telephone rang on

Robin’s desk as he unlockedthe glass door. Wincing, hehurried to get it. Thesuspicious lover and boss ofMiss Brocklehurst wished toinformStrikethathisPAwasathomeinhisbedwithabadcold, so he was not to becharged for surveillanceuntilshe was up and about again.

Strikehadbarelyreplacedthereceiver when it rang again.Another client, CarolineIngles, announced in a voicethrobbing with emotion thatshe and her errant husbandhad reconciled. Strike wasoffering insincerecongratulations when Robinarrived,pink-facedwithcold.‘It’s getting worse out

there,’ she saidwhen he hadhungup.‘Whowasthat?’‘Caroline Ingles. She’s

madeupwithRupert.’‘What?’ said Robin,

stunned. ‘After all those lap-dancers?’‘They’regoing toworkon

theirmarriagefor thesakeofthekids.’Robinmadealittlesnortof

disbelief.‘Snow looks bad up in

Yorkshire,’ Strikecommented. ‘If you want totake tomorrow off and leaveearly—?’

‘No,’ said Robin, ‘I’vebookedmyselfontheFriday-night sleeper, I should befine. If we’ve lost Ingles, Icouldcalloneofthewaiting-listclients—?’‘Not yet,’ said Strike,

slumping down on the sofaand unable to stop his handslidingtohisswollenkneeasitprotestedpainfully.‘Is it still sore?’ Robin

asked diffidently, pretendingshehadnotseenhimwince.

‘Yeah,’ said Strike. ‘Butthat’snotwhyIdon’twanttotake on another client,’ headdedsharply.‘I know,’ saidRobin,who

had her back to him,switchingon thekettle. ‘Youwant to concentrate on theQuinecase.’Strike was not sure

whether her tone wasreproachful.‘She’ll pay me,’ he said

shortly. ‘Quine had life

insurance,shemadehimtakeitout.Sothere’smoneytherenow.’Robin heard his

defensivenessanddidnotlikeit. Strike was making theassumption that her prioritywas money. Hadn’t sheproved that it was not whenshe had turned down muchbetter paid jobs to work forhim? Hadn’t he noticed thewillingness with which shewas trying tohelphimprove

that Leonora Quine had notkilledherhusband?She set a mug of tea, a

glass of water andparacetamol down besidehim.‘Thanks,’ he said, through

gritted teeth, irritated by thepainkillers even though heintended to take a doubledose.‘I’llbookataxitotakeyou

to Pescatori at twelve, shallI?’

‘It’s only round thecorner,’hesaid.‘You know, there’s pride,

and then there’s stupidity,’said Robin, with one of thefirstflashesofrealtemperhehadeverseeninher.‘Fine,’ he said, eyebrows

raised. ‘I’ll take a bloodytaxi.’And in truth, he was glad

of it three hours later as helimped, leaning heavily onthe cheap stick, which was

nowwarpingfromhisweight,to the taxiwaitingat theendofDenmark Street. He knewnowthatheoughtnottohaveput on the prosthesis at all.Getting out of the cab a fewminutes later in CharlotteStreet was tricky, the taxidriver impatient. Strikereached the noisy warmth ofPescatoriwithrelief.Elizabethwasnotyetthere

but had booked under hername.Strikewas shown to a

tablefortwobesideapebble-set and whitewashed wall.Rustic wooden beamscrisscrossed the ceiling; arowing boat was suspendedover the bar. Across theopposite wall were jauntyorange leather booths. Fromforceof habit, Strikeordereda pint, enjoying the light,bright Mediterranean charmofhissurroundings,watchingthe snow drifting past thewindows.

Theagentarrivednot longafterwards. He tried to standas she approached the tablebut fell back down againquickly. Elizabeth did notseemtonotice.She looked as though she

had lost weight since he hadlast seen her; the well-cutblack suit, the scarlet lipstickandthesteel-greybobdidnotlend her dash today, butlooked like a badly chosendisguise. Her face was

yellowishandseemedtosag.‘Howareyou?’heasked.‘Howdoyou think I am?’

she croaked rudely. ‘What?’she snapped at a hoveringwaiter.‘Oh.Water.Still.’She picked up her menu

with an air of having givenaway too much and Strikecouldtell thatanyexpressionof pity or concern would beunwelcome.‘Just soup,’ she told the

waiter when he returned for

theirorder.‘Iappreciateyouseeingme

again,’ Strike said when thewaiterhaddeparted.‘Well,GodknowsLeonora

needs all the help she canget,’saidElizabeth.‘Whydoyousaythat?’Elizabeth narrowed her

eyesathim.‘Don’tpretendtobestupid.

She told me she insisted onbeing brought to ScotlandYard to see you, right after

she got the news aboutOwen.’‘Yeah,shedid.’‘And how did she think

that would look? The policeprobably expected her tocollapseinaheapandallsh-she wants to do is see herdetectivefriend.’She suppressed a cough

withdifficulty.‘I don’t think Leonora

gives any thought to theimpression she makes on

otherpeople,’saidStrike.‘N-no, well, you’re right

there. She’s never been thebrightest.’Strike wondered what

impression Elizabeth Tasselthought she made on theworld; whether she realisedhow little shewas liked. Sheallowed the cough that shehad been trying to suppressfreeexpressionandhewaitedfortheloud,seal-likebarkstopassbeforeasking:

‘Youthinksheshouldhavefakedsomegrief?’‘I don’t say it’s fake,’

snapped Elizabeth. ‘I’m sureshe is upset in her ownlimitedway.I’mjustsayingitwouldn’t hurt to play thegrieving widow a bit more.It’swhatpeopleexpect.’‘Isupposeyou’vetalkedto

thepolice?’‘Of course. We’ve been

through the row in theRiverCafé, over and over the

reasonIdidn’treadthedamnbook properly. And theywanted to know mymovements after I last sawOwen. Specifically, the threedaysafterIsawhim.’She glared interrogatively

at Strike, whose expressionremainedimpassive.‘Itakeittheythinkhedied

within three days of ourargument?’‘I’ve no idea,’ lied Strike.

‘Whatdidyoutellthemabout

yourmovements?’‘That Iwentstraighthome

after Owen stormed out onme, got up at six nextmorning, took a taxi toPaddington and went to staywithDorcus.’‘One of your writers, I

thinkyousaid?’‘Yes,DorcusPengelly,she

—’Elizabeth noticed Strike’s

small grin and, for the firsttime in their acquaintance,

her face relaxed into afleetingsmile.‘It’s her real name, if you

can believe it, not apseudonym. She writespornography dressed up ashistorical romance. Owenwas very sniffy about herbooks, but he’d have killedfor her sales. They go,’ saidElizabeth,‘likehotcakes.’‘When did you get back

fromDorcus’s?’‘LateMondayafternoon.It

was supposed to be a nicelongweekend,butnice,’ saidElizabeth tensely, ‘thanks toBombyxMori,itwasnot.‘I live alone,’ she

continued. ‘I can’t prove Iwent home, that I didn’tmurderOwenassoonasIgotback to London. I certainlyfeltlikedoingit…’She drankmorewater and

continued:‘The police were mostly

interested in the book. They

seem to think it’sgivena lotofpeopleamotive.’It was her first overt

attempttogetinformationoutofhim.‘It looked like a lot of

people at first,’ said Strike,‘butifthey’vegotthetimeofdeath right and Quine diedwithinthreedaysofyourrowintheRiverCafé,thenumberof suspects will be fairlylimited.’‘Howso?’ askedElizabeth

sharply,andhewasremindedof one of his most scathingtutors at Oxford, who usedthis two-wordquestion likeagiant needle to puncture ill-foundedtheorising.‘Can’t give you that

information, I’m afraid,’Strike replied pleasantly.‘Mustn’t prejudice the policecase.’Her pallid skin, across the

small table, was large-poredandcoarse-grained,theolive-

darkeyeswatchful.‘Theyaskedme,’shesaid,

‘to whom I had shown themanuscript during the fewdaysIhaditbeforesendingitto Jerry and Christian –answer: nobody. And theyasked me with whom Owendiscusses his manuscriptswhile he’s writing them. Idon’t know why that was,’she said, her black eyes stillfixed on Strike’s. ‘Do theythink somebody egged him

on?’‘I don’t know,’ Strike lied

again. ‘Does he discuss thebookshe’sworkingon?’‘He might have confided

bits in JerryWaldegrave.Hebarely deigned to tellme histitles.’‘Really? He never asked

your advice? Did you sayyou’d studied English atOxford—?’‘I took a first,’ she said

angrily, ‘but that counted for

less thannothingwithOwen,who incidentally was thrownoff his course atLoughborough or some suchplace,andnevergotadegreeatall.Yes,andMichaeloncekindly told Owen that I’dbeen “lamentably derivative”as a writer back when wewere students, and Owennever forgot it.’Thememoryof the old slight had given apurple tinge to her yellowishskin.‘OwensharedMichael’s

prejudice about women inliterature. Neither of themmindedwomenpraisingtheirwork, of c-course—’ Shecoughed into her napkin andemergedred-facedandangry.‘Owen was a bigger gluttonfor praise than any authorI’ve ever met, and they aremostoftheminsatiable.’Their food arrived: tomato

and basil soup for ElizabethandcodandchipsforStrike.‘Youtoldmewhenwelast

met,’ said Strike, havingswallowed his first largemouthful, ‘that there came apointwhenyouhadtochoosebetweenFancourtandQuine.WhydidyouchooseQuine?’She was blowing on a

spoonfulofsoupandseemedto give her answer seriousconsideration beforespeaking.‘I felt – at that time– that

he was more sinned againstthansinning.’

‘Did this have somethingto do with the parodysomebody wrote ofFancourt’swife’snovel?’‘“Somebody” didn’t write

it,’ she said quietly. ‘Owendid.’‘Do you know that for

sure?’‘Heshowedittomebefore

he sent it to the magazine.I’m afraid,’ Elizabeth metStrike’s gaze with colddefiance, ‘it made me laugh.

Itwas painfully accurate andveryfunny.Owenwasalwaysagoodliterarymimic.’‘But then Fancourt’s wife

killedherself.’‘Which was a tragedy, of

course,’ said Elizabeth,without noticeable emotion,‘although nobody could havereasonably expected it.Frankly, anybody who’sgoing to kill themselvesbecause of a bad review hasnobusinesswritinganovelin

the first place. But naturallyenough, Michael was lividwith Owen and I think themore so because Owen gotcold feet and deniedauthorship once he heardabout Elspeth’s suicide. Itwas, perhaps, a surprisinglycowardly attitude for a manwholikedtobethoughtofasfearlessandlawless.‘Michael wanted me to

drop Owen as a client. Irefused. Michael hasn’t

spokentomesince.’‘Was Quine making more

moneyforyou thanFancourtatthetime?’Strikeasked.‘Good God, no,’ she said.

‘It wasn’t to my pecuniaryadvantage to stick withOwen.’‘Thenwhy—?’‘I’ve just told you,’ she

saidimpatiently.‘Ibelieveinfreedomofspeech,uptoandincluding upsetting people.Anyway, days after Elspeth

killed herself, Leonora gavebirth to premature twins.Somethingwentbadlywrongat thebirth; theboydiedandOrlando is…I take ityou’vemetherbynow?’As he nodded, Strike’s

dreamoftheothernightcameback to him suddenly: thebabythatCharlottehadgivenbirth to, but that she wouldnotlethimsee…‘Braindamaged,’Elizabeth

wenton.‘SoOwenwasgoing

through his own personaltragedy at the time, andunlikeMichael, he hadn’t b-broughtanyofitonh-himself—’Coughing again, she

caught Strike’s look of faintsurprise and made animpatientstayinggesturewithher hand, indicating that shewould explain when the fithad passed. Finally, afteranother sip of water, shecroaked:

‘Michael only encouragedElspeth to write to keep herout of his hair while heworked.Theyhadnothing incommon. He married herbecause he’s terminallytouchy about being lowermiddle class. She was anearl’s daughter who thoughtmarrying Michael wouldmeannon-stopliterarypartiesand sparkling, intellectualchat.Shedidn’t realise she’dbe alone most of the time

while Michael worked. Shewas,’ said Elizabeth withdisdain, ‘a woman of fewresources.‘But shegot excited at the

idea of being a writer. Haveyou any idea,’ said the agentharshly, ‘how many peoplethink they can write? Youcannot imaginethecrapIamsent, day in, day out.Elspeth’s novel would havebeen rejected out of handunder normal circumstances,

it was so pretentious andsilly,buttheyweren’tnormalcircumstances. Havingencouraged her to producethe damn thing, Michaeldidn’t have the balls to tellheritwasawful.HegaveittohispublisherandtheytookittokeepMichaelhappy.Ithadbeen out a week when theparodyappeared.’‘Quine implies in Bombyx

Mori that Fancourt reallywrote the parody,’ said

Strike.‘I know he does – and I

wouldn’t want to provokeMichaelFancourt,’sheaddedin an apparent aside thatbeggedtobeheard.‘Whatdoyoumean?’Therewasashortpausein

which he could almost seeElizabeth deciding what totellhim.‘I met Michael,’ she said

slowly, ‘in a tutorial groupstudying Jacobean revenge

tragedies.Let’sjustsayitwashis naturalmilieu.He adoresthose writers; their sadismand their lust forvengeance… rape andcannibalism, poisonedskeletons dressed up aswomen… sadistic retributionisMichael’sobsession.’She glanced up at Strike,

whowaswatchingher.‘What?’shesaidcurtly.When, he wondered, were

thedetailsofQuine’smurder

going to explode across thenewspapers? The dam mustalready be straining, withCulpepperonthecase.‘DidFancourt takesadistic

retribution when you choseQuineoverhim?’She looked down at the

bowlofredliquidandpusheditabruptlyawayfromher.‘We were close friends,

very close, but he’s neversaid a word to me from theday that I refused to sack

Owen. He did his best towarnotherwritersawayfrommy agency, said I was awoman of no honour orprinciple.‘But I hold one principle

sacred and he knew it,’ shesaid firmly. ‘Owen hadn’tdoneanything,inwritingthatparody, that Michael hadn’tdoneahundredtimestootherwriters.Of course I regrettedthe aftermath deeply, but itwas one of the times – the

few times – when I felt thatOwen was morally in theclear.’‘Must’ve hurt, though,’

Strike said. ‘You’d knownFancourtlongerthanQuine.’‘We’ve been enemies

longer than we’ve beenfriends,now.’It was not, Strike noted, a

properanswer.‘You mustn’t think…

Owen wasn’t always – hewasn’t all bad,’ Elizabeth

saidrestlessly.‘Youknow,hewasobsessedwithvirility, inlife and in his work.Sometimesitwasametaphorfor creative genius, but atother times it’s seen as thebar to artistic fulfilment.TheplotofHobart’sSin turns onHobart,who’sbothmaleandfemale, having to choosebetween parenthood andabandoninghis aspirations asawriter:abortinghisbaby,orabandoninghisbrainchild.

‘But when it came tofatherhood in real life – youunderstand,Orlandowasn’t…you wouldn’t have chosenyour child to… to… but helovedherandshelovedhim.’‘Except for the times he

walked out on the family toconsort with mistresses orfritter away money in hotelrooms,’suggestedStrike.‘All right, he wouldn’t

havewonFatheroftheYear,’snappedElizabeth, ‘but there

waslovethere.’Asilencefelloverthetable

and Strike decided not tobreak it. He was sure thatElizabeth Tassel had agreedto this meeting, as she hadrequestedthelast,forreasonsof her own and hewas keentohearthem.Hethereforeatehisfishandwaited.‘The police have asked

me,’ she said finally, whenhis plate was almost clear,‘whether Owen was

blackmailing me in someway.’‘Really?’saidStrike.The restaurant clattered

and chattered around them,and outside the snow fellthicker than ever.Here againwasthefamiliarphenomenonof which he had spoken toRobin: the suspect whowished to re-explain,worriedthattheyhadnotmadeagoodenoughjobof itontheirfirstattempt.

‘They’ve takennoteof thelarge dollops of moneypassing from my account toOwen’s over the years,’ saidElizabeth.Strike said nothing; her

ready payment of Quine’shotel bills had struck him asout of character in theirpreviousmeeting.‘What do they think

anyone could blackmail mefor?’ she asked him with atwist to her scarlet mouth.

‘My professional life hasbeen scrupulously honest. Ihave no private life to speakof. I’m theverydefinitionofa blameless spinster, aren’tI?’Strike, who judged it

impossible to answer such aquestion, however rhetorical,without giving offence, saidnothing.‘It started when Orlando

was born,’ Elizabeth said.‘Owen had managed to get

through all the money he’dever made and Leonora wasin intensive care for twoweeks after the birth, andMichael Fancourt wasscreaming to anybodywho’dlisten that Owen hadmurderedhiswife.‘Owen was a pariah.

Neither he nor Leonora hadanyfamily.Ilenthimmoney,asafriend,togetbabythings.Then I advanced himmoneyfor a mortgage on a bigger

house.Thentherewasmoneyfor specialists to look atOrlando when it was clearthat she wasn’t developingquite as she should, andtherapists to helpher.BeforeI knew it, Iwas the family’spersonal bank. Every timeroyalties came in Owenwouldmakeabig fuss aboutrepaying me, and sometimesI’dgetafewthousandback.‘At heart,’ said the agent,

the words tumbling out of

her,‘Owenwasanovergrownchild,whichcouldmakehimunbearable or charming.Irresponsible, impulsive,egotistical,amazinglylackingin conscience, but he couldalso be fun, enthusiastic andengaging. There was apathos,afunnyfragilityabouthim, however badly hebehaved, that made peoplefeel protective. JerryWaldegrave felt it. Womenfelt it. I felt it.And the truth

isthatIkeptonhoping,evenbelieving, that one day he’dproduce another Hobart’sSin. There was alwayssomething, in every bloodyawful book he’s written,something that meant youcouldn’t completely writehimoff.’Awaitercameovertotake

away their plates. Elizabethwaved away his solicitousenquiry as to whether therehad been something wrong

withhersoupandaskedforacoffee. Strike accepted theofferofthedessertmenu.‘Orlando’s sweet, though,’

Elizabeth added gruffly.‘Orlando’sverysweet.’‘Yeah… she seemed to

think,’ said Strike, watchingherclosely,‘thatshesawyougoing into Quine’s study theotherday,whileLeonorawasinthebathroom.’He did not think that she

had expected the question,

nordidsheseemtolikeit.‘Shesawthat,didshe?’She sipped water,

hesitated,thensaid:‘I’d challenge anyone

depicted in Bombyx Mori,given the chance of seeingwhat other nasty jottingsOwen might have left lyingaround, not to take theopportunityofhavingalook.’‘Didyoufindanything?’‘No,’shesaid,‘becausethe

place was a tip. I could see

immediately that it wouldtake far too long to searchand,’ she raised her chindefiantly, ‘to be absolutelyfrank, I didn’t want to leavefingerprints. So I left asquicklyasIwalkedin.Itwasthe – possibly ignoble –impulseofamoment.’She seemed to have said

everything she had come tosay. Strike ordered an appleand strawberry crumble andtooktheinitiative.

‘DanielChardwantstoseeme,’ he told her. Her olive-dark eyes widened insurprise.‘Why?’‘I don’t know. Unless the

snow’s too bad, I’m goingdown to visit him in Devontomorrow. I’d like to know,before Imeet him, why he’sportrayedasthemurdererofayoung blondman inBombyxMori.’‘I’mnotprovidingakeyto

that filthy book for you,’retorted Elizabeth with areturn of all her formeraggression and suspicion.‘No.Notdoingit.’‘That’s a shame,’ said

Strike, ‘because people aretalking.’‘Am I likely to compound

myownegregiousmistakeinsending the damn thing outinto the world by gossipingaboutit?’‘I’m discreet,’ Strike

assured her. ‘Nobody needsto know where I got myinformation.’But she merely glared at

him,coldandimpassive.‘What about Kathryn

Kent?’‘Whatabouther?’‘Whyisthecaveofherlair

in Bombyx Mori full of ratskulls?’Elizabethsaidnothing.‘I know Kathryn Kent’s

Harpy, I’ve met her,’ said

Strike patiently. ‘All you’redoingbyexplainingissavingmesometime.Isupposeyouwant to find out who killedQuine?’‘So bloody transparent,’

she said witheringly. ‘Doesthatusuallyworkonpeople?’‘Yeah,’ he said matter-of-

factly,‘itdoes.’She frowned, then said

abruptlyandnotaltogethertohissurprise:‘Well,afterall,Idon’towe

Kathryn Kent any loyalty. Ifyou must know, Owen wasmaking a fairly crudereference to the fact that sheworks at an animal-testingfacility. They do disgustingthings there to rats, dogs andmonkeys. I heard all about itat one of the parties Owenbrought her to. There shewas, falling out of her dressand trying to impress me,’said Elizabeth, withcontempt. ‘I’ve seen her

work. She makes DorcusPengelly look like IrisMurdoch. Typical of thedross–thedross—’Strike managed several

mouthfuls of his crumblewhile she coughed hard intohernapkin.‘—the dross the internet

has given us,’ she finished,her eyes watering. ‘Andalmost worse, she seemed toexpect me to be on her sideagainst the scruffy students

who’d attacked theirlaboratories. I’m a vet’sdaughter: I grew up withanimalsandIlikethemmuchbetter than I like people. Ifound Kathryn Kent ahorribleperson.’‘Any idea who Harpy’s

daughter Epicoene’ssupposed to be?’ askedStrike.‘No,’saidElizabeth.‘Or the dwarf in the

Cutter’sbag?’

‘I’m not explaining anymoreofthewretchedbook!’‘Do you know if Quine

knewawomancalledPippa?’‘I never met a Pippa. But

he taught creative writingcourses; middle-aged womentrying to find their raisond’être. That’s where hepickedupKathrynKent.’She sipped her coffee and

glancedatherwatch.‘What can you tell me

about Joe North?’ Strike

asked.She glanced at him

suspiciously.‘Why?’‘Curious,’saidStrike.He did not knowwhy she

chose to answer; perhapsbecauseNorthwaslongdead,or because of that streak ofsentimentality he had firstdivined back in her clutteredoffice.‘He was from California,’

she said. ‘He’d comeover to

London to find his Englishroots. He was gay, a fewyears younger than Michael,Owen andme, andwriting avery frank first novel aboutthe life he’d led in SanFrancisco.‘Michaelintroducedhimto

me.Michaelthoughthisstuffwasfirstclass,anditwas,buthe wasn’t a fast writer. Hewas partying hard, and also,whichnoneofusknew for acoupleofyears,hewasHIV-

positiveandnotlookingafterhimself. There came a pointwhen he developed full-blown Aids.’ Elizabethcleared her throat. ‘Well,you’ll remember how muchhysteriatherewasaboutHIVwhenitfirstemerged.’Strikewasinuredtopeople

thinking that he was at leastten years older than he was.Infact,hehadheardfromhismother (never one to guardher tongue in deference to a

child’ssensibilities)aboutthekiller disease that wasstalking those who fuckedfreelyandsharedneedles.‘Joe fell apart physically

and all the people who’dwantedtoknowhimwhenhewas promising, clever andbeautifulmeltedaway,except– to do them credit—’ saidElizabeth grudgingly,‘Michael and Owen. TheyralliedroundJoe,buthediedwithhisnovelunfinished.

‘Michael was ill andcouldn’t go to Joe’s funeral,but Owen was a pall bearer.In gratitude for the waythey’d looked after him, Joeleft the pair of them thatrather lovely house, wherethey’doncepartiedandsatupall night discussing books. Iwas there for a few of thoseevenings.Theywere…happytimes,’saidElizabeth.‘How much did they use

thehouseafterNorthdied?’

‘I can’t answer forMichael, but I’d doubt he’sbeen there since he fell outwith Owen, which was notlongafterJoe’s funeral,’saidElizabeth with a shrug.‘Owen never went therebecause he was terrified ofrunning into Michael. Theterms of Joe’s will werepeculiar:I thinktheycall itarestrictive covenant. Joestipulated that the housewasto be preserved as an artists’

refuge.That’showMichael’smanagedtoblockthesaleallthese years; the Quines havenever managed to findanother artist, or artists, tosellto.Asculptorrenteditforawhile, but that didn’tworkout. Of course, Michael’salways been as picky aspossibleabouttenantstostopOwen benefiting financially,and he can afford lawyers toenforcehiswhims.’‘WhathappenedtoNorth’s

unfinished book?’ askedStrike.‘Oh, Michael abandoned

work on his own novel andfinished Joe’s posthumously.It’scalledTowards theMarkandHaroldWeaverpublishedit: it’s a cult classic, neverbeenoutofprint.’She checked her watch

again.‘I need to go,’ she said.

‘I’ve got a meeting at twothirty. My coat, please,’ she

calledtoapassingwaiter.‘Somebody told me,’ said

Strike, who rememberedperfectlywellthatithadbeenAnstis, ‘that you supervisedwork on Talgarth Road awhileback?’‘Yes,’ she said

indifferently, ‘just one moreof the unusual jobs Quine’sagentendedupdoingforhim.It was a matter ofcoordinating repairs, puttinginworkmen.IsentMichaela

bill for half and he paid upthroughhislawyers.’‘Youhadakey?’‘Which I passed to the

foreman,’ she said coldly,‘thenreturnedtotheQuines.’‘Youdidn’tgoandseethe

workyourself?’‘Of course I did; I needed

to check it had been done. IthinkIvisitedtwice.’‘Was hydrochloric acid

usedinanyoftherenovation,doyouknow?’

‘Thepoliceaskedmeabouthydrochloric acid,’ she said.‘Why?’‘Ican’tsay.’She glowered.He doubted

that people often refusedElizabethTasselinformation.‘Well, I can only tell you

what I told thepolice: itwasprobably left there by ToddHarkness.’‘Who?’‘The sculptor I told you

about who rented the studio

space. Owen found him andFancourt’s lawyers couldn’tfinda reason toobject.Whatnobody realised was thatHarkness worked mainly inrusted metal and used somevery corrosive chemicals.Hedid a lot of damage in thestudio before being asked toleave.Fancourt’ssidedidthatclean-up operation and sentusthebill.’Thewaiterhadbroughther

coat,towhichafewdoghairs

clung. Strike could hear afaint whistle from herlabouring chest as she stoodup.With a peremptory shakeof thehand,ElizabethTasselleft.Strike took another taxi

back to the office with thevague intention of beingconciliatory to Robin;somehow they had rubbedeachotherup thewrongwaythatmorning and hewas notquite sure how it had

happened. However, by thetime he had finally reachedthe outer office he wassweatingwith thepain inhisknee andRobin’s firstwordsdrove all thought ofpropitiationfromhismind.‘Thecarhirecompanyjust

called. They haven’t got anautomatic, but they can giveyou—’‘It’s got to be an

automatic!’ snapped Strike,dropping onto the sofa in an

eruptionofleatheryflatulencethat irritatedhimstill further.‘I can’t bloody drive amanual in this state! Haveyourung—?’‘Of course I’ve tried other

places,’ said Robin coldly.‘I’ve tried everywhere.Nobody can give you anautomatic tomorrow. Theweather forecast’s atrocious,anyway. I think you’d dobetterto—’‘I’m going to interview

Chard,’saidStrike.Painandfearweremaking

himangry:fearthathewouldhavetogiveuptheprosthesisand resort to crutches again,his trouser leg pinned up,staring eyes, pity. He hatedhard plastic chairs indisinfected corridors; hatedhis voluminous notes beingunearthed and pored over,murmursaboutchangestohisprosthesis, advice from calmmedical men to rest, to

mollycoddlehislegasthoughitwereasickchildhehadtocarry everywhere with him.Inhisdreamshewasnotone-legged; inhisdreamshewaswhole.Chard’sinvitationhadbeen

an unlooked-for gift; heintended to seize it. Thereweremany things he wantedtoaskQuine’spublisher.Theinvitation itselfwasglaringlystrange. He wanted to hearChard’s reason for dragging

himtoDevon.‘Did you hear me?’ asked

Robin.‘What?’‘I said, “I could drive

you.”’‘No,youcan’t,’saidStrike

ungraciously.‘Whynot?’‘You’ve got to be in

Yorkshire.’‘I’ve got to be at King’s

Cross tomorrow night ateleven.’

‘The snow’s going to beterrible.’‘We’ll set out early. Or,’

saidRobinwithashrug,‘youcan cancel Chard. But theforecast for next week’sawfultoo.’It was difficult to reverse

from ingratitude to theopposite with Robin’s steelygrey-blueeyesuponhim.‘All right,’ he said stiffly.

‘Thanks.’‘ThenIneedtogoandpick

upthecar,’saidRobin.‘Right,’saidStrikethrough

grittedteeth.Owen Quine had not

thoughtwomenhadanyplaceinliterature:he,Strike,hadasecret prejudice, too – butwhatchoicedidhehave,withhiskneescreamingformercyandnoautomaticcarforhire?

28

…that(ofallother)wasthe most fatal anddangerous exploit thatever I was ranged in,since I first bore armsbefore the face of theenemy…BenJonson,EveryMan

inHisHumour

Atfiveo’clock thefollowingmorning, a muffled andglovedRobinboardedoneofthe first Tube trains of theday, her hair glistening withsnowflakes,asmallbackpackover her shoulder andcarrying a weekend bag intowhich she had packed theblack dress, coat and shoesthat she would need forMrsCunliffe’s funeral. She did

not dare count on gettingback home after the roundtriptoDevon,butintendedtogo straight to King’s Crossonceshehadreturnedthecartothehirecompany.Sittingonthealmostempty

train she consulted her ownfeelings about the day aheadand found them mixed.Excitementwasherdominantemotion, because she wasconvinced that Strike hadsome excellent reason for

interviewingChardthatcouldnot wait. Robin had learnedto trust her boss’s judgementandhishunches;itwasoneofthe things that so irritatedMatthew.Matthew…Robin’s black-

gloved fingers tightened onthe handle of the bag besideher. She kept lying toMatthew. Robin was atruthful person and never, inthe nine years that they hadbeentogether,hadshelied,or

not until recently. Some hadbeen lies of omission.Matthewhadaskedheronthetelephone on Wednesdaynight what she had done atwork that day and she hadgivenhimabriefandheavilyedited version of heractivities, omitting her tripwith Strike to the housewhere Quine had beenmurdered,lunchattheAlbionand, of course, the walkacross the bridge at West

Brompton station withStrike’s heavy arm over hershoulder.Buttherehadbeenoutright

liestoo.Justlastnighthehadasked her, like Strike,whethersheoughtn’ttakethedayoff,getanearliertrain.‘I tried,’ she had said, the

lieslidingeasilyfromherlipsbefore she considered it.‘They’re all full. It’s theweather, isn’t it? I supposepeople are taking the train

instead of risking it in theircars. I’ll just have to stickwiththesleeper.’What else could I say?

thought Robin as the darkwindows reflected her owntense face back at her.He’dhavegoneballistic.The truth was that she

wanted to go to Devon; shewanted to help Strike; shewantedtogetoutfrombehindher computer,howevermuchquiet satisfaction her

competent administration ofthe business gave her, andinvestigate.Was thatwrong?Matthewthoughtso.Itwasn’twhathe’dcountedon.Hehadwanted her to go with theadvertising agency, intohuman resources, at nearlytwice thesalary.Londonwasso expensive. Matthewwantedabiggerflat.Hewas,shesupposed,carryingher…Then there was Strike. A

familiar frustration, a tight

knot in her stomach: we’llhave to get someone else in.Constant mentions of thisprospectivepartner,whowasassuming mythical substancein Robin’s mind: a short-haired, shrew-faced womanlike the police officer whohad stood guard outside thecrimesceneinTalgarthRoad.Shewould be competent andtrained in all the ways thatRobin was not, andunencumbered (for the very

first time, in this half empty,brightly lit Tube carriage,with the world dark outsideand her ears full of rumbleandclatter,shesaiditopenlyto herself) by a fiancé likeMatthew.ButMatthew was the axis

of her life, the fixed centre.She loved him; she hadalways loved him. He hadstuck with her through theworst time in her life, whenmanyyoungmenwouldhave

left.Shewantedtomarryhimand she was going to marryhim.Itwasjustthattheyhadnever had fundamentaldisagreements before, never.Somethingabouther job,herdecision to stay with Strike,about Strike himself, hadintroduced a rogue elementinto their relationship,something threatening andnew…The Toyota Land Cruiser

thatRobinhadhiredhadbeen

parked overnight in the Q-ParkinChinatown,oneofthenearestcarparkstoDenmarkStreet, where there was noparking at all. Slipping andsliding in her flattest smartshoes, the weekend bagswingingfromherrighthand,Robin hurried through thedarkness to the multi-storey,refusing to think any moreabout Matthew, or what hewouldthinkorsayifhecouldsee her, heading off for six

hours alone in the car withStrike. After placing her bagintheboot,Robinsatbackinthedriver’sseat,setupthesatnav, adjusted theheatingandleft the engine running towarmuptheicyinterior.Strike was a little late,

whichwasunlikehim.Robinwhiled away the wait byacquaintingherself fullywiththe controls. She loved cars,hadalwaysloveddriving.Bythe age of ten she had been

able to drive the tractor onher uncle’s farm as long assomeone helped her releasethe handbrake. UnlikeMatthew, she had passed hertest the first time. She hadlearnednottoteasehimaboutthis.Movementglimpsed inher

rear-view mirror made herlookup.Adark-suitedStrikewas making his waylaboriously towards the caron crutches, his right trouser

legpinnedup.Robinfeltasick,swooping

feeling in the pit of herstomach–notbecauseof theamputatedleg,whichshehadseen before, and in muchmore troublingcircumstances, but because itwasthefirsttimethatshehadknown Strike forsake theprosthesisinpublic.Shegotoutofthecar,then

wished she hadn’t when shecaughthisscowl.

‘Good thinking, getting afour-by-four,’hesaid,silentlywarninghernot to talkabouthisleg.‘Yeah, I thought we’d

better in this weather,’ saidRobin.He moved around to the

passenger seat. Robin knewshe must not offer help; shecould feel an exclusion zonearoundhimasthoughheweretelepathically rejecting alloffers of assistance or

sympathy, but she wasworried thathewouldnotbeable to get inside unaided.Strikethrewhiscrutchesontotheback seat and stood for amoment precariouslybalanced; then, with a showof upper body strength thatshe had never seen before,pulled himself smoothly intothecar.Robin jumped back in

hastily, closed her door, puther seatbelt on and reversed

out of the parking space.Strike’spre-emptiverejectionofherconcernsat likeawallbetween them and to hersympathy was added a twistof resentment that he wouldnot let her in to that tinydegree. When had she everfussed over him or tried tomother him? The most shehad ever done was pass himparacetamol…Strike knew himself to be

unreasonable, but the

awareness merely increasedhis irritation. On waking ithad been obvious that to tryto force the prosthesis ontohis leg, when the knee washot, swollen and extremelypainful, would be an act ofidiocy.Hehadbeenforcedtodescend the metal stairs onhis backside, like a smallchild. Traversing CharingCross Road on ice andcrutches had earned him thestares of those few early-

morning pedestrians whowere braving the sub-zerodarkness. He had neverwanted to return to this statebut here he was, all becauseof a temporary forgetfulnessthat he was not, like thedreamStrike,whole.At least, Strike notedwith

relief,Robincoulddrive.Hissister, Lucy, was distractibleand unreliable behind thewheel. Charlotte had alwaysdrivenherLexusinamanner

that caused Strike physicalpain: speeding through redlights, turning up one-waystreets, smoking and chattingon her mobile, narrowlymissing cyclists and theopening doors of parkedcars…Ever since theVikinghadblownuparoundhimonthat yellow dirt road, Strikehad found it difficult to bedriven by anyone except aprofessional.Afteralongsilence,Robin

said:‘There’s coffee in the

backpack.’‘What?’‘In thebackpack–a flask.

Ididn’t thinkweshouldstopunlesswereallyhaveto.Andtherearebiscuits.’The windscreen wipers

were carving their waythroughflecksofsnow.‘You’re a bloody marvel,’

said Strike, his reservecrumbling. He had not had

breakfast: trying and failingtoattachhisfalseleg,findinga pin for his suit trousers,digging out his crutches andgetting himself downstairshad taken twice the time hehad allowed.And in spite ofherself, Robin gave a smallsmile.Strike poured himself

coffee andate several bits ofshortbread, his appreciationof Robin’s deft handling ofthe strange car increasing as

hishungerdecreased.‘What does Matthew

drive?’heaskedastheyspedover the Boston Manorviaduct.‘Nothing,’saidRobin.‘We

haven’tgotacarinLondon.’‘Yeah, no need,’ said

Strike, privately reflectingthatifheevergaveRobinthesalary she deserved theymightbeabletoaffordone.‘Sowhat are you planning

to ask Daniel Chard?’ Robin

asked.‘Plenty,’ said Strike,

brushing crumbsoff his darkjacket. ‘First off, whetherhe’d fallen out with Quineand,ifso,whatabout.Ican’tfathom why Quine – totaldickhead though he clearlywas – decided to attack theman who had his livelihoodinhishandsandwhohadthemoney to sue him intooblivion.’Strikemunched shortbread

for a while, swallowed, thenadded:‘Unless Jerry

Waldegrave’srightandQuinewas having a genuinebreakdown when he wrote itand lashed out at anyone hethought he could blame forhislousysales.’Robin, who had finished

reading Bombyx Mori whileStrikehadbeenhaving lunchwith Elizabeth Tassel thepreviousday,said:

‘Isn’t the writing toocoherent for somebodyhavingabreakdown?’‘The syntax might be

sound,butIdon’tthinkyou’dfind many people who’ddisagree that the content’sbloodyinsane.’‘His other writing’s very

likeit.’‘None of his other stuff’s

as crazy as Bombyx Mori,’saidStrike.‘Hobart’sSinandTheBalzacBrothersbothhad

plots.’‘Thishasgotaplot.’‘Has it? Or is Bombyx’s

little walking tour just aconvenient way of stringingtogether a load of attacks ondifferentpeople?’The snow fell thick and

fastastheypassedtheexittoHeathrow, talking about thenovel’svariousgrotesqueries,laughing a little over itsludicrous jumps of logic, itsabsurdities. The trees on

either side of the motorwaylooked as though they hadbeendustedwithtonsoficingsugar.‘Maybe Quine was born

four hundred years too late,’said Strike, still eatingshortbread. ‘Elizabeth Tasseltold me there’s a Jacobeanrevenge play featuring apoisoned skeleton disguisedas a woman. Presumablysomeone shags it and dies.Not a million miles away

from Phallus Impudicusgettingreadyto—’‘Don’t,’saidRobin,witha

halflaughandashudder.But Strike had not broken

offbecauseofherprotest, orbecause of any sense ofrepugnance. Something hadflickered deep in hissubconscious as he spoke.Somebody had told him…someone had said… but thememory was gone in a flashof tantalising silver, like a

minnow vanishing inpondweed.‘A poisoned skeleton,’

Strike muttered, trying tocapture the elusive memory,butitwasgone.‘And I finished Hobart’s

Sin last night as well,’ saidRobin,overtakingadawdlingPrius.‘You’re a sucker for

punishment,’ said Strike,reachingforasixthbiscuit.‘Ididn’t think you were

enjoyingit.’‘I wasn’t, and it didn’t

improve.It’sallabout—’‘A hermaphrodite who’s

pregnantandgetsanabortionbecauseakidwouldinterferewith his literary ambitions,’saidStrike.‘You’vereadit!’‘No, Elizabeth Tassel told

me.’‘There’s a bloody sack in

it,’saidRobin.Strike looked sideways at

her pale profile, serious asshe watched the road ahead,her eyes flicking to the rear-viewmirror.‘What’sinside?’‘The aborted baby,’ said

Robin.‘It’shorrible.’Strike digested this

information as they passedtheturningtoMaidenhead.‘Strange,’hesaidatlast.‘Grotesque,’saidRobin.‘No, it’s strange,’ insisted

Strike. ‘Quine was repeating

himself. That’s the secondthing from Hobart’s Sin heput in Bombyx Mori. Twohermaphrodites, two bloodysacks.Why?’‘Well,’ said Robin, ‘they

aren’t exactly the same. InBombyxMorithebloodysackdoesn’t belong to thehermaphrodite and it hasn’tgot an aborted baby in it…maybe he’d reached the endof his invention,’ she said.‘Maybe Bombyx Mori was

like a – a final bonfire of allhisideas.’‘The funeral pyre for his

careeriswhatitwas.’Strike sat deep in thought

while thescenerybeyond thewindow became steadilymore rural. Breaks in thetrees showed wide fields ofsnow, white upon whitebeneath a pearly grey sky,andstill thesnowcamethickandfastatthecar.‘Youknow,’Strike said at

last, ‘I think there are twoalternatives here. EitherQuine genuinely was havinga breakdown, had lost touchwith what he was doing andbelievedBombyxMoriwas amasterpiece–orhemeant tocause as much trouble aspossible,andtheduplicationsarethereforareason.’‘Whatreason?’‘It’s a key,’ said Strike.

‘By cross-referencing hisother books, he was helping

people understand what hewas getting at in BombyxMori. He was trying to tellwithout being had up forlibel.’Robindidnottakehereyes

off the snowymotorway, butinclined her face towardshim,frowning.‘Youthinkitwasalltotally

deliberate? You think hewanted to cause all thistrouble?’‘When you stop and think

aboutit,’saidStrike,‘it’snota bad business plan for anegotistical,thick-skinnedmanwho’s hardly selling anybooks. Kick off as muchtrouble as you can, get thebook gossiped about all overLondon, threats of legalaction, loadsofpeopleupset,veiled revelations about afamous writer… and thendisappear where the writscan’t find you and, beforeanyone can stop you, put it

outasanebook.’‘But he was furious when

ElizabethTasseltoldhimshewouldn’tpublishit.’‘Was he?’ said Strike

thoughtfully, ‘Or was hefaking? Did he keepbadgering her to read itbecausehewasgettingreadyto stage a nice big publicrow? He sounds like amassive exhibitionist.Perhaps itwas all part of hispromotional plan. He didn’t

think Roper Chard got hisbooks enough publicity – IhadthatfromLeonora.’‘Soyou thinkhe’dalready

planned to storm out of therestaurant when he metElizabethTassel?’‘Couldbe,’saidStrike.‘And to go to Talgarth

Road?’‘Maybe.’The sun had risen fully

now, so that the frostedtreetopssparkled.

‘And he got what hewanted, didn’t he?’ saidStrike, squinting as athousand specks of iceglitteredoverthewindscreen.‘Couldn’t have arrangedbetterpublicityforhisbookifhe’d tried. Just a pity hedidn’t live to see himself ontheBBCnews.‘Oh, bollocks,’ he added

underhisbreath.‘What’sthematter?’‘I’ve finished all the

biscuits… sorry,’ said Strike,contrite.‘That’s all right,’ Robin

said, amused. ‘I hadbreakfast.’‘Ididn’t,’Strikeconfided.Hisantipathytodiscussing

hisleghadbeendissolvedbywarm coffee, by theirdiscussion and by herpractical thoughts for hiscomfort.‘Couldn’t get the bloody

prosthesis on. My knee’s

swollen to hell: I’mgoing tohave to see someone. Tookmeagestogetsorted.’She had guessed asmuch,

but appreciated theconfidence.Theypassedagolf course,

its flags protruding fromacres of soft whiteness, andwater-filled gravel pits nowsheetsofburnishedpewterinthe winter light. As theyapproached Swindon Strike’sphone rang. Checking the

number (he half expected arepeat call from NinaLascelles) he saw that itwasIlsa, his old schoolfriend.Healso saw, with misgivings,thathehadmissedacallfromLeonora Quine at six thirty,when he must have beenstruggling down CharingCrossRoadonhiscrutches.‘Ilsa,hi.What’sgoingon?’‘Quite a lot, actually,’ she

said. She sounded tinny anddistant; he could tell that she

wasinhercar.‘Did Leonora Quine call

youonWednesday?’‘Yep, we met that

afternoon,’ she said. ‘AndI’vejustspokentoheragain.Shetoldmeshetriedtospeakto you this morning andcouldn’tgetyou.’‘Yeah,Ihadanearlystart,

must’vemissedher.’‘I’vegotherpermission to

tell—’‘What’shappened?’

‘They’ve taken her in forquestioning. I’m on my waytothestationnow.’‘Shit,’ said Strike. ‘Shit.

Whathavetheygot?’‘She told me they found

photographs in her andQuine’sbedroom.Apparentlyhelikedbeingtiedupandheliked being photographedonce restrained,’ said Ilsawith mordant matter-of-factness.‘Shetoldmeallthisas though she was talking

aboutthegardening.’Hecouldhearfaintsounds

of heavy traffic back incentral London. Here on themotorway the loudest soundswere the swish of thewindscreenwipers,thesteadypurr of the powerful engineandtheoccasionalwhooshofthereckless,overtakingintheswirlingsnow.‘You’d think she’d have

the sense to get rid of thepictures,’saidStrike.

‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hearthat suggestion aboutdestroying evidence,’ saidIlsamock-sternly.‘Those pictures aren’t

bloodyevidence,’saidStrike.‘Christ almighty, of coursethey had a kinky sex life,those two – how else wasLeonora going to keep holdofamanlikeQuine?Anstis’smind’s too clean, that’s theproblem;hethinkseverythingexcept the missionary

positionisevidenceofbloodycriminaltendencies.’‘What do you know about

the investigating officer’ssexual habits?’ Ilsa asked,amused.‘He’s thebloke Ipulled to

the back of the vehicle inAfghanistan,’ mutteredStrike.‘Oh,’saidIlsa.‘Andhe’sdeterminedtofit

up Leonora. If that’s allthey’vegot,dirtyphotos—’

‘Itisn’t.DidyouknowtheQuineshavegotalock-up?’Strike listened, tense,

suddenly worried. Could hehavebeenwrong,completelywrong—?‘Well,didyou?’askedIlsa.‘What’ve they found?’

asked Strike, no longerflippant.‘Nottheguts?’‘What did you just say? It

soundedlike“nottheguts”!’‘What’ve they found?’

Strikecorrectedhimself.

‘Idon’tknow,butIexpectI’llfindoutwhenIgetthere.’‘She’snotunderarrest?’‘Justinforquestioning,but

they’resureit’sher,Icantell,and Idon’t thinkshe realiseshow serious things aregetting. When she rang me,all she could talk about washer daughter being left withthe neighbour, her daughterbeingupset—’‘The daughter’s twenty-

four and she’s got learning

difficulties.’‘Oh,’ said Ilsa. ‘Sad…

Listen, I’m nearly there, I’llhavetogo.’‘Keepmeposted.’‘Don’t expect anything

soon.I’vegotafeelingwe’regoingtobeawhile.’‘Shit,’ Strike said again as

hehungup.‘What’shappened?’An enormous tanker had

pulledoutoftheslowlanetoovertake aHondaCivicwith

a BabyOn Board sign in itsrear window. Strike watcheditsgargantuansilverbulletofa body swaying at speed onthe icy road and noted withunspokenapprovalthatRobinslowed down, leaving morebrakingroom.‘The police have taken

Leonorainforquestioning.’Robingasped.‘They’ve found photos of

Quine tied up in theirbedroom and something else

in a lock-up, but Ilsa doesn’tknowwhat—’It had happened to Strike

before. The instantaneousshift from calm to calamity.The slowing of time. Everysense suddenly wire-taut andscreaming.The tanker was jack-

knifing.He heard himself bellow

‘BRAKE!’ because that waswhathehaddonelasttimetotrytostaveoffdeath—

But Robin slammed herfoot on the accelerator. Thecarroaredforward.Therewasnoroomtopass.Thelorryhitthe icy road on its side andspun; theCivichit it, flippedover and skidded on its rooftowardsthesideoftheroad;aGolf and a Mercedes hadslammed into each other andwere locked together,speedingtowardsthetruckofthetanker—Theywerehurtlingtowards

the ditch at the side of theroad. Robin missed theoverturned Civic by an inch.Strike grabbed hold of thedoor handle as the LandCruiser hit the rough groundatspeed–theyweregoingtoplough into the ditch andmaybeoverturn–thetailendof the tanker was swinginglethally towards them, butthey were travelling so fastthat she missed that by awhisker – a massive jolt,

Strike’s head hit the roof ofthecar,andtheyhadswervedback onto the icy tarmac onthe other side of the pile-up,unscathed.‘Holyfucking—’Shewasbrakingat last, in

total control, pulling up onthe hard shoulder, and herfacewasaswhiteasthesnowspatteringthewindscreen.‘There was a kid in that

Civic.’And before he could say

another word she had gone,slamming the door behindher.Heleanedoverthebackof

his seat, trying to grab hiscrutches. Never had he felthis disability more acutely.He had just managed to pullthecrutchesintotheseatwithhim when he heard sirens.Squinting through the snowyrear window, he spotted thedistant flicker of blue light.The police were there

already.Hewasaone-leggedliability. He threw thecrutches back down,swearing.Robin returned to the car

tenminuteslater.‘It’sOK,’shepanted.‘The

littleboy’sallright,hewasina car seat. The lorry driver’scovered in blood but he’sconscious—’‘AreyouOK?’Shewas trembling a little,

butsmiledatthequestion.

‘Yeah, I’m fine. Iwas justscared I was going to see adeadchild.’‘Right then,’ said Strike,

taking a deepbreath. ‘Wherethefuckdidyoulearntodrivelikethat?’‘Oh, I did a couple of

advanced driving courses,’said Robin with a shrug,pushing her wet hair out ofhereyes.Strikestaredather.‘Whenwasthis?’

‘Not long after I droppedout of university. I was… IwasgoingthroughabadtimeandIwasn’tgoingoutmuch.It was my dad’s idea. I’vealwayslovedcars.‘It was just something to

do,’ she said, putting on herseatbelt and turning on theignition. ‘Sometimes whenI’mhome,Igouptothefarmto practise.My uncle’s got afieldheletsmedrivein.’Strike was still staring at

her.‘Are you sure you don’t

want towait a bit beforewe—?’‘No, I’ve given them my

nameandaddress.Weshouldgetgoing.’Sheshiftedgearandpulled

smoothly out onto themotorway. Strike could notlook away from her calmprofile; her eyes were againfixed on the road, her handsconfident and relaxed on the

wheel.‘I’ve seen worse steering

than that from defensivedrivers in the army,’ he toldher. ‘The ones who drivegenerals, who’re trained tomake a getaway under fire.’Heglancedbackatthetangleof overturned vehicles nowblocking the road. ‘I stilldon’t know how you got usoutofthat.’The near-crash had not

broughtRobin close to tears,

but at these words of praiseandappreciationshesuddenlythought she might cry, letherself down. With a greateffortofwillshecompressedheremotionintoalittlelaughandsaid:‘You realise that if I’d

braked, we’d have skiddedrightintothetanker?’‘Yeah,’saidStrike,andhe

laughed too. ‘Dunno why Isaidthat,’helied.

29

There is a path vponyourlefthandside,That leadeth from aguiltieconscienceVntoaforrestofdistrustandfeare,–

ThomasKyd,TheSpanishTragedie

In spite of their near-crash,Strike and Robin entered theDevonshire town of Tivertonshortly after twelve. Robinfollowed the sat nav’sinstructionspastquietcountryhouses topped with thicklayers of glittering white,over a neat little bridgespanningariverthecolourofflint and past a sixteenth-centurychurchofunexpected

grandeurtothefarsideofthetown,whereapairofelectricgateswerediscreetlysetbackfromtheroad.A handsome young

Filipino man wearing whatappeared to be deck shoesand an over-large coat wasattemptingtoprisetheseopenmanually. When he caughtsight of the Land Cruiser hemimed to Robin to winddownherwindow.‘Frozen,’ he told her

succinctly. ‘Wait a moment,please.’They sat for five minutes

untilatlasthehadsucceededin unfreezing the gates andhad dug a clearing in thesteadilyfallingsnowtoallowthegatestoswingopen.‘Doyouwantaliftbackto

thehouse?’Robinaskedhim.He climbed into the back

seatbesideStrike’scrutches.‘You friends of Mr

Chard?’

‘He’s expecting us,’ saidStrikeevasively.Up a long and winding

private driveway they went,theLandCruisermakingeasywork of the heaped, crunchyovernightfall.Theshinydarkgreen leaves of therhododendronsliningthepathhadrefusedtobeartheirloadofsnow,sothattheapproachwasallblackandwhite:wallsof dense foliage crowding inon the pale, powdery drive.

Tinyspotsoflighthadstartedpopping in front of Robin’seyes. Ithadbeenavery longtime since breakfast and, ofcourse, Strike had eaten allthebiscuits.Her feeling of seasickness

andaslightsenseofunrealitypersistedasshegotdownoutof the Toyota and looked upat Tithebarn House, whichstood beside a dark patch ofwood that pressed close toone side of the house. The

massive oblong structure infront of them had beenconverted by an adventurousarchitect:halfoftheroofhadbeen replacedby sheetglass;the other seemed to becovered in solar panels.Looking up at the placewhere the structure becametransparent and skeletalagainst the bright, light greysky made Robin feel evengiddier.Itremindedheroftheghastly picture on Strike’s

phone, the vaulted space ofglass and light in whichQuine’s mutilated body hadlain.‘Are you all right?’ said

Strike,concerned.Shelookedverypale.‘Fine,’ said Robin, who

wantedtomaintainherheroicstatus in his eyes. Takingdeep lungfuls of the frostyair, she followed Strike,surprisingly nimble on hiscrutches, up the gravel path

towards the entrance. Theiryoung passenger haddisappeared without anotherwordtothem.Daniel Chard opened the

front door himself. He waswearing a mandarin-collared,smock-likeshirtinchartreusesilk and loose linen trousers.Like Strike, he was oncrutches,hisleftfootandcalfencased in a thick surgicalboot and strapping. Chardlooked down at Strike’s

dangling, empty trouser legand for several painfulsecondsdidnot seemable tolookaway.‘Andyou thought youhad

problems,’ said Strike,holdingouthishand.The small joke fell flat.

Charddidnotsmile.Theauraofawkwardness,ofotherness,that had surrounded him athis firm’sparty clung tohimstill. He shook Strike’s handwithout looking him in the

eyeandhiswelcomingwordswere:‘I’vebeenexpectingyouto

cancelallmorning.’‘No, we made it,’ said

Strike unnecessarily. ‘This ismy assistant, Robin, who’sdrivenmedown.Ihope—’‘No,shecan’tsitoutsidein

thesnow,’saidChard,thoughwithout noticeable warmth.‘Comein.’He backed away on his

crutches to let them move

overthethresholdontohighlypolished floorboards thecolourofhoney.‘Would you mind

removingyourshoes?’A stocky, middle-aged

Filipina woman with herblack hair in a bun emergedfromapairofswingdoorssetinto the brick wall on theirright. She was clothedentirely in black and holdingtwo white linen bags intowhichStrikeandRobinwere

evidently expected to puttheir footwear.Robinhandedhers over; it made her feelstrangely vulnerable to feelthe boards beneath her soles.Strike merely stood there onhissinglefoot.‘Oh,’ said Chard, staring

again. ‘No, I suppose… MrStrike had better keep hisshoeon,Nenita.’The woman retired

wordlesslyintothekitchen.Somehow, the interior of

Tithebarn House increasedRobin’s unpleasant sensationof vertigo. No walls dividedits vast interior. The firstfloor,whichwasreachedbyasteel and glass spiralstaircase, was suspended onthick metal cables from thehigh ceiling. Chard’s hugedoublebed,which seemed tobe of black leather, wasvisible, high above them,withwhat looked likeahugecrucifix of barbed wire

hanging over it on the brickwall.Robindroppedhergazehastily, feeling sicker thanever.Mostofthefurnitureonthe

lower level comprised cubesof white or black leather.Vertical steel radiators wereinterspersed with artfullysimple bookshelves of morewood and metal. Thedominant feature of theunder-furnished room was alife-size white marble

sculptureofanangel,perchedon a rock and partiallydissected to expose half ofherskull,aportionofhergutsandasliceoftheboneinherleg. Her breast, Robin saw,unabletotearhereyesaway,was revealed as a mound offatglobulessittingonacircleofmuscle that resembled thegillsofamushroom.Ludicrous to feel sick

when thedissectedbodywasmade of cold, pure stone,

mere insentient albescence,nothing like the rottingcarcass preserved on Strike’smobile… don’t think aboutthat… she ought to havemadeStrikeleaveatleastonebiscuit… sweat had brokenout on her upper lip, herscalp…‘You all right, Robin?’

asked Strike sharply. Sheknewshemusthavechangedcolour from the look on thetwo men’s faces, and to her

fear that she might pass outwas added embarrassmentthat shewas being a liabilitytoStrike.‘Sorry,’ she said through

numblips.‘Longjourney…ifI could have a glass ofwater…’‘Er – very well,’ said

Chard, as thoughwaterwereinshortsupply.‘Nenita?’The woman in black

reappeared.‘The young lady needs a

glassofwater,’saidChard.NenitagesturedtoRobinto

follow her. Robin heard thepublisher’scrutchesmakingagentle thump, thump behindher on the wooden floor asshe entered the kitchen. Shehadabriefimpressionofsteelsurfaces and whitewashedwalls, and the youngman towhom she had given a liftproddingata largesaucepan,thenfoundherselfsittingonalowstool.

Robin had assumed thatChard had followed to seethat shewas all right, but asNenita pressed a cold glassinto her hand she heard himspeaksomewhereaboveher.‘Thanks for fixing the

gates,Manny.’The young man did not

reply. Robin heard the clunkof Chard’s crutches recedeand the swinging of thekitchendoors.‘That’s my fault,’ Strike

told Chard, when thepublisher rejoined him. Hefelt trulyguilty. ‘I ate all thefood she brought for thejourney.’‘Nenita can give her

something,’ said Chard.‘Shallwesitdown?’Strike followed him past

themarble angel, which wasreflectedmistily in thewarmwoodbelow,andtheyheadedon their four crutches to theend of the room, where a

blackironwood-burnermadeapoolofwelcomewarmth.‘Great place,’ said Strike,

loweringhimselfontooneofthe larger cubes of blackleather and laying hiscrutches beside him. Thecompliment was insincere;his preference was forutilitarian comfort andChard’shouseseemedtohimtobeallsurfaceandshow.‘Yes,Iworkedcloselywith

the architects,’ said Chard,

with a small flicker ofenthusiasm. ‘There’s astudio’ – he pointed throughanotherdiscreetpairofdoors–‘andapool.’Hetoosatdown,stretching

out the leg that ended in thethick, strapped boot in frontofhim.‘How did it happen?’

Strike asked, noddingtowardsthebrokenleg.Chardpointedwiththeend

ofhiscrutchatthemetaland

glassspiralstaircase.‘Painful,’ said Strike,

eyeingthedrop.‘The crack echoed all

through the space,’ saidChard, with an odd relish. ‘Ihadn’t realised one canactuallyhearithappening.‘Would you like a tea or

coffee?’‘Teawouldbegreat.’StrikesawChardplacehis

uninjured foot on a smallbrass plate beside his seat.

Slight pressure, and Mannyemerged again from thekitchen.‘Tea, please,Manny,’ said

Chard with a warmthconspicuously absent in hisusual manner. The youngmandisappearedagain,sullenasever.‘Is that St Michael’s

Mount?’ Strike asked,pointing to a small picturehanging near the wood-burner. It was a naive

painting on what seemed tobeboard.‘An Alfred Wallis,’ said

Chard, with another minorglow of enthusiasm. ‘Thesimplicity of the forms…primitive and naive. Myfatherknewhim.Wallisonlytook up painting seriously inhis seventies. You knowCornwall?’‘I grew up there,’ said

Strike.But Chard was more

interested in talking aboutAlfredWallis. Hementionedagain that the artist had onlyfound his truemétier late inlife and embarked on anexposition of the artist’sworks. Strike’s total lack ofinterest in the subject wentunnoticed. Chard was notfond of eye contact. Thepublisher’seyesslidfromthepainting to spots around thelarge brick interior, seemingto glance at Strike only

incidentally.‘You’re just back from

NewYork,aren’tyou?’askedStrike when Chard drewbreath.‘A three-day conference,

yes,’saidChardandtheflareofenthusiasmfaded.Hegavethe impression of repeatingstock phrases as he said,‘Challenging times. Thearrival of electronic readingdevices has been a game-changer. Do you read?’ he

askedStrike,point-blank.‘Sometimes,’ said Strike.

There was a battered JamesEllroy in his flat that he hadbeen intending to finish forfour weeks, but most nightshewastootiredtofocus.Hisfavourite book lay in one ofthe unpacked boxes ofpossessionsonthelanding;itwas twenty years old and hehad not opened it for a longtime.‘We need readers,’

muttered Daniel Chard.‘More readers. Fewerwriters.’Strike suppressed the urge

toretort,Well,you’vegotridofoneofthem,atleast.Manny reappeared bearing

a clear perspex tray on legs,whichhesetdowninfrontofhis employer. Chard leanedforward to pour the tea intotallwhiteporcelainmugs.Hisleatherfurniture,Strikenoted,did not emit the irritating

sounds his own office sofadid,but then, ithadprobablycost ten times as much. Thebacks ofChard’s handswereasrawandpainful-lookingastheyhadbeenatthecompanyparty, and in the clearoverhead lightingset into theundersideofthehangingfirstfloorhe lookedolder thanhehad at a distance; sixty,perhaps, yet the dark, deep-set eyes, the hawkish noseand the thin mouth were

handsome still in theirseverity.‘He’s forgotten the milk,’

said Chard, scrutinising thetray.‘Doyoutakemilk?’‘Yeah,’saidStrike.Chard sighed, but instead

ofpressingthebrassplateonthe floor he struggled backonto his one sound foot andhis crutches, and swung offtowards the kitchen, leavingStrike staring thoughtfullyafterhim.

Those who worked withhim found Daniel Chardpeculiar, although Nina haddescribedhimasshrewd.Hisuncontrolled rages aboutBombyxMorihadsoundedtoStrike like the reaction of anover-sensitive man ofquestionable judgement. Heremembered the slight senseof embarrassment emanatingfrom the crowd as Chardmumbled his speech at theanniversary party. An odd

man,hardtoread…Strike’s eyes drifted

upwards. Snow was fallinggently onto the clear roofhigh above themarble angel.The glass must be heated insome way, to prevent thesnow settling, Strikeconcluded. And the memoryof Quine, eviscerated andtrussed, burned and rottingbeneath a great vaultedwindowreturnedtohim.LikeRobin,hesuddenlyfoundthe

high glass ceiling ofTithebarnHouseunpleasantlyreminiscent.Chardre-emergedfromthe

kitchen and swung backacross the floor on hiscrutches, a small jug ofmilkheldprecariouslyinhishand.‘You’ll bewonderingwhy

I asked you to come here,’said Chard finally, when hehad sat back down and eachof them held his tea at last.Strikearrangedhisfeaturesto

lookreceptive.‘I need somebody I can

trust,’ said Chard withoutwaiting for Strike’s answer.‘Someone outside thecompany.’One darting glance at

Strike and he fixed his eyessafely on his Alfred Wallisagain.‘I think,’ said Chard, ‘I

maybetheonlypersonwho’srealisedthatOwenQuinedidnot work alone. He had an

accomplice.’‘An accomplice?’ Strike

repeated at last, as Chardseemedtoexpectaresponse.‘Yes,’ said Chard

fervently. ‘Oh yes. You see,the style of Bombyx Mori isOwen’s, but somebody elsewasinonit.Someonehelpedhim.’Chard’s sallow skin had

flushed. He gripped andfondled the handle of one ofthecrutchesbesidehim.

‘The police will beinterested, I think, if this canbe proven?’ said Chard,managing to look Strike fullin the face. ‘If Owen wasmurdered because of whatwaswritten inBombyxMori,wouldn’t an accomplice beculpable?’‘Culpable?’ repeated

Strike. ‘You think thisaccomplice persuaded Quineto insertmaterial in thebookin thehope that a thirdparty

wouldretaliatemurderously?’‘I… well, I’m not sure,’

said Chard, frowning. ‘Hemight not have expected thattohappen,precisely–buthecertainly intended to wreakhavoc.’His knuckles were

whitening as they tightenedonthehandleofhiscrutch.‘What makes you think

Quine had help?’ askedStrike.‘Owen couldn’t have

knownsomeofthethingsthatare insinuated in BombyxMori unless he’d been fedinformation,’saidChard,nowstaringatthesideofhisstoneangel.‘I think the police’s main

interest in an accomplice,’saidStrikeslowly, ‘wouldbebecauseheorshemighthavealeadonthekiller.’Itwas the truth,but itwas

also a way of remindingChardthatamanhaddiedin

grotesquecircumstances.Theidentity of the murderer didnot seem of pressing interesttoChard.‘Do you think so?’ asked

Chardwithafaintfrown.‘Yeah,’ said Strike, ‘I do.

Andthey’dbeinterestedinanaccomplice if theywere ableto shed light on some of themore oblique passages in thebook.Oneof thetheories thepolice are bound to befollowing is that someone

killed Quine to stop himrevealing something that hehad hinted at in BombyxMori.’Daniel Chard was staring

at Strike with an arrestedexpression.‘Yes.Ihadn’t…Yes.’To Strike’s surprise, the

publisher pulled himself upon his crutches and began tomovea fewpacesbackwardsandforwards,swingingonhiscrutches in a parodic version

of those first tentativephysiotherapy exercisesStrike had been given, yearspreviously, at Selly OakHospital.Strikesawnowthathewasa fitman, thatbicepsrippled beneath the silksleeves.‘The killer, then—’ Chard

began, and then ‘What?’ hesnapped suddenly, staringoverStrike’sshoulder.Robin had re-emerged

from the kitchen, a much

healthiercolour.‘I’m sorry,’ she said,

pausing,unnerved.‘This is confidential,’ said

Chard. ‘No, I’msorry.Couldyou return to the kitchen,please?’‘I – all right,’ said Robin,

takenabackand,Strikecouldtell,offended.She threwhima look, expecting him to saysomething,buthewassilent.When theswingdoorshad

closed behind Robin, Chard

saidangrily:‘NowI’ve lostmy trainof

thought.Entirelylost—’‘You were saying

somethingaboutthekiller.’‘Yes. Yes,’ said Chard

manically, resuming hisbackwards and forwardsmotion, swinging on hiscrutches. ‘The killer, then, ifthey knew about theaccomplice, might want totarget him too? And perhapsthat’s occurred to him,’ said

Chard, more to himself thanto Strike, his eyes on hisexpensive floorboards.‘Perhaps that accounts…Yes.’The small window in the

wall nearest Strike showedonly the dark face of thewood close by the house;white flecks falling dreamilyagainsttheblack.‘Disloyalty,’ said Chard

suddenly, ‘cuts at me likenothingelse.’

He stopped his agitatedthumping up and down andturnedtofacethedetective.‘If,’ he said, ‘I told you

whoIsuspect tohavehelpedOwen,andaskedyoutobringme proof, would you feelobliged to pass thatinformationtothepolice?’It was a delicate question,

thought Strike, running ahand absently over his chin,imperfectly shaved in thehasteofleavingthatmorning.

‘If you’re asking me toestablish the truth of yoursuspicions…’ said Strikeslowly.‘Yes,’ said Chard. ‘Yes, I

am.Iwouldliketobesure.’‘Thenno, Idon’t think I’d

need to tell the police whatI’mupto.But ifIuncoveredthe fact that there was anaccompliceanditlookedliketheymighthavekilledQuine–orknewwhohaddoneit–I’dobviouslyconsidermyself

duty bound to inform thepolice.’Chard lowered himself

back onto one of the largeleather cubes, dropping hiscrutcheswithaclatteron thefloor.‘Damn,’ he said, his

displeasure echoing off themany hard surfaces aroundthem as he leaned over tocheck that he had not dentedthevarnishedwood.‘You know I’ve also been

engaged by Quine’s wife totry and find out who killedhim?’Strikeasked.‘I had heard something of

the sort,’ said Chard, stillexamining his teakfloorboardsfordamage.‘Thatwon’t interfere with this lineofenquiry,though?’His self-absorption was

remarkable, Strike thought.He remembered Chard’scopperplate writing on thecard with the painting of

violets: Do let me know ifthere is anything you need.Perhaps his secretary haddictatedittohim.‘Wouldyou like to tellme

who the alleged collaboratoris?’askedStrike.‘Thisisextremelypainful,’

mumbled Chard, his eyesflittingfromAlfredWallis tothestoneangelandup to thespiralstairs.Strikesaidnothing.‘It’s Jerry Waldegrave,’

saidChard,glancingatStrikeandawayagain.‘AndI’lltellyou why I suspect – how Iknow.‘His behaviour has been

strange for weeks. I firstnoticeditwhenhetelephonedme about Bombyx Mori, totellmewhatQuinehaddone.Therewasnoembarrassment,noapology.’‘Wouldyouhaveexpected

Waldegrave to apologise forsomething Quine had

written?’The question seemed to

surpriseChard.‘Well – Owen was one of

Jerry’s authors, so yes, Iwould have expected someregretthatOwenhaddepictedmeinthat–inthatway.’And Strike’s unruly

imagination again showedhim the naked PhallusImpudicus standing over thebody of a dead young manemittingsupernaturallight.

‘Are you and Waldegraveonbadterms?’heasked.‘I’ve shown Jerry

Waldegrave a lot offorbearance, a considerableforbearance,’ said Chard,ignoring the direct question.‘Ikepthimonfullpaywhilehewenttoatreatmentfacilitya year ago. Perhaps he feelshard done by,’ said Chard,‘but I’ve been on his side,yes,onoccasionswhenmanyanotherman, amore prudent

man, might have remainedneutral. Jerry’s personalmisfortunes are not of mymaking. There is resentment.Yes,Iwouldsaythatthereisdefinite resentment, howeverunjustified.’‘Resentment about what?’

askedStrike.‘Jerryisn’tfondofMichael

Fancourt,’ mumbled Chard,his eyes on the flames in thewood-burner. ‘Michael had a–aflirtation,alongtimeago,

with Fenella, Jerry’s wife.And as it happens, I actuallywarned Michael off, becauseof my friendship with Jerry.Yes!’ said Chard, nodding,deeply impressed by thememoryofhisownactions.‘Itold Michael it was unkindandunwise, even in his stateof… because Michael hadlosthisfirstwife,yousee,notverylongbefore.‘Michael didn’t appreciate

my unsolicited advice. He

tookoffence;hetookoffforadifferentpublisher.Theboardwas very unhappy,’ saidChard. ‘It’s taken us twenty-odd years to lure Michaelback.‘But after all this time,’

Chard said, his bald patemerely one more reflectivesurface among the glass,polished wood and steel,‘Jerry can hardly expect hispersonal animosities togoverncompanypolicy.Ever

sinceMichaelagreedtocomeback to Roper Chard, Jerryhasmade it hisbusiness to–toundermineme,subtly,inahundredlittleways.‘What I believe happened

is this,’ said Chard, glancingfromtimetotimeatStrike,asthough to gaugehis reaction.‘Jerry took Owen into hisconfidence about Michael’sdeal,whichweweretryingtokeepunderwraps.Owenhad,of course, been an enemy of

Fancourt’s for a quarter of acentury. Owen and Jerrydecidedtoconcoctthis…thisdreadful book, in whichMichaelandIaresubjectedto–todisgustingcalumniesasaway of drawing attentionaway from Michael’s arrivaland as an act of revenge onboth of us, on the company,on anyone else they cared todenigrate.‘And, most tellingly,’ said

Chard,hisvoiceechoingnow

through the empty space,‘after I told Jerry, explicitly,to make sure the manuscriptwas locked safely away heallowed it to be read widelyby anyone who cared to doso,andhavingmadesureit’sbeinggossipedaboutalloverLondon,heresignsandleavesmelooking—’‘When did Waldegrave

resign?’askedStrike.‘Thedaybeforeyesterday,’

said Chard, before plunging

on: ‘and he was extremelyreluctant to join me in legalaction againstQuine.That initselfshows—’‘Perhaps he thought

bringing in lawyers woulddraw more attention to thebook?’ Strike suggested.‘Waldegrave’s in BombyxMorihimself,isn’the?’‘That!’ said Chard and

sniggered.ItwasthefirstsignofhumourStrikehadseen inhim and the effect was

unpleasant. ‘You don’t wantto take everything at facevalue,MrStrike.Owenneverknewaboutthat.’‘Aboutwhat?’‘The Cutter character is

Jerry’sownwork–Irealisedit on a third reading,’ saidChard. ‘Very, very clever: itlooks like an attack on Jerryhimself, but it’s really awayofcausingFenellapain.Theyarestillmarried,yousee,butvery unhappily. Very

unhappily.‘Yes, I saw it all, on re-

reading,’ said Chard. Thespotlights in the hangingceiling made rippledreflections on his skull as henodded. ‘Owen didn’t writethe Cutter. He barely knowsFenella. He didn’t knowaboutthatoldbusiness.’‘So what exactly are the

bloody sack and the dwarfsupposedto—?’‘Get it out of Jerry,’ said

Chard. ‘Make him tell you.WhyshouldIhelphimspreadslanderaround?’‘I’ve been wondering,’

Strike said, obedientlydroppingthat lineofenquiry,‘why Michael Fancourtagreed to come to RoperChard when Quine wasworking for you, given thatthey were on such badterms?’Therewasashortpause.‘We were under no legal

obligation to publishOwen’snext book,’ said Chard. ‘Wehad a first-look option. Thatwasall.’‘So you think Jerry

Waldegrave told Quine thathe was about to be dropped,tokeepFancourthappy?’‘Yes,’ said Chard, staring

at his own fingernails. ‘I do.Also, I had offended OwenthelasttimeIsawhim,sothenewsthatImightbeabouttodrop him no doubt swept

away any last vestige ofloyalty he might once havefelt towards me, because ItookhimonwheneveryotherpublisherinBritainhadgivenupon—’‘Howdidyouoffendhim?’‘Oh, it was when he last

came into the office. Hebrought his daughter withhim.’‘Orlando?’‘Named,hetoldme,forthe

eponymousprotagonistofthe

novel by Virginia Woolf.’Chard hesitated, his eyesflickering to Strike and thenbacktohisnails.‘She’s–notquiteright,hisdaughter.’‘Really?’ said Strike. ‘In

whatway?’‘Mentally,’ mumbled

Chard. ‘Iwas visiting the artdepartment when they camein. Owen told me he wasshowing her around –somethinghehadnobusinessdoing, but Owen always

made himself at home…greatsenseofentitlementandself-importance,always…‘Hisdaughtergrabbedat a

mock-up cover – grubbyhands – I seized herwrist tostop her ruining it—’ Hemimed the action inmid-air;withtheremembranceofthisactofneardesecrationcamealook of distaste. ‘It wasinstinctive, you know, adesire to protect the image,but it upset her very much.

There was a scene. Veryembarrassing anduncomfortable,’ mumbledChard,who seemed to sufferagain in retrospect. ‘Shebecame almost hysterical.Owen was furious. That, nodoubt, was my crime. That,and bringing MichaelFancourt back to RoperChard.’‘Who,’ Strike asked,

‘would you think had mostreason to be upset at their

depictioninBombyxMori?’‘I really don’t know,’ said

Chard.Afterashortpausehesaid,‘Well,IdoubtElizabethTassel was delighted to seeherselfportrayedasparasitic,after all the years ofshepherding Owen out ofparties to stop himmaking adrunken fool of himself, butI’m afraid,’ said Chardcoldly, ‘I haven’t got muchsympathy for Elizabeth. Sheallowed that book to go out

unread. Criminalcarelessness.’‘Did you contact Fancourt

after you’d read themanuscript?’askedStrike.‘He had to know what

Quinehaddone,’saidChard.‘Betterbyfarthathehearditfrom me. He was just homefrom receiving the PrixPrévost in Paris. I did notmakethatcallwithrelish.’‘Howdidhereact?’‘Michael’s resilient,’

mutteredChard. ‘He toldmenot toworry, said thatOwenhad done himselfmore harmthanhehaddoneus.Michaelratherenjoyshisenmities.Hewasperfectlycalm.’‘Did you tell him what

Quine had said, or implied,abouthiminthebook?’‘Of course,’ saidChard. ‘I

couldn’t let him hear it fromanyoneelse.’‘And he didn’t seem

upset?’

‘He said, “The last wordwillbemine,Daniel.Thelastwordwillbemine.”’‘What did you understand

bythat?’‘Oh, well, Michael’s a

famousassassin,’saidChard,with a small smile. ‘He canflayanyonealiveinfivewellchosen – when I say“assassin”,’ said Chard,suddenly and comicallyanxious, ‘naturally, I’mtalkinginliterary—’

‘Of course,’ Strikereassured him. ‘Did you askFancourt to join you in legalactionagainstQuine?’‘Michael despises the

courts as a means of redressinsuchmatters.’‘Youknew the late Joseph

North, didn’t you?’ askedStrikeconversationally.The muscles in Chard’s

face tightened: a maskbeneaththedarkeningskin.‘A very – that was a very

longtimeago.’‘North was a friend of

Quine’s,wasn’the?’‘IturneddownJoeNorth’s

novel,’ said Chard. His thinmouth was working. ‘That’sall I did. Half a dozen otherpublishers did the same. Itwas amistake, commerciallyspeaking. It had somesuccess, posthumously. Ofcourse,’ he addeddismissively,‘IthinkMichaellargelyrewroteit.’

‘Quine resented youturning his friend’s bookdown?’‘Yes,hedid.Hemadealot

ofnoiseaboutit.’‘But he came to Roper

Chardanyway?’‘There was nothing

personal inmy turningdownJoe North’s book,’ saidChard, with heightenedcolour. ‘Owen came tounderstandthat,eventually.’There was another

uncomfortablepause.‘So…whenyou’rehiredto

find a – a criminal of thistype,’ said Chard, changingsubject with palpable effort,‘doyouworkwith thepoliceonthat,or—?’‘Ohyeah,’saidStrike,with

a wry remembrance of theanimosity he had recentlyencountered from the force,but delighted that Chard hadplayed so conveniently intohis hands. ‘I’ve got great

contacts at the Met. Yourmovements don’t seem to begiving them any cause forconcern,’ he said, with faintemphasis on the personalpronoun.The provocative, slippery

phrasinghaditsfulleffect.‘The police have looked

intomymovements?’Chard spoke like a

frightened boy, unable tomuster even a pretence ofself-protectivesangfroid.

‘Well,youknow,everyonedepictedinBombyxMoriwasboundtocomeinforscrutinyfrom the police,’ said Strikecasually,sippinghistea,‘andeverything you people didafter the fifth, when Quinewalked out on his wife,taking the book with him,willbeofinteresttothem.’And to Strike’s great

satisfaction, Chard began atonce to review his ownmovements aloud, apparently

forhisownreassurance.‘Well, I didn’t know

anythingaboutthebookatalluntil the seventh,’ he said,staring at his bound-up footagain.‘IwasdownherewhenJerry called me… I headedstraightbackup toLondon–Mannydroveme. I spent thenight at home, Manny andNenitacanconfirmthat…onthe Monday I met with mylawyers at the office, talkedto Jerry… I was at a dinner

party that night – closefriends inNottingHill – andagain Manny drove mehome… I turned in early onTuesday because onWednesday morning I wasgoing to New York. I wasthere until the thirteenth…homealldaythefourteenth…onthefifteenth…’Chard’s mumbling

deteriorated into silence.Perhaps he had realised thatthere was not the slightest

need for him to explainhimselftoStrike.Thedartinglook he gave the detectivewas suddenly cagey. Chardhad wanted to buy an ally;Strike could tell that he hadsuddenly awoken to thedouble-edgednatureofsucharelationship. Strike was notworried.Hehadgainedmorefrom the interview than hehad expected; to be unhirednow would cost him onlymoney.

Mannycamepaddingbackacrossthefloor.‘You want lunch?’ he

askedChardcurtly.‘In five minutes,’ Chard

said,withasmile.‘ImustsaygoodbyetoMrStrikefirst.’Manny stalked away on

rubber-soledshoes.‘He’s sulking,’ Chard told

Strike,withanuncomfortablehalf-laugh.‘Theydon’tlikeitdown here. They preferLondon.’

He retrieved his crutchesfrom the floor and pushedhimself back up into astandingposition.Strike,withmoreeffort,imitatedhim.‘And how is – er – Mrs

Quine?’ Chard said, with anairofbelatedlytickingofftheproprieties as they swung,like strange three-leggedanimals, back towards thefront door. ‘Big red-headedwoman,yes?’‘No,’ said Strike. ‘Thin.

Greyinghair.’‘Oh,’ said Chard, without

much interest. ‘I metsomeoneelse.’Strike paused beside the

swing doors that led to thekitchen. Chard halted too,lookingaggrieved.‘I’mafraidIneedtogeton,

MrStrike—’‘So do I,’ said Strike

pleasantly, ‘but I don’t thinkmyassistantwould thankmeforleavingherbehind.’

Chard had evidentlyforgotten the existence ofRobin, whom he had soperemptorilydismissed.‘Oh, yes, of course –

Manny!Nenita!’‘She’s in the bathroom,’

said the stocky woman,emerging from the kitchenholding the linen bagcontainingRobin’sshoes.Thewaitpassedinafaintly

uncomfortablesilence.AtlastRobin appeared, her

expressionstony,andslippedherfeetbackintohershoes.Thecoldairbittheirwarm

facesasthefrontdoorswungopen while Strike shookhands with Chard. Robinmoveddirectlytothecarandclimbed into thedriver’sseatwithoutspeakingtoanyone.Manny reappeared in his

thickcoat.‘I’llcomedownwithyou,’

he told Strike. ‘To check thegates.’

‘Theycanbuzzthehouseifthey’re stuck, Manny,’ saidChard, but the young manpaidnoattention, clamberingintothecarasbefore.The three of them rode in

silencebackdown theblack-and-white drive, through thefalling snow.Manny pressedthe remote control he hadbrought with him and thegates slid open withoutdifficulty.‘Thanks,’ said Strike,

turning to look at him in theback seat. ‘’Fraid you’ve gotacoldwalkback.’Manny sniffed, got out of

thecarandslammedthedoor.Robin had just shifted intofirst gear when Mannyappeared at Strike’swindow.Sheappliedthebrake.‘Yeah?’ said Strike,

windingthewindowdown.‘I didn’t push him,’ said

Mannyfiercely.‘Sorry?’

‘Down the stairs,’ saidManny. ‘I didn’t push him.He’slying.’Strike and Robin stared at

him.‘Youbelieveme?’‘Yeah,’saidStrike.‘OK then,’ said Manny,

noddingatthem.‘OK.’He turned and walked,

slippingalittle inhisrubber-soled shoes, back up to thehouse.

30

… as an earnest offriendship andconfidence, I’ll acquaintyouwith a design that Ihave. To tell truth, andspeak openly one toanother…WilliamCongreve,Love

forLove

At Strike’s insistence, theystopped for lunch at theBurger King at TivertonServices.‘Youneedtoeatsomething

beforewegouptheroad.’Robin accompanied him

inside with barely a word,making no reference even toManny’s recent, startlingassertion. Her cold andslightly martyred air did not

entirelysurpriseStrike,buthewas impatient with it. Shequeued for their burgers,becausehecouldnotmanageboth tray and crutches, andwhen she had set down theloaded tray at the smallFormica table he said, tryingtodefusethetension:‘Look, I know you

expectedmetotellChardofffortreatingyoulikestaff.’‘I didn’t,’ Robin

contradicted him

automatically. (Hearing himsay it aloud made her feelpetulant,childish.)‘Have it your own way,’

said Strike with an irritableshrug, taking a large bite ofhisfirstburger.They ate in disgruntled

silence for a minute or two,until Robin’s innate honestyreasserteditself.‘Allright,Idid,abit,’she

said.Mellowed by greasy food

and touched by heradmission,Strikesaid:‘I was getting good stuff

outofhim,Robin.Youdon’tstart picking arguments withinterviewees when they’re infullflow.’‘Sorry for my

amateurishness,’ she said,stungalloveragain.‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ he

said.‘Who’scallingyou—?’‘Whatwereyou intending,

when you took me on?’ she

demanded suddenly, lettingher unwrapped burger fallbackontothetray.The latent resentment of

weeks had suddenly burst itsbounds.Shedidnotcarewhatshe heard; she wanted thetruth.Was she a typist and areceptionist, or was shesomething more? Had shestayedwithStrike,andhelpedhim climb out of penury,merely to be shunted asidelikedomesticstaff?

‘Intending?’ repeatedStrike, staring at her. ‘Whatd’youmean,intend—?’‘Ithoughtyoumeantmeto

be–IthoughtIwasgoingtoget some – some training,’saidRobin,pink-cheekedandunnaturally bright-eyed.‘You’ve mentioned it acouple of times, but thenlately you’ve been talkingabout getting someone elsein.Itookapaycut,’shesaidtremulously. ‘I turned down

better-paid jobs. I thoughtyoumeantmetobe—’Her anger, so long

suppressed,was bringing herto the verge of tears, but shewasdeterminednottogiveintothem.Thefictionalpartnerwhom she had beenimagining for Strike wouldnever cry; not that no-nonsense ex-policewoman,tough and unemotionalthrougheverycrisis…‘Ithoughtyoumeantmeto

be– Ididn’t think Iwas justgoingtoanswerthephone.’‘Youdon’t justanswer the

phone,’ said Strike, who hadjust finished his first burgerand was watching herstruggle with her anger frombeneath his heavy brows.‘You’ve been casing murdersuspects’houseswithmethisweek. You just saved bothourlivesonthemotorway.’But Robin was not to be

deflected.

‘What were you expectingme to dowhen you keptmeon?’‘I don’t know that I had

any particular plan,’ Strikesaid slowly and untruthfully.‘I didn’t knowyouwere thisserious about the job –lookingfortraining—’‘How could I not be

serious?’ demanded Robinloudly.A family of four in the

corner of the tiny restaurant

was staring at them. Robinpaid them no attention. Shewas suddenly livid.The longcoldjourney,Strikeeatingallthefood,hissurprisethatshecould drive properly, herrelegationtothekitchenwithChard’sservantsandnowthis—‘Yougivemehalf–half–

what that human resourcesjobwouldhavepaid!Whydoyou think I stayed? I helpedyou. I helped you solve the

LulaLandry—’‘OK,’ said Strike, holding

up a large, hairy-backedhand. ‘OK, here it is. Butdon’t blameme if you don’tlike what you’re about tohear.’She staredathim, flushed,

straight-backedonherplasticchair,herfooduntouched.‘Idid takeyouonthinking

I could trainyouup. Ididn’thave anymoney for courses,butI thoughtyoucouldlearn

onthejobuntilIcouldaffordit.’Refusing to feel mollified

until she heard what wascoming next, Robin saidnothing.‘You’ve got a lot of

aptitude for the job,’ saidStrike, ‘but you’re gettingmarried to someone whohatesyoudoingit.’Robin opened her mouth

and closed it again. Asensation of having been

unexpectedly winded hadrobbed her of the power ofspeech.‘You leave on the dot

everyday—’‘I do not!’ said Robin,

furious. ‘In case you hadn’tnoticed, I turned down a dayoff to be here now, drivingyouallthewaytoDevon—’‘Because he’s away,’ said

Strike. ‘Because he won’tknow.’Thefeelingofhavingbeen

winded intensified. Howcould Strike know that shehadliedtoMatthew,ifnotinfact,thenbyomission?‘Even if that – whether

that’s true or not,’ she saidunsteadily, ‘it’s up to mewhat I dowithmy – it’s notup toMatthewwhat career Ihave.’‘I was with Charlotte

sixteen years, on and off,’said Strike, picking up hissecond burger. ‘Mostly off.

She hated my job. It’s whatkeptbreakingusup–oneofthe things that kept breakingus up,’ he corrected himself,scrupulously honest. ‘Shecouldn’t understand avocation. Somepeople can’t;at best, work’s about statusand pay cheques for them, ithasn’tgotvalueinitself.’He began unwrapping the

burgerwhile Robin glared athim.‘I need a partner who can

share the long hours,’ saidStrike. ‘Someone who’s OKwith weekend work. I don’tblameMatthew for worryingaboutyou—’‘Hedoesn’t.’Thewordswereoutofher

mouth before Robin couldconsider them.Inherblanketdesire to refute everythingthatStrikewassayingshehadlet an unpalatable truthescapeher.The factwas thatMatthew had very little

imagination.HehadnotseenStrike covered in blood afterthekillerofLulaLandryhadstabbed him. Even herdescription of Owen Quinelying trussed anddisembowelled seemed tohavebeenblurredforhimbythe thickmiasma of jealousythrough which he heardeverything connected toStrike. His antipathy for herjob owed nothing toprotectiveness and she had

never admitted as much toherselfbefore.‘It canbedangerous,what

I do,’ said Strike throughanother huge bite of burger,as though he had not heardher.‘I’ve been useful to you,’

saidRobin, her voice thickerthan his, though her mouthwasempty.‘I know you have. I

wouldn’tbewhere Iamnowif I hadn’t had you,’ said

Strike. ‘Nobody was evermore grateful than me for atemping agency’s mistake.You’ve been incredible, Icouldn’thave–don’tbloodycry, that family’s gawpingenoughalready.’‘I don’t give amonkey’s,’

said Robin into a handful ofpaper napkins and Strikelaughed.‘If it’swhat youwant,’ he

told the top of her red-goldhead, ‘you can go on a

surveillancecoursewhenI’vegot themoney.But if you’remy partner-in-training,there’ll be times that I’mgoingtohavetoaskyoutodostuff thatMatthewmight notlike. That’s all I’m saying.You’re the one who’s goingtohavetoworkitout.’‘And I will,’ said Robin,

fightingtocontaintheurgetobawl. ‘That’s what I want.That’swhyIstayed.’‘Then cheer the fuck up

andeatyourburger.’Robin found it hard to eat

with the huge lump in herthroat. She felt shaken butelated. She had not beenmistaken: Strike had seen inher what he possessedhimself. They were notpeople who worked merelyforthepaycheque…‘So, tell me about Daniel

Chard,’shesaid.He did so while the nosy

family of four gathered up

their things and left, stillthrowingcovertglancesatthecouple they could not quitework out (had it been alovers’ tiff? A family row?How had it been so speedilyresolved?).‘Paranoid, bit eccentric,

self-obsessed,’ concludedStrikefiveminuteslater,‘butthere might be something init.JerryWaldegravecould’vecollaborated with Quine. Onthe other hand, he might’ve

resigned because he’d hadenoughofChard,whoIdon’tthinkwouldbeaneasybloketoworkfor.‘D’youwantacoffee?’Robin glanced at her

watch. The snow was stillfalling; she feared delays onthe motorway that wouldpreventhercatchingthetrainto Yorkshire, but after theirconversation she wasdetermined to demonstratehercommitmenttothejob,so

she agreed to one. In anycase, there were things shewished tosay toStrikewhileshe was still sitting oppositehim.Itwouldnotbenearlyassatisfyingtotellhimwhileinthe driver’s seat, where shecouldnotwatchhisreaction.‘I found out a bit about

Chardmyself,’shesaidwhenshe had returned with twocups and an apple pie forStrike.‘Servants’gossip?’

‘No,’ said Robin. ‘Theybarely said a word to mewhile I was in the kitchen.They both seemed in foulmoods.’‘According to Chard, they

don’t like it inDevon.PreferLondon.Aretheybrotherandsister?’‘Mother and son, I think,’

said Robin. ‘He called herMamu.‘Anyway, I asked to go to

the bathroom and the staff

loo’s just next to an artist’sstudio.DanielChardknowsalot about anatomy,’ saidRobin. ‘There are prints ofLeonardo da Vinci’sanatomical drawings all overthe walls and an anatomicalmodel in one corner. Creepy–wax.Andontheeasel,’shesaid, ‘was a very detaileddrawing of Manny theManservant. Lying on theground,inthenude.’Strikeputdownhiscoffee.

‘Thosearevery interestingpieces of information,’ hesaidslowly.‘I thought you’d like

them,’ said Robin, with ademuresmile.‘Shinesaninterestingside-

light on Manny’s assurancethat he didn’t push his bossdownthestairs.’‘Theyreallydidn’tlikeyou

beingthere,’saidRobin,‘butthat might have been myfault. I said you were a

privatedetective,butNenita–her English isn’t as good asManny’s–didn’tunderstand,so I said youwere a kind ofpoliceman.’‘Leading them to assume

that Chard had invited meover to complain aboutManny’s violence towardshim.’‘DidChardmentionit?’‘Not a word,’ said Strike.

‘MuchmoreconcernedaboutWaldegrave’s alleged

treachery.’Aftervisitstothebathroom

they returned to the cold,where they had to screw uptheir eyes against oncomingsnowastheytraversedthecarpark. A light frosting hadalreadysettledoverthetopoftheToyota.‘You’regoingtomakeitto

King’s Cross, right?’ saidStrike,checkinghiswatch.‘Unless we hit trouble on

the motorway,’ said Robin,

surreptitiously touching thewood trim on the door’sinterior.They had just reached the

M4, where there wereweather warnings on everysign and where the speedlimit had been reduced tosixty, when Strike’s mobilerang.‘Ilsa?What’sgoingon?’‘Hi, Corm. Well, it could

be worse. They haven’tarrested her, but that was

someintensequestioning.’Strike turned the mobile

onto speakerphone forRobin’s benefit and togetherthey listened, similar frownsof concentration on theirfaces as the car movedthrough a vortex of swirlingsnow, rushing thewindscreen.‘They definitely think it’s

her,’saidIlsa.‘Basedonwhat?’‘Opportunity,’ said Ilsa,

‘and her manner. She reallydoesn’t help herself. Verygrumpy at being questionedand kept talking about you,whichputtheirbacksup.Shesaid you’ll find out whoreallydidit.’‘Bloody hell,’ said Strike,

exasperated. ‘And what wasinthelock-up?’‘Oh yeah, that. It was a

burned, bloodstained rag inamongapileofjunk.’‘Big effing deal,’ said

Strike. ‘Could’ve been thereyears.’‘Forensics will find out,

but I agree, it’s not much togo on seeing as they haven’tevenfoundthegutsyet.’‘You know about the

guts?’‘Everyoneknowsaboutthe

gutsnow,Corm.It’sbeenonthenews.’Strike and Robin

exchangedfleetinglooks.‘When?’

‘Lunchtime. I think thepolice knew it was about tobreak and brought her in tosee if they could squeezeanything out of her before itall became commonknowledge.’‘It’soneof their lotwho’s

leakedit,’saidStrikeangrily.‘That’sabigaccusation.’‘Ihaditfromthejournalist

whowaspayingthecoppertotalk.’‘Know some interesting

people,don’tyou?’‘Comes with the territory.

Thanks for letting me know,Ilsa.’‘Noproblem.Tryandkeep

her out of jail,Corm. I quitelikeher.’‘Whoisthat?’Robinasked

asIlsahungup.‘Old school friend from

Cornwall; lawyer. Shemarried one of my Londonmates,’ said Strike. ‘I putLeonora onto her because –

shit.’They had rounded a bend

to findahuge tailbackaheadof them. Robin applied thebrake and they drew upbehindaPeugeot.‘Shit,’repeatedStrike,with

a glance at Robin’s setprofile.‘Another accident,’ said

Robin. ‘I can see flashinglights.’Her imagination showed

herMatthew’sfaceifshehad

totelephonehimandsaythatshewasnot coming, that shehad missed the sleeper. Hismother’s funeral… whomissesa funeral?She shouldhave been there already, atMatt’sfather’shouse,helpingwith arrangements, takingsome of the strain. Herweekendbagoughtalreadytohave been sitting in her oldbedroomathome,herfuneralclothes pressed and hangingin her old wardrobe,

everythingreadyfortheshortwalk to the church thefollowing morning. Theywere burying Mrs Cunliffe,her futuremother-in-law, butshe had chosen to drive offintothesnowwithStrike,andnow they were gridlocked,two hundred miles from thechurch where Matthew’smotherwouldbelaidtorest.He’ll never forgive me.

He’ll never forgive me if ImissthefuneralbecauseIdid

this…Whydid she have to have

been presented with such achoice, today of all days?Whydid theweatherhave tobe so bad? Robin’s stomachchurnedwithanxietyand thetrafficdidnotmove.Strike said nothing, but

turned on the radio. ThesoundofTakeThatfilledthecar,singingabouttherebeingprogress now, where oncethere was none. The music

gratedonRobin’snerves,butshesaidnothing.The line of traffic moved

forwardafewfeet.Oh,pleaseGod, letmeget

to King’s Cross on time,prayedRobininsideherhead.For three quarters of an

hourtheycrawledthroughthesnow, the afternoon lightfading fast around them.What had seemed a vastocean of time until thedeparture of the night train

was starting to feel to Robinlikearapidlydrainingpoolinwhich she might shortly besittingalone,marooned.Now they could see the

crash ahead of them; thepolice, the lights, a mangledPolo.‘You’ll make it,’ said

Strike, speaking for the firsttime since he had turned ontheradioas theywaited theirturntobewavedforwardsbythe traffic cop. ‘It’ll be tight,

butyou’llmakeit.’Robindidnot answer.She

knew itwasallher fault,nothis: he had offered her theday off. It was she who hadbeeninsistentoncomingwithhim to Devon, she who hadlied to Matthew about theavailability of train seatstoday. She ought to havestood all the way fromLondon to Harrogate ratherthan miss Mrs Cunliffe’sfuneral. Strikehadbeenwith

Charlotte sixteen years, onand off, and the job hadbroken them. She did notwant to lose Matthew. Whyhad she done this; why hadsheofferedtodriveStrike?The traffic was dense and

slow. By five o’clock theywere travelling in thick rush-hour traffic outside Readingand crawled to a halt again.Strike turned up the newswhen it came on the radio.Robintriedtocarewhat they

would say about Quine’smurder, but her heart was inYorkshire now, as though ithad leapfrogged the trafficandalltheimplacable,snowymilesbetweenherandhome.‘Police have confirmed

today that murdered authorOwen Quine, whose bodywas discovered six days agoin a house in Barons Court,London,wasmurderedinthesame way as the hero of hislast, unpublished book. No

arrest has yet been made inthecase.‘Detective Inspector

Richard Anstis, who is incharge of the investigation,spoke to reportersearlier thisafternoon.’Anstis, Strike noted,

sounded stilted and tense.This was not the way hewouldhavechosentoreleasetheinformation.‘We’re interested in

hearing from everyone who

had access to themanuscriptofMrQuine’slastnovel—’‘Can you tell us exactly

how Mr Quine was killed,Detective Inspector?’ askedaneagermalevoice.‘We’re waiting for a full

forensic report,’ said Anstis,and he was cut across by afemalereporter.‘Canyouconfirmthatparts

of Mr Quine’s body wereremovedbythekiller?’‘Part of Mr Quine’s

intestines were taken awayfrom the scene,’ said Anstis.‘We’re pursuing severalleads,butwewouldappealtothe public for anyinformation. This was anappalling crime and webelieve the perpetrator to beextremelydangerous.’‘Not again,’ said Robin

desperatelyandStrikelookedup to seeawallof red lightsahead. ‘Not anotheraccident…’

Strike slapped off theradio, unwound his windowand stuck his head out intothewhirlingsnow.‘No,’ he shouted to her.

‘Someonestuckatthesideofthe road… in a drift…we’llbemovingagaininaminute,’hereassuredher.But it took another forty

minutes for them toclear theobstruction. All three laneswere packed and theyresumedtheirjourneyatlittle

morethanacrawl.‘I’mnotgoingtomakeit,’

saidRobin,hermouthdry,asthey finally reached the edgeofLondon.Itwastwentypastten.‘You are,’ said Strike.

‘Turn that bloody thing off,’hesaid,thumpingthesatnavinto silence, ‘and don’t takethatexit—’‘But I’ve got to drop you

—’‘Forgetme,youdon’tneed

todropme–nextleft—’‘Ican’tgodownthere,it’s

oneway!’‘Left!’ he bellowed,

tuggingthewheel.‘Don’t do that, it’s danger

—’‘D’you want to miss this

bloodyfuneral?Putyourfootdown!Firstright—’‘Wherearewe?’‘I know what I’m doing,’

saidStrike,squintingthroughthe snow. ‘Straight on…my

mate Nick’s dad’s a cabbie,he taught me some stuff –right again – ignore thebloodyNoEntry sign,who’scoming out of there on anight like this? Straight onandleftatthelights!’‘I can’t just leave you at

King’s Cross!’ she said,obeying his instructionsblindly. ‘You can’t drive it,whatareyougoingtodowithit?’‘Sod the car, I’ll think of

something–uphere,takethesecondright—’Atfivetoeleventhetowers

of St Pancras appeared toRobinlikeavisionofheaventhroughthesnow.‘Pullover,getoutandrun,’

said Strike. ‘Call me if youmake it. I’ll be here if youdon’t.’‘Thankyou.’And she had gone,

sprinting over the snowwithher weekend bag dangling

from her hand. Strikewatched her vanish into thedarkness, imagined herskidding a little on theslippery floor of the station,not falling, looking wildlyaround for the platform…She had left the car, on hisinstructions, at the kerb on adouble line. If she made thetrainhewasstrandedinahirecar he couldn’t drive andwhich would certainly betowed.

ThegoldenhandsontheStPancras clock movedinexorably towards eleveno’clock. Strike saw the traindoors slamming shut in hismind’s eye, Robin sprintinguptheplatform,red-goldhairflying…Oneminute past.He fixed

his eyes on the stationentranceandwaited.She did not reappear. Still

hewaited.Fiveminutespast.Sixminutespast.

Hismobilerang.‘Didyoumakeit?’‘Bytheskinofmyteeth…

it was just about to leave…Cormoran, thank you, thankyousomuch…’‘No problem,’ he said,

lookingaroundatthedarkicyground, the deepening snow.‘Have a good journey. I’dbetter sort myself out. Goodluckfortomorrow.’‘Thank you!’ she called as

hehungup.

He had owed her, Strikethought, reaching for hiscrutches, but that did notmake the prospect of ajourneyacrosssnowyLondonononeleg,oraheftyfineforabandoning a hire car in themiddle of town, much moreappealing.

31

Danger, the spur of allgreatminds.GeorgeChapman,The

RevengeofBussyd’Ambois

DanielChardwouldnothaveliked the tinyrentedattic flat

in Denmark Street, Strikethought,unlesshecouldhavefound primitive charm in thelinesoftheoldtoasterordesklamp, but therewasmuch tosay for it if you happened tobe a man with one leg. Hisknee was still not ready toaccept a prosthesis onSaturday morning, butsurfaceswerewithingrabbingreach; distances could becovered in short hops; therewas food in the fridge, hot

water and cigarettes. Strikefelt a genuine fondness forthe place today, with thewindow steamy withcondensationandblurrysnowvisibleonthesillbeyond.After breakfast he lay on

his bed, smoking, a mug ofdarkbrownteabesidehimonthe box that served as abedside table, glowering notwith bad temper butconcentration.Sixdaysandnothing.

No sign of the intestinesthat had vanished fromQuine’s body, nor of anyforensic evidence that wouldhave pegged the potentialkiller (for he knew that arogue hair or print wouldsurely have preventedyesterday’s fruitlessinterrogationofLeonora).Noappeals for further sightingsof the concealed figure whohad entered the buildingshortlybeforeQuinehaddied

(did the police think it afigment of the thick-lensedneighbour’s imagination?).No murder weapon, noincriminating footage ofunexpected visitors toTalgarthRoad, no suspiciousramblers noticing freshlyturned earth, no mound ofrotting guts revealed,wrappedinablackburqa,nosign of Quine’s holdallcontaining his notes forBombyxMori.Nothing.

Six days. He had caughtkillers in six hours, thoughadmittedly those had beenslapdash crimes of rage anddesperation, where fountainsof clues had gushedwith theblood and the panicking orincompetent culprits hadsplattered everyone in theirvicinitywiththeirlies.Quine’s killing was

different, stranger and moresinister.AsStrikeraisedhismugto

hislipshesawthebodyagainas clearly as though he hadviewedthephotographonhismobile.Itwasatheatrepiece,astageset.In spite of his strictures to

Robin, Strike could not helpasking himself: why had itbeen done? Revenge?Madness? Concealment (ofwhat?)? Forensic evidenceobliterated by thehydrochloric acid, time ofdeath obscured, entrance and

departure of the crime sceneachieved without detection.Planned meticulously. Everydetail thought out. Six daysandnotasinglelead…StrikedidnotbelieveAnstis’sclaimtohaveseveral.Ofcourse,hisold friend was no longersharing information,notafterthe tense warnings to Striketobuttout,tokeepaway.Strikebrushedashabsently

off the front of his oldsweater and lit a fresh

cigarette from the stubofhisoldone.Webelieve the perpetrator

to be extremely dangerous,Anstis had said to thereporters, a statement, inStrike’s view, that was bothpainfully obvious andstrangelymisleading.And a memory came to

him:thememoryofthegreatadventureofDavePolworth’seighteenthbirthday.PolworthwasStrike’svery

oldestfriend;theyhadknowneach other since nursery.Through childhood andadolescence Strike hadmoved away from Cornwallregularly and then returned,the friendship picking upagain wherever Strike’smother and her whims hadlastinterruptedit.Davehadanunclewhohad

left forAustralia in his teensand was now a multi-millionaire. He had invited

hisnephew tocomeandstayfor his eighteenth birthday,andtobringamate.Across the world the two

teenagers had flown; it hadbeen the best adventure oftheir young lives. They hadstayed in Uncle Kevin’smassive beachside house, allglassand shiningwood,witha bar in the sitting room;diamond sea spray in ablinding sun and enormouspink prawns on a barbecue

skewer; theaccents, thebeer,more beer, the sort ofbutterscotch-limbed blondesyou never saw in Cornwalland then, on Dave’s actualbirthday,theshark.‘They’reonlydangerous if

they’reprovoked,’saidUncleKevin, who liked his scubadiving.‘Notouching,lads,allright?Noarsingaround.’But for Dave Polworth,

who loved the sea, whosurfed, fished and sailed at

home, arsing around was awayoflife.A killer born, with its flat

dead eyes and its ranks ofstiletto teeth, but Strike hadwitnessed the blacktip’s lazyindifference as they swamover it, awed by its sleekbeauty. It would have beencontenttoglideawaythroughthe azure gloom, he knewthat, but Dave wasdeterminedtotouch.He had the scar still: the

shark had torn away a tidychunk of his forearm and hehadonlypartialfeelinginhisright thumb. It had notaffected his ability to do hisjob: Dave was a civilengineer in Bristol now, andtheycalledhim‘Chum’intheVictory Inn where he andStrikestillmettodrinkDoomBar on their visits home.Stubborn, reckless, athrillseeker to his core,Polworth still scuba-dived in

his free time, though he leftthe basking sharks of theAtlanticwellalone.There was a fine crack on

the ceiling over Strike’s bed.Hedidnot thinkhehadevernoticed it before. His eyesfolloweditasherememberedtheshadowonaseabedandasuddencloudofblackblood;the thrashingofDave’sbodyinasilentscream.The killer of Owen Quine

was like that blacktip, he

thought. There were nofrenzied, indiscriminatepredators among the suspectsin this case. None of themhad a known history ofviolence.Therewasnot,assooftenwhenbodies turnedup,atrailofpastmisdemeanoursleading to the door of asuspect, no bloodstained pastdragging behind any of themlikeabagofoffalforhungryhounds. This killer was ararer, stranger beast: the one

who concealed their truenature until sufficientlydisturbed. Owen Quine, likeDave Polworth, hadrecklessly taunted amurderer-in-waiting andunleashed horror uponhimself.Strike had heard the glib

assertion many times, thateveryone had it in them tokill,butheknew this tobealie. There were undoubtedlythose to whom killing was

easy and pleasurable: he hadmetafewsuch.Millionshadbeen successfully trained toend others’ lives; he, Strike,was one of them. Humanskilled opportunistically, foradvantage and in defence,discoveringinthemselvesthecapacity for bloodshed whenno alternative seemedpossible; but there were alsopeople who had drawn upshort, even under the mostintense pressure, unable to

presstheiradvantage,toseizethe opportunity, to break thefinalandgreatesttaboo.Strike did not

underestimate what it hadtakentobind,batterandsliceopen Owen Quine. Theperson who had done it hadachieved their goal withoutdetection, successfullydisposed of the evidence andappearednot tobeexhibitingsufficient distress or guilt toalert anyone. All of this

argued a dangerouspersonality, a highlydangerous personality – ifdisturbed. While theybelieved themselves to beundetected and unsuspected,there was no danger toanybody around them.But iftouched again… touched,perhaps, in the place whereOwenQuinehadmanaged totouchthem…‘Fuck,’ murmured Strike,

dropping his cigarette hastily

intotheashtraybesidehim;ithad burned down to hisfingerswithouthimnoticing.Sowhatwashetodonext?

If the trail away from thecrime was practically non-existent, Strike thought, hemustpursue the trail towardsthecrime. If theaftermathofQuine’s death wasunnaturallydevoidofclues,itwas time to look at his lastfewdaysoflife.Strikepickeduphismobile

andsigheddeeply, lookingatit. Was there, he askedhimself, any other way ofgetting at the first piece ofinformation he sought? Heran through his extensive listof acquaintances in his head,discarding options as quicklyastheyoccurred.Finally,andwithoutmuchenthusiasm,heconcluded that his originalchoice was most likely tobringhimthegoods:hishalf-brotherAlexander.

They shared a famousfather, but had never livedunder the same roof. Al wasnine years younger thanStrike and was JonnyRokeby’s legitimate son,which meant that there wasvirtually no point ofcoincidence in their lives.Alhad been privately educatedin Switzerland and he mightbe anywhere right now: inRokeby’sLAresidence;onarapper’s yacht; even a white

Australian beach, forRokeby’sthirdwifewasfromSydney.Andyetofhishalf-siblings

on his father’s side, Al hadshown himself more willingthananyoftheotherstoforgea relationship with his olderbrother. Strike rememberedAl visiting him in hospitalafter his leg had been blownoff; an awkward encounter,buttouchinginretrospect.Alhadbroughtwithhimto

Selly Oak an offer fromRokeby that couldhavebeenmade bymail: financial helpin starting Strike’s detectivebusiness. Al had announcedthe offer with pride,consideringitevidenceofhisfather’s altruism. Strike hadbeensure that itwasnosuchthing. He suspected thatRokeby or his advisers hadbeen nervous about the one-legged, decorated veteransellinghisstory.Theofferof

a gift was supposed to stophismouth.Strikehadturneddownhis

father’s largesse and thenbeen refused by every singlebank towhichhe applied foraloan.HehadcalledAlbackwith immense reluctance,refusingtotakethemoneyasa gift, turning down aproffered meeting with hisfather but asking whether hecould have a loan. This hadevidently caused offence.

Rokeby’s lawyer hadsubsequently pursued Strikefor his monthly paymentswith all the zeal of themostrapaciousbank.Had Strike not chosen to

keepRobinonhispayroll,theloanwouldalreadyhavebeencleared. He was determinedto repay it before Christmas,determined not to bebeholden to Jonny Rokeby,whichwaswhyhehad takenonaworkloadthathadlately

seen him working eight ornine hours, seven days aweek.None of thismade theprospect of calling hisyounger brother for a favouranymorecomfortable.StrikecouldunderstandAl’sloyaltyto a father whom he clearlyloved, but any mentionbetweenthemofRokebywasnecessarilycharged.Al’s number rang several

times and finally went tovoicemail. As relieved as he

wasdisappointed,Strikeleftabrief message asking Al tocallhimandhungup.Lighting his third cigarette

since breakfast, Strikereverted to his contemplationof the crack in the ceiling.Thetrailtowardsthecrime…so much depended on whenthe killer had seen themanuscript, had recogniseditspotentialasablueprintformurder…And,onceagain,heflicked

through the suspects asthough they were a hand ofcards he had been dealt,examiningtheirpotentialities.Elizabeth Tassel, who

made no secret of the rageand pain Bombyx Mori hadcaused her. Kathryn Kent,whoclaimednottohavereadit at all. The still unknownPippa2011, to whom Quinehad read parts of the bookback in October. JerryWaldegrave,whohadhadthe

manuscript on the fifth, butmight, if Chard was to bebelieved, have known whatwas in there way before.Daniel Chard, who claimedthat he had not seen it untilthe seventh, and MichaelFancourt, who had heardabout the book from Chard.Yes, there were sundryothers, peeking and peeringand giggling at the mostsalacious parts of the book,emailed all over London by

Christian Fisher, but Strikefounditveryhardtoworkupeven the vaguest of casesagainst Fisher, young Ralphin Tassel’s office, or NinaLascelles, none of whomwere featured in BombyxMori nor had really knownQuine.He needed, Strike thought,

togetcloser,closeenoughtoruffle the peoplewhose liveshadalreadybeenmockedanddistorted by Owen Quine.

With only a little moreenthusiasm than he hadbrought to the taskofcallingAl, he scrolled through hiscontact list and called NinaLascelles.Itwasabriefcall.Shewas

delighted.Ofcoursehecouldcome over tonight. She’dcook.Strike could think of no

otherwaytoprobeforfurtherdetailsof JerryWaldegrave’sprivate life or for Michael

Fancourt’s reputation as aliterary assassin, but he didnot look forward to thepainfulprocessofreattachinghisprosthesis,nottomentionthe effort itwould require todetach himself again,tomorrow morning, fromNina Lascelles’s hopefulclutches. However, he hadArsenalversusAstonVillatowatch before he needed toleave; painkillers, cigarettes,baconandbread.

Preoccupied with his owncomfort,amixtureoffootballand murder on his mind, itdid not occur to Strike toglance down into the snowystreet where shoppers,undeterred by the freezingweather, were gliding in andout of the music stores, theinstrument makers and thecafés. Had he done so, hemighthaveseenthewillowy,hooded figure in the blackcoat leaning against the wall

between numbers six andeight, staring up at his flat.Good though his eyesightwas,however,hewouldhavebeen unlikely to spot theStanley knife being turnedrhythmically between long,finefingers.

32

Risemygoodangel,Whose holy tunes beatfrommethatevilspiritWhich jogs mineelbow…

ThomasDekker,TheNobleSpanishSoldier

Evenwithsnowchainsonitstyres the old family LandRover driven by Robin’smotherhadhadahardjobofit between York station andMasham. The wipers madefan-shaped windows, swiftlyobliterated, onto roadsfamiliar to Robin sincechildhood, now transformedby the worst winter she hadseeninmanyyears.Thesnowwas relentless and thejourney, which should have

taken an hour, lasted nearlythree. There had beenmoments when Robin hadthought she might yet missthe funeral. At least she hadbeen able to speak toMatthew on her mobile,explainingthatshewasclose.He had told her that severalothers were still miles away,that he was afraid his auntfrom Cambridge might notmakeitatall.AthomeRobinhaddodged

the slobbering welcome oftheir old chocolate Labradorand hurtled upstairs to herroom, pulling on the blackdress and coat withoutbothering to iron them,laddering her first pair oftights in her haste, thenrunning back downstairs tothehallwhereherparentsandbrotherswerewaitingforher.They walked together

through the swirling snowbeneath black umbrellas, up

the gentle hill Robin hadclimbed every day of herprimary school years andacross the wide square thatwas the ancient heart of hertiny home town, their backsto the giant chimney of thelocal brewery. The Saturdaymarket had been cancelled.Deep channels had beenmade in the snow by thosefew brave souls who hadcrossed the square thatmorning, footprints

converging near the churchwhere Robin could see acrowd of black-coatedmourners. The roofs of thepale gold Georgian houseslining the square woremantels of bright, frozenicing, and still the snowkeptcoming.Arisingseaofwhitewassteadilyburyingthelargesquare tombstones in thecemetery.Robin shivered as the

family edged towards the

doors of StMary theVirgin,past the remnant of a ninth-century round-shafted crossthat had a curiously paganappearance, and then, at last,shesawMatthew,standingintheporchwithhis father andsister, pale and heart-stoppingly handsome in hisblacksuit.AsRobinwatched,trying to catch his eye overthe queue, a young womanreached up and embracedhim. Robin recognised Sarah

Shadlock, Matthew’s oldfriend from university. Hergreeting was a little morelascivious, perhaps, thanwasappropriate in thecircumstances, but Robin’sguilt about having comewithintensecondsofmissingtheovernight train, aboutnothaving seen Matthew innearly aweek,madeher feelshehadnorighttoresentit.‘Robin,’ he said urgently

when he saw her and he

forgottoshakethreepeople’shandsasheheldouthisarmsto her. As they hugged shefelt tears prickle beneath hereyelids. This was real life,after all, Matthew andhome…‘Goandsitatthefront,’he

told her and she obeyed,leavingherfamilyatthebackof the church to sit in thefront pew with Matthew’sbrother-in-law, who wasdandling his baby daughter

on his knee and greetedRobinwithamorosenod.It was a beautiful old

church and Robin knew itwell from the Christmas,Easter and harvest servicesshe had attended all her lifewith her primary school andfamily. Her eyes travelledslowlyfromfamiliarobjecttofamiliar object. High aboveheroverthechancelarchwasa painting by Sir JoshuaReynolds (or, at the very

least, the school of JoshuaReynolds)andshefixeduponit, trying to compose hermind. A misty, mysticalimage, the boy-angelcontemplating the distantvision of a cross emittinggoldenrays…Whohadreallydone it, she wondered,Reynolds or some studioacolyte? And then she feltguilty that shewas indulgingherperennialcuriosityinsteadof feeling sad about Mrs

Cunliffe…She had thought that she

would bemarrying here in afew weeks’ time. Herwedding dress was hangingready in the spare room’swardrobe, but instead, herewas Mrs Cunliffe’s coffincoming up the aisle, shiningblack with silver handles,Owen Quine still in themorgue…noshinycoffinforhis disembowelled body yet,rottedandburned…

Don’tthinkaboutthat, shetold herself sternly asMatthewsatdownbesideher,the length of his leg warmagainsthers.The last twenty-four hours

had been so packed withincident that it was hard forRobin to believe she washere,athome.SheandStrikemight have been in hospital,they had come close toslamming head first into thatoverturned lorry… the driver

covered in blood… MrsCunliffe was probablyunscathed in her silk-linedbox… Don’t think aboutthat…It was as though her eyes

were being stripped of acomfortable soft focus.Maybe seeing things likebound and disembowelledbodies did something to you,changedthewayyousawtheworld.She knelt a little late for

prayer, the cross-stitchedhassock rough beneath herfreezing knees. Poor MrsCunliffe… except thatMatthew’s mother had nevermuch liked her. Be kind,Robin implored herself, eventhough it was true. MrsCunliffe had not liked theideaofMatthewbeingtiedtothe same girlfriend for solong. She had mentioned,within Robin’s hearing, howgooditwasforyoungmento

play the field, sow theirwildoats… The way in whichRobinhad leftuniversityhadtaintedher,sheknew,inMrsCunliffe’seyes.The statue of Sir

Marmaduke Wyvill wasfacing Robin frommere feetaway. As she stood for thehymnheseemedtobestaringat her in his Jacobean dress,life-sized and horizontal onhismarble shelf, propped upon his elbow to face the

congregation. His wife laybeneath him in an identicalpose.Theywereoddlyrealintheir irreverent poses,cushionsbeneaththeirelbowsto keep their marble bonescomfortable,andabovethem,in the spandrels, allegoricalfigures of death andmortality. Till death do uspart… and her thoughtsdrifted again: she andMatthew, tied together foreveruntiltheydied…no,not

tied… don’t think tied…What’swrongwith you?Shewasexhausted.The trainhadbeen overheated and jerky.She had woken on the hour,afraid that itwouldget stuckinthesnow.Matthew reached for her

hand and squeezed herfingers.The burial took place as

quickly as decency allowed,thesnowfallingthickaroundthem.Therewasnolingering

at the graveside; Robin wasnot the only one perceptiblyshivering.Everyonewentback to the

Cunliffes’ big brick houseand milled around in thewelcome warmth. MrCunliffe, who was always alittlelouderthantheoccasionwarranted,keptfillingglassesandgreetingpeopleasthoughitwereaparty.‘I’ve missed you,’

Matthew said. ‘It’s been

horriblewithoutyou.’‘Me too,’ said Robin. ‘I

wishIcouldhavebeenhere.’Lyingagain.‘Auntie Sue’s staying

tonight,’ said Matthew. ‘Ithought I couldmaybe comeovertoyourplace,begoodtoget away for a bit. It’s beenfullonthisweek…’‘Great, yes,’ said Robin,

squeezing his hand, gratefulthat she would not have tostay at the Cunliffes’. She

found Matthew’s sister hardwork and Mr Cunliffeoverbearing.But youcouldhaveputup

with it for a night, she toldherself sternly. It felt like anundeservedescape.Andsotheyreturnedtothe

Ellacotts’house,ashortwalkfrom the square. Matthewlikedherfamily;hewasgladtochangeoutofhis suit intojeans, to help hermother laythe kitchen table for dinner.

Mrs Ellacott, an amplewomanwithRobin’sred-goldhair tucked up in an untidybun, treated him with gentlekindness; she was a womanof many interests andenthusiasms, currently doinganOpenUniversitydegreeinEnglishLiterature.‘How’re the studies going,

Linda?’Matthewaskedasheliftedtheheavycasseroledishoutoftheovenforher.‘We’redoingWebster,The

DuchessofMalfi:“AndIamgrownmadwith’t.”’‘Difficult, is it?’ asked

Matthew.‘That’s a quotation, love.

Oh,’ shedropped the servingspoons onto the side with aclatter, ‘that reminds me – IbetI’vemissedit—’She crossed the kitchen

andsnatchedupacopyoftheRadio Times, always presentintheirhouse.‘No,it’sonatnine.There’s

an interview with MichaelFancourtIwanttowatch.’‘Michael Fancourt?’ said

Robin, looking round.‘Why?’‘He’s very influenced by

all those RevengeTragedians,’ saidhermother.‘I’m hoping he’ll explain theappeal.’‘Seen this?’ said Robin’s

youngest brother, Jonathan,fresh back from the cornershop with the extra milk

requestedbyhismother.‘It’son the front page, Rob. Thatwriterwithhisgutsrippedout—’‘Jon!’ said Mrs Ellacott

sharply.Robin knew that her

motherwasnot reprimandingher son out of any suspicionthat Matthew would notappreciatementionofherjob,butbecauseofamoregeneralaversiontodiscussingsuddendeath in the aftermath of the

burial.‘What?’ said Jonathan,

oblivious to the proprieties,shoving the Daily ExpressunderRobin’snose.Quine had made the front

pagenowthatthepressknewwhathadbeendonetohim.

HORROR AUTHOR WROTEOWNMURDER.Horror author, Robin

thought,hewashardlythat…butitmakesagoodheadline.‘Is your boss gonna solve

it, d’you reckon?’ Jonathanasked her, thumbing throughthe paper. ‘Show up theMetagain?’She began to read the

account over Jonathan’sshoulder, but caughtMatthew’s eye and movedaway.A buzzing issued from

Robin’s handbag, discardedin a sagging chair in thecorneroftheflaggedkitchen,astheyatetheirmealofstew

and baked potatoes. Sheignored it. Only when theyhad finished eating andMatthew was dutifullyhelping her mother clear thetabledidRobinwandertoherbag to check her messages.Tohergreatsurpriseshesawa missed call from Strike.WithasurreptitiousglanceatMatthew, who was busilystacking plates in thedishwasher, she calledvoicemail while the others

chatted.You have one new

message. Received today atseventwentyp.m.The crackle of an open

line,butnospeech.Then a thud.A yell in the

distancefromStrike:‘Noyoudon’t,youfucking

—’Abellowofpain.Silence.Thecrackleof the

open line. Indeterminatecrunching, dragging sounds.

Loud panting, a scrapingnoise,thelinedead.Robin stood aghast, the

phonepressedagainstherear.‘What’s thematter?’asked

her father, glasses halfwaydown his nose as he pausedon the way to the dresser,knivesandforksinhishand.‘I think – I thinkmy boss

has–hashadanaccident—’She pressed Strike’s

numberwith shaking fingers.The call went straight to

voicemail. Matthew wasstanding in themiddleof thekitchen watching her, hisdispleasureundisguised.

33

Hard fate when womenarecompell’dtowoo!

ThomasDekkerandThomasMiddleton,TheHonestWhore

Strike did not hear Robincallingbecause,unbeknownst

to him, his mobile had beenknocked onto silent when ithad hit the ground fifteenminutes previously. Nor washe aware that his thumb hadhit Robin’s number as thephone slipped through hisfingers.He had only just left his

building when it happened.The door onto the street hadswung shut behind him andhehadhadtwoseconds,withhis mobile in his hand

(waitingforaring-backfromthe cab he had reluctantlyordered) when the tall figurein the black coat had comerunning at him through thedarkness.Ablurofpale skinbeneath a hood and a scarf,herarmoutstretched,inexpertbutdetermined,withtheknifepointing directly at him in awaveringclutch.Bracing himself to meet

her he had almost slippedagainbut,slamminghishand

to the door, he steadiedhimself and the mobile fell.Shockedandfuriouswithher,whoever she was, for thedamage her pursuit hadalready done to his knee hebellowed–shecheckedforasplit-second, then came athimoncemore.As he swung his stick at

the hand in which he hadalreadyseentheStanleyknifehiskneetwistedagain.Heletout a roar of pain and she

leaptback,asthoughshehadstabbedhimwithoutknowingit, and then, for the secondtime, she had panicked andtaken flight, sprinting awaythrough the snow leaving afurious and frustrated Strikeunable to give chase, andwithnochoicebuttoscrabblearound in the snow for hisphone.Fuckthisleg!WhenRobincalledhimhe

wassittinginacrawlingtaxi,

sweating with pain. It wassmallconsolationthatthetinytriangular blade he had seenglintinginhispursuer’shandhad not pierced him. Hisknee, to which he had feltobliged to fit the prosthesisbefore settingout forNina’s,was excruciating once moreandhewasburningwithrageat his inability to give chaseto his mad stalker. He hadnever hit a woman, neverknowingly hurt one, but the

sight of the knife coming athim through the dark hadrendered such scruples void.To the consternation of thetaxidriver,whowaswatchinghis large, furious-lookingpassenger in the rear-viewmirror,Strikekepttwistinginhis seat in case he saw herwalking along the busySaturday-night pavements,round-shoulderedinherblackcoat, her knife concealed inherpocket.

The cab was glidingbeneath the Christmas lightsof Oxford Street, large,fragile parcels of silverwrapped with golden bows,and Strike fought his ruffledtemper as they travelled,feeling no pleasure at thethought of his imminentdinner date.Again and againRobin called him, but hecould not feel the mobilevibratingbecauseitwasdeepin his coat pocket,which lay

besidehimontheseat.‘Hi,’ said Nina with a

forced smile when sheopened the door to her flathalf an hour after the agreedtime.‘Sorry I’m late,’ said

Strike, limping over thethreshold. ‘I had an accidentleavingthehouse.Myleg.’He had not brought her

anything, he realised,standingthereinhisovercoat.Heshouldhavebroughtwine

or chocolates and he felt hernoticeitasherbigeyesrovedover him; she had goodmanners herself and he felt,suddenly,alittleshabby.‘And I’ve forgotten the

wine I bought you,’ he lied.‘Thisiscrap.Chuckmeout.’As she laughed, though

unwillingly, Strike felt thephone vibrate in his pocketand automatically pulled itout.Robin. He could not think

why she wanted him on aSaturday.‘Sorry,’ he told Nina,

‘gotta take this – urgent, it’smyassistant—’Her smile slipped. She

turnedandwalkedoutof thehall, leaving him there in hiscoat.‘Robin?’‘Are you all right? What

happened?’‘Howdidyou—?’‘I’ve got a voicemail that

sounds like a recording ofyoubeingattacked!’‘Christ, did I call you?

Must’vebeenwhenIdroppedthe phone. Yeah, that’sexactlywhatitwas—’Five minutes later, having

told Robin what hadhappened, he hung up hiscoatandfollowedhisnosetothe sitting room,whereNinahad laid a table for two.Theroom was lamp-lit; she hadtidied, put fresh flowers

around the place. A strongsmell of burnt garlic hung intheair.‘Sorry,’he repeatedas she

returned carrying a dish.‘WishIhadanine-to-fivejobsometimes.’‘Help yourself to wine,’

shesaidcoolly.The situation was deeply

familiar. How often had hesat opposite a woman whowas irritated by his lateness,his divided attention, his

casualness?Buthere,atleast,it was being played out in aminorkey.IfhehadbeenlatefordinnerwithCharlotteandtaken a call from anotherwoman as soon as he hadarrived he might haveexpected a face full of wineand flying crockery. Thatthought made him feel morekindlytowardsNina.‘Detectives make shit

dates,’ he told her as he satdown.

‘Iwouldn’tsay“shit”,’shereplied, softening. ‘I don’tsuppose it’s the sort of jobyoucanleavebehind.’Shewaswatchinghimwith

herhugemouse-likeeyes.‘I had a nightmare about

youlastnight,’shesaid.‘Getting off to a flying

start, aren’twe?’ said Strike,andshelaughed.‘Well,notreallyaboutyou.

WeweretogetherlookingforOwen Quine’s intestinal

tract.’She took a big swig of

wine,gazingathim.‘Did we find it?’ Strike

asked, trying to keep thingslight.‘Yes.’‘Where?I’lltakeanyleads

atthispoint.’‘In Jerry Waldegrave’s

bottom desk drawer,’ saidNina and he thought he sawherrepressashudder.‘Itwashorrible, actually. Blood and

gutswhen I opened it… andyouhitJerry.Itwokemeup,itwassoreal.’She drank more wine, not

touching her food. Strike,who had already takenseveral heartymouthfuls (fartoo much garlic, but he washungry), felt he was beinginsufficientlysympathetic.Heswallowedhastilyandsaid:‘Soundscreepy.’‘It’s because of what was

on the news yesterday,’ she

said,watching him. ‘Nobodyrealised,nobodyknewhe’d–he’d been killed like that.Like Bombyx Mori. Youdidn’ttellme,’shesaid,andawhiff of accusation reachedhimthroughthegarlicfumes.‘I couldn’t,’ said Strike.

‘It’s up to the police torelease that kind ofinformation.’‘It’s on the front page of

theDailyExpresstoday.He’dhave liked that,Owen.Being

a headline. But I wish Ihadn’treadit,’shesaid,withafurtivelookathim.He had met these qualms

before.Somepeople recoiledonce they realised what hehadseen,ordone,ortouched.It was as though he carriedthe smell of death on him.There were always womenwho were attracted by thesoldier, the policeman: theyexperiencedavicariousthrill,a voluptuous appreciation at

the violence a man mighthave seen or perpetrated.Other women were repelled.Nina,he suspected,hadbeenone of the former, but nowthat the reality of cruelty,sadismandsicknesshadbeenforced on her she wasdiscovering that she might,afterall,belonginthesecondcamp.‘It wasn’t fun at work

yesterday,’ she said. ‘Notafterweheardthat.Everyone

was… It’s just, if he waskilled that way, if the killercopied the book… It limitsthepossiblesuspects,doesn’tit? Nobody’s laughing aboutBombyxMorianymore,Icantell you that. It’s like one ofMichaelFancourt’soldplots,backwhen thecritics saidhewas toogrisly…And Jerry’sresigned.’‘Iheard.’‘I don’t know why,’ she

said restlessly. ‘He’s been at

Roper Chard ages. He’s notbeinghimselfatall.Angryallthe time, and he’s usually solovely. And he’s drinkingagain.Alot.’Shewasstillnoteating.‘Was he close to Quine?’

Strikeasked.‘I thinkhewascloser than

hethoughthewas,’saidNinaslowly. ‘They’d workedtogether quite a long time.Owendrovehimmad–Owendrove everyone mad – but

Jerry’s really upset, I cantell.’‘I can’t imagine Quine

enjoyingbeingedited.’‘I think he was tricky

sometimes,’ said Nina, ‘butJerry won’t hear a wordagainst Owen now. He’sobsessed by his breakdowntheory.Youheardhimat theparty, he thinks Owen wasmentallyillandBombyxMoriwasn’t really his fault. Andhe’s still raging against

Elizabeth Tassel for lettingthebookout.Shecameintheotherdaytotalkaboutoneofherotherauthors—’‘Dorcus Pengelly?’ Strike

asked, andNina gave a littlegaspoflaughter.‘You don’t read that crap!

Heaving bosoms andshipwrecks?’‘The name stuck in my

mind,’ said Strike, grinning.‘GoonaboutWaldegrave.’‘He saw Liz coming and

slammed his office door asshewalkedpast.You’veseenit, it’s glass and he nearlybroke it. Really unnecessaryand obvious, it madeeveryone jump out of theirskins. She looks ghastly,’added Nina. ‘Liz Tassel.Awful.Ifshe’dbeenonform,she’d have stormed intoJerry’s office and told himnottobesobloodyrude—’‘Wouldshe?’‘Are you crazy? Liz

Tassel’stemperislegendary.’Ninaglancedatherwatch.‘Michael Fancourt’s being

interviewed on the telly thisevening; I’m recording it,’she said, re-filling both theirglasses. She still had nottouchedherfood.‘Wouldn’t mind watching

that,’saidStrike.She threw him an oddly

calculating look and Strikeguessedthatshewastryingtoassesshowmuchhispresence

was due to a desire to pickherbrains,howmuchdesignsonherslim,boyishbody.Hismobilerangagain.For

several seconds he weighedtheoffencehemightcause ifhe answered it, versus thepossibilitythatitmightheraldsomething more useful thanNina’s opinions about JerryWaldegrave.‘Sorry,’he saidandpulled

itoutofhispocket.Itwashisbrother,Al.

‘Corm!’saidthevoiceovera noisy line. ‘Great to hearfromyou,bruv!’‘Hi,’ said Strike

repressively.‘Howareyou?’‘Great! I’m in New York,

only just got your message.Whatd’youneed?’HeknewthatStrikewould

only call if he wantedsomething, but unlike Nina,Aldidnotseemtoresent thefact.‘Wondering if you fancied

dinner this Friday,’ saidStrike, ‘but if you’re inNewYork—’‘I’m coming back

Wednesday, that’d be cool.Want me to booksomewhere?’‘Yeah,’ said Strike. ‘It’s

gottobetheRiverCafé.’‘I’ll get on it,’ said Al

without asking why: perhapsheassumedthatStrikemerelyhad a yen for good Italian.‘Text you the time, yeah?

Lookforwardtoit!’Strike hung up, the first

syllableofanapologyalreadyonhis lips,butNinahad leftfor the kitchen. Theatmosphere had undoubtedlycurdled.

34

O Lord! what have Isaid? my unluckytongue!WilliamCongreve,Love

forLove

‘Love is a mirage,’ saidMichael Fancourt on the

television screen. ‘A mirage,achimera,adelusion.’Robin was sitting between

Matthew and her mother onthe faded, sagging sofa. ThechocolateLabradorlayonthefloor in front of the fire, histail thumping lazily on therug in his sleep. Robin feltdrowsy after two nights ofvery little sleep and days ofunexpected stresses andemotion, but she was tryinghard to concentrate on

MichaelFancourt.BesideherMrs Ellacott, who hadexpressedtheoptimistichopethat Fancourt might let dropsome bons mots that wouldhelp with her essay onWebster,hadanotebookandpenonherlap.‘Surely,’ began the

interviewer, but Fancourttalkedoverhim.‘Wedon’t loveeachother;

we love the idea we have ofeachother.Veryfewhumans

understandthisorcanbeartocontemplate it. They haveblind faith in their ownpowers of creation. All love,ultimately,isself-love.’MrEllacottwasasleep,his

head back in the armchairclosesttothefireandthedog.Gently he snored, with hisspectacles halfway down hisnose. All three of Robin’sbrothers had slid discreetlyfrom the house. It wasSaturday night and their

mates were waiting in theBayHorseonthesquare.Jonhad come home fromuniversity for the funeral butdidnotfeelheowedit tohissister’s fiancé to forgo a fewpintsofBlackSheepwithhisbrothers, sitting at thedimpled copper tables by theopenfire.Robin suspected that

Matthew had wanted to jointhem but that he had felt itwould be unseemly. Now he

wasstuckwatchinga literaryprogramme he would neverhave tolerated at home. Hewould have turned overwithout asking her, taking itforgrantedthatshecouldnotpossiblybeinterestedinwhatthis sour-looking, sententiousman was saying. It was noteasy to like MichaelFancourt,thoughtRobin.Thecurve of both his lip and hiseyebrows implied aningrained sense of

superiority. The presenter,whowaswellknown,seemedalittlenervous.‘And that is the theme of

yournew—?’‘One of the themes, yes.

Rather than castigatinghimself for his foolishnesswhentheherorealisesthathehassimplyimaginedhiswifeintobeing,heseekstopunishthe flesh-and-blood womanwhom he believes has dupedhim. His desire for revenge

drivestheplot.’‘Aha,’saidRobin’smother

softly,pickingupherpen.‘Many of us – most,

perhaps,’saidtheinterviewer,‘consider love a purifyingideal,asourceofselflessnessratherthan—’‘A self-justifying lie,’ said

Fancourt. ‘We are mammalswho need sex, needcompanionship,whoseektheprotective enclave of thefamilyforreasonsofsurvival

andreproduction.Weselectaso-called loved one for themost primitive reasons – myhero’s preference for a pear-shaped woman is self-explanatory, I think. Theloved one laughs or smellslike theparentwhogaveoneyouthful succour and all elseis projected, all else isinvented—’‘Friendship—’ began the

interviewer a littledesperately.

‘If I could have broughtmyself to have sex with anyof my male friends, I wouldhavehadahappierandmoreproductive life,’ saidFancourt.‘Unfortunately,I’mprogrammed to desire thefemale form, howeverfruitlessly. And so I tellmyself that one woman ismore fascinating, moreattuned to my needs anddesires, than another. I am acomplex, highly evolved and

imaginative creature whofeels compelled to justify achoice made on the crudestgrounds.Thisisthetruththatwe’ve buried under athousand years of courtlybullshit.’Robin wondered what on

earthFancourt’swife(forsheseemed to remember that hewasmarried)wouldmake ofthis interview. Beside her,Mrs Ellacott had written afewwordsonhernotepad.

‘He’s not talking aboutrevenge,’Robinmuttered.Hermothershowedherthe

notepad. She had written:What a shit he is. Robingiggled.Beside her, Matthew

leaned over to the DailyExpressthatJonathanhadleftabandoned on a chair. Heturned past the front threepages, where Strike’s nameappeared several times in thetextalongsideOwenQuine’s,

andbegan to readapieceonhow a high street chain ofstores had banned CliffRichard’sChristmassongs.‘You’ve been criticised,’

said the interviewer bravely,‘foryourdepictionofwomen,mostparticularly—’‘I can hear the critics’

cockroach-like scurrying fortheir pens aswe speak,’ saidFancourt, his lip curling inwhat passed for a smile. ‘Ican think of little that

interests me less than whatcritics say about me or mywork.’Matthew turned a page of

the paper. Robin glancedsideways at a picture of anoverturned tanker, anupside-down Honda Civic and amangledMercedes.‘That’s the crash we were

nearlyin!’‘What?’saidMatthew.She had said it without

thinking.Robin’sbrainfroze.

‘That happened on theM4,’ Matthew said, halflaughing at her for thinkingshecouldhavebeeninvolved,thatshecouldnotrecogniseamotorwaywhenshesawone.‘Oh–ohyes,’ saidRobin,

pretending to peer morecloselyatthetextbeneaththepicture.But hewas frowningnow,

catchingup.‘Were you nearly in a car

crashyesterday?’

He was speaking quietly,trying not to disturb MrsEllacott, who was followingFancourt’s interview.Hesitationwasfatal.Choose.‘Yes, I was. I didn’t want

toworryyou.’He stared at her. On

Robin’s other side she couldfeelhermothermakingmorenotes.‘This one?’ he said,

pointing at the picture, andshe nodded. ‘Why were you

ontheM4?’‘IhadtodriveCormoranto

aninterview.’‘I’m thinking of women,’

said the interviewer, ‘yourviewsonwomen—’‘Where the hell was the

interview?’‘Devon,’saidRobin.‘Devon?’‘He’s buggered his leg

again. He couldn’t have gottherebyhimself.’‘YoudrovehimtoDevon?’

‘Yes,Matt, I drovehim to—’‘So that’s why you didn’t

come up yesterday? So youcould—’‘Matt,ofcoursenot.’He flung down the paper,

pulled himself up and strodefromtheroom.Robinfeltsick.Shelooked

around at the door,which hehad not slammed, but closedfirmly enough to make herfather stir and mutter in his

sleep and the Labradorwakeup.‘Leave him,’ advised her

mother, her eyes still on thescreen.Robin swung round,

desperate.‘Cormoran had to get to

Devon and he couldn’t drivewithonlyoneleg—’‘There’snoneedtodefend

yourself to me,’ said MrsEllacott.‘But now he thinks I lied

about not being able to gethomeyesterday.’‘Did you?’ her mother

asked, her eyes still fixedbeadily upon MichaelFancourt. ‘Get down,Rowntree, I can’t see overyou.’‘Well, I could’ve come if

I’d got a first-class ticket,’Robin admitted as theLabrador yawned, stretchedand resettled himself on thehearthrug. ‘But I’d already

paidforthesleeper.’‘Matt’s always going on

abouthowmuchmoremoneyyou would have made ifyou’d taken that HR job,’said hermother, her eyes onthe TV screen. ‘I’d havethought he’d appreciate yousaving the pennies. Nowshush, I want to hear aboutrevenge.’The interviewerwas trying

toformulateaquestion.‘But where women are

concerned, you haven’talways – contemporarymores, so-called politicalcorrectness – I’m thinkingparticularly of your assertionthatfemalewriters—’‘This again?’ said

Fancourt, slapping his kneeswith his hands (theinterviewer perceptiblyjumped). ‘I said that thegreatest female writers, withalmost no exceptions, havebeen childless.A fact.And I

have said that womengenerally, by virtue of theirdesire to mother, areincapable of the necessarilysingle-minded focus anyonemust bring to the creation ofliterature, true literature. Idon’tretractaword.Thatisafact.’Robin was twisting her

engagement ring on herfinger, torn between herdesire to follow Matt andpersuade him she had done

nothingwrongandangerthatany such persuasion shouldbe required. The demands ofhisjobcamefirst,always;shehad never known himapologise for late hours, forjobs that took him to the farside of London and broughthimhomeat eighto’clockatnight…‘I was going to say,’ the

interviewer hurried on, withan ingratiating smile, ‘thatthis book might give those

critics pause. I thought thecentral female character wastreated with greatunderstanding, with realempathy. Of course’ – heglanceddownathisnotesandupagain;Robincouldfeelhisnerves – ‘parallels are boundtobedrawn–indealingwiththe suicide of a youngwoman, I expect you’rebraced – you must beexpecting—’‘That stupid people will

assumethatIhavewrittenanautobiographical account ofmyfirstwife’ssuicide?’‘Well,it’sboundtobeseen

as – it’s bound to raisequestions—’‘Thenletmesaythis,’said

Fancourt,andpaused.They were sitting in front

ofalongwindowlookingoutonto a sunny, windsweptlawn. Robin wonderedfleetingly when theprogrammehadbeenfilmed–

before the snows had come,clearly – but Matthewdominated her thoughts. Sheoughttogoandfindhim,yetsomehow she remained onthesofa.‘When Eff – Ellie died,’

began Fancourt, ‘when shedied—’The close-up felt painfully

intrusive.Thetinylinesatthecorners of his eyes deepenedas he closed them; a squarehandflewtoconcealhisface.

MichaelFancourtappearedtobecrying.‘Somuch for love being a

mirageandachimera,’sighedMrs Ellacott as she tosseddown her pen. ‘This is nogood. I wanted blood andguts, Michael. Blood andguts.’Unable to stand inaction

anylonger,Robingotupandheaded for the sitting-roomdoor. Thesewere not normalcircumstances. Matthew’s

mother had been buried thatday. It behoved her toapologise,tomakeamends.

35

We are all liable tomistakes,sir;ifyouownit to be so, there needsnofartherapology.WilliamCongreve,The

OldBachelor

TheSundaybroadsheetsnext

daystrove to findadignifiedbalancebetweenanobjectiveassessment of Owen Quine’slife and work and themacabre,Gothicnatureofhisdeath.‘A minor literary figure,

occasionally interesting,tipping latterly into self-parody, eclipsed by hiscontemporaries butcontinuing to blaze his ownoutmoded trail,’ said theSundayTimes ina front-page

column that led to a promiseof much more excitementwithin: A sadist’s blueprint:seepages10–11and,besideathumbnail photograph ofKennethHalliwell:BooksandBookmen:literarykillersp.3Culture.‘Rumours about the

unpublished book thatallegedly inspired hismurderare now spreading beyondLondon’sliterarycircles,’theObserver assured its readers.

‘Were it not for the dictatesof good taste, Roper Chardwould have an instantbestselleronitshands.’

KINKY WRITERDISEMBOWELLEDINSEXGAME,declaredtheSundayPeople.Strike had bought every

paperonhiswayhome fromNina Lascelles’s, difficultthoughitwastomanagethemall and his stick over snowypavements.Itoccurredtohimas he struggled towards

Denmark Street that he wasunwiselyencumbered,shouldhis would-be assailant of theprevious evening reappear,but she was nowhere to beseen.Later that evening he

worked his way through thenews stories while eatingchips, lying on his bed withhis prosthetic leg mercifullyremovedoncemore.Viewing the facts through

thepress’sdistortinglenswas

stimulating to hisimagination. At last, havingfinishedCulpepper’spiece inthe News of the World(‘Sources close to the storyconfirmthatQuinelikedtobetied up by his wife, whodenies that she knew thekinkywriterhadgonetostayin theirsecondhome’)Strikeslid the papers off his bed,reached for the notebook hekeptbyhisbedandscribbledhimselfalistofremindersfor

thefollowingday.HedidnotaddAnstis’s initial to any ofthe tasks or questions, butbookshopman andMFwhenfilmed? were both followedbyacapitalR.HethentextedRobin,remindinghertokeepher eyes peeled for a tallwoman in a black coat thefollowingmorningandnottoenter Denmark Street if shewasthere.Robin saw nobody

answering thatdescriptionon

her short journey from theTubeandarrivedattheofficeat nine o’clock nextmorningto find Strike sitting at herdeskandusinghercomputer.‘Morning. No nutters

outside?’‘No one,’ said Robin,

hanginguphercoat.‘How’sMatthew?’‘Fine,’liedRobin.Theaftermathof their row

about her decision to driveStrike toDevon clung to her

likefumes.Theargumenthadsimmered and eruptedrepeatedly all through theircarjourneybacktoClapham;hereyeswerestillpuffyfromcryingandlackofsleep.‘Tough for him,’ muttered

Strike, still frowning at themonitor. ‘His mother’sfuneral.’‘Mm,’ saidRobin,moving

to fill the kettle and feelingannoyed that Strike chose toempathise with Matthew

today, exactly when shewould have welcomed anassurance that he was anunreasonableprick.‘Whatareyoulookingat?’

she asked, setting a mug oftea at Strike’s elbow, forwhich he gave her mutteredthanks.‘Trying to find out when

MichaelFancourt’s interviewwasfilmed,’hesaid.‘HewasontellyonSaturdaynight.’‘I watched that,’ said

Robin.‘Metoo,’saidStrike.‘Arrogant prat,’ said

Robin, sitting down on themock-leather sofa, which forsome reason did not emitfartingnoiseswhenshedidit.Perhaps, Strike thought, itwashisweight.‘Notice anything funny

whenhewastalkingabouthislatewife?’Strikeasked.‘Thecrocodiletearswerea

bitmuch,’saidRobin,‘seeing

howhe’djustbeenexplaininghowlove’sanillusionandallthatrubbish.’Strikeglancedatheragain.

She had the kind of fair,delicate complexion thatsuffered from excessemotion; the swollen eyestoldtheirownstory.Someofher animosity towardsMichael Fancourt, heguessed, might be displacedfrom another and perhapsmoredeservingtarget.

‘Thought he was faking,did you?’ Strike asked. ‘Metoo.’Heglancedathiswatch.‘I’ve got Caroline Ingles

arrivinginhalfanhour.’‘I thought she and her

husbandhadreconciled?’‘Old news. She wants to

see me, something about atext she found on his phoneover the weekend. So,’ saidStrike, heaving himself upfromthedesk,‘Ineedyouto

keep trying to find outwhenthat interview was filmed,while I go and look over thecasenotessoIlooklikeIcanrememberwhatthehellshe’sonabout.ThenI’vegotlunchwithQuine’seditor.’‘And I’ve got some news

about what the doctor’ssurgery outside KathrynKent’sflatdoeswithmedicalwaste,’saidRobin.‘Goon,’saidStrike.‘A specialist company

collects it every Tuesday. Icontacted them,’ said Robinand Strike could tell by hersigh that the line of enquirywas about to fizzle out, ‘andthey didn’t notice anythingoddorunusualaboutthebagsthey collected the Tuesdayafter the murder. I suppose,’she said, ‘it was a bitunrealistic, thinking theywouldn’t notice a bag ofhuman intestines. They toldmeit’susuallyjustswabsand

needles,andthey’reallsealedupinspecialbags.’‘Had to check it out,

though,’ said Strikebracingly. ‘That’s gooddetectivework–crossoffallthe possibilities. Anyway,there’ssomethingelse Ineeddoing, if you can face thesnow.’‘I’d love to get out,’ said

Robin, brightening at once.‘Whatisit?’‘Thatmaninthebookshop

in Putney who reckons hesaw Quine on the eighth,’said Strike. ‘He should bebackoffhisholidays.’‘Noproblem,’saidRobin.She had not had an

opportunityovertheweekendto discuss with Matthew thefactthatStrikewishedtogiveher investigative training. Itwould have been the wrongtime before the funeral, andafter their row on Saturdaynight would have seemed

provocative, eveninflammatory. Today sheyearned to get out onto thestreets, to investigate, toprobe, and to go home andtell Matthew matter-of-factlywhat she had done. Hewanted honesty, she wouldgivehimhonesty.

Caroline Ingles, who was aworn-out blonde, spent overanhourinStrike’sofficethatmorning. When finally she

had departed, looking tear-stainedbutdetermined,RobinhadnewsforStrike.‘That interview with

Fancourt was filmed on theseventh of November,’ shesaid. ‘I phoned the BBC.Took ages, but got there intheend.’‘The seventh,’ repeated

Strike. ‘That was a Sunday.Wherewasitfilmed?’‘Afilmcrewwentdownto

his house in Chew Magna,’

said Robin. ‘What did younoticeon the interviewthat’smakingyouthisinterested?’‘Watch it again,’ said

Strike. ‘See if you can get iton YouTube. Surprised youdidn’tspotitatthetime.’Stung, she remembered

Matthew beside her,interrogating her about thecrashontheM4.‘I’m going to change for

Simpson’s,’ said Strike.‘We’ll lock up and leave

together,shallwe?’They parted forty minutes

later at the Tube, Robinheading for the BridlingtonBookshop in Putney, Strikefor the restaurant on theStrand, towhich he intendedtowalk.‘Spent way too much on

taxis lately,’ he told Robingruffly, unwilling to tell herhowmuch it hadcosthim totakecareof theToyotaLandCruiser with which he had

been stranded on Fridaynight.‘Plentyoftime.’Shewatchedhimforafew

seconds as he walked awayfrom her, leaning heavily onhis stick and limping badly.Anobservantchildhoodspentin the company of threebrothers had given Robin anunusual and accurate insightinto the frequently contraryreaction of males to femaleconcern, but she wonderedhow much longer Strike

could force his knee tosupport him before he foundhimself incapacitated forlongerthanafewdays.It was almost lunchtime

and the twowomen oppositeRobin on the train toWaterloo were chattingloudly, carrier bags full ofChristmas shopping betweentheir knees. The floor of theTube was wet and dirty andthe air full, again, of dampcloth and stale bodies.Robin

spent most of her journeytrying without success toview clips of MichaelFancourt’s interview on hermobilephone.The Bridlington Bookshop

stood on a main road inPutney, its old-fashionedpaned windows crammedfrom top to bottom with amixture of new and second-hand books, all stackedhorizontally.AbelltinkledasRobin crossed the threshold

into a pleasant, mildewedatmosphere. A couple ofladdersstoodproppedagainstshelves crammed with morehorizontally piled booksreaching all the way to theceiling.Hangingbulbs lit thespace, dangling so low thatStrikewouldhavebangedhishead.‘Good morning!’ said an

elderlygentlemaninanover-large tweed jacket, emergingwith almost audible creaks

fromanofficewithadimpledglassdoor.Asheapproached,Robin caught a strong whiffofbodyodour.She had already planned

hersimplelineofenquiryandaskedatoncewhetherhehadanyOwenQuineinstock.‘Ah! Ah!’ he said

knowingly. ‘I needn’t ask, Ithink, why the suddeninterest!’A self-important man in

the common fashion of the

unworldly and cloistered, heembarked without invitationintoalectureonQuine’sstyleand declining readability ashe led her into the depths ofthe shop. He appearedconvinced,aftertwoseconds’acquaintance, that Robincould only be asking for acopyofoneofQuine’sbooksbecausehehadrecentlybeenmurdered.While this was ofcourse the truth, it irritatedRobin.

‘Have you gotThe BalzacBrothers?’sheasked.‘You know better than to

ask for Bombyx Mori, then,’hesaid,shiftingaladderwithdodderyhands. ‘Threeyoungjournalists I’ve had in here,askingforit.’‘Why are journalists

coming here?’ asked Robininnocently as he began toclimbtheladder,revealinganinch of mustard-colouredsockabovehisoldbrogues.

‘Mr Quine shopped hereshortly before he died,’ saidthe old man, now peering atspines some six feet aboveRobin. ‘Balzac Brothers,Balzac Brothers… should behere… dear, dear, I’m sureI’vegotacopy…’‘He actually came in here,

toyourshop?’askedRobin.‘Oh yes. I recognised him

instantly. I was a greatadmirer of JosephNorth andthey once appeared on the

samebillattheHayFestival.’He was coming down the

ladder now, feet tremblingwith every step. Robin wasscaredhemightfall.‘I’ll check the computer,’

he said, breathing heavily.‘I’m sure I’ve got a BalzacBrothershere.’Robin followed him,

reflecting that if the last timethe old man had set eyes onOwenQuine had been in themid-eighties,hisreliabilityin

identifying the writer againmightbequestionable.‘Idon’tsupposeyoucould

miss him,’ she said. ‘I’veseen pictures of him. Verydistinctive-looking in hisTyroleancloak.’‘His eyes are different

colours,’ said the old man,nowgazingat themonitorofan early Macintosh Classicthat must, Robin thought, betwentyyearsold:beige,boxy,bigchunkykeyslikecubesof

toffee. ‘You see it close up.One hazel, one blue. I thinkthepolicemanwas impressedbymypowersofobservationand recall. I was inintelligenceduringthewar.’He turneduponherwith a

self-satisfiedsmile.‘Iwas right,wedo have a

copy – second hand. Thisway.’He shuffled towards an

untidybinfullofbooks.‘That’saveryimportantbit

ofinformationforthepolice,’saidRobin,followinghim.‘Yes, indeed,’ he said

complacently.‘Timeofdeath.Yes,Icouldassurethemthathe was alive, still, on theeighth.’‘Idon’tsupposeyoucould

remember what he came inhere for,’ said Robin with asmall laugh. ‘I’d love toknowwhatheread.’‘Ohyes,Iremember,’said

her companion at once. ‘He

boughtthreenovels:JonathanFranzen’s Freedom, JoshuaFerris’sTheUnnamed and…and I forget the third… toldme hewas going away for abreak and wanted readingmatter. We discussed thedigital phenomenon – hemore tolerant of readingdevices than I… somewherein here,’ he muttered, rakingin the bin. Robin joined thesearchhalf-heartedly.‘The eighth,’ she repeated.

‘Howcouldyoubesosureitwastheeighth?’For the days, she thought,

must blend quite seamlesslyinto each other in this dimatmosphereofmildew.‘ItwasaMonday,’hesaid.

‘A pleasant interlude,discussing Joseph North, ofwhom he had very fondmemories.’Robin was still none the

wiser as to why he believedthis particular Monday to

have been the eighth, butbefore she could enquirefurther he had pulled anancient paperback from thedepths of the bin with atriumphantcry.‘There we are. There we

are.IknewIhadit.’‘I can never remember

dates,’ Robin lied as theyreturned to the till with theirtrophy. ‘I don’t supposeyou’vegotanyJosephNorth,whileI’mhere?’

‘Therewasonlyone,’ saidthe old man. ‘Towards theMark. Now, I know we’vegot that, one of my personalfavourites…’Andheheaded,oncemore,

fortheladder.‘I confuse days all the

time,’ Robin soldiered onbravely as the mustard-colouredsockswererevealedagain.‘Many people do,’ he said

smugly,‘butIamanadeptat

reconstructive deduction, haha.IrememberedthatitwasaMonday,becausealwaysonaMondayIbuyfreshmilkandIhadjustreturnedfromdoingsowhenMrQuinearrivedattheshop.’She waited while he

scannedtheshelvesaboveherhead.‘I explained to the police

that I was able to date theparticular Monday preciselybecause that evening I went

tomyfriendCharles’shouse,as I domostMondays, but Idistinctly remembered tellinghim about Owen Quinearriving inmybookshopanddiscussing the five Anglicanbishops who had defected toRome that day. Charles is alay preacher in the AnglicanChurch.Hefeltitdeeply.’‘I see,’ said Robin, who

wasmakingamental note tocheck the date of such adefection. The old man had

found North’s book and wasslowlydescendingtheladder.‘Yes, and I remember,’ he

said, with a spurt ofenthusiasm, ‘Charles showedmesome remarkablepicturesof a sinkhole that appearedovernight in Schmalkalden,Germany. I was stationednearSchmalkaldenduringthewar. Yes… that evening, Iremember, my friendinterrupted me telling himaboutQuinevisitingtheshop

– his interest in writers isnegligible – “Weren’t you inSchmalkalden?” he said’ –thefrail,knobblyhandswerebusyatthetillnow–‘andhetold me a huge crater hadappeared… extraordinarypictures in the paper nextday…‘Memory is a wonderful

thing,’ he said complacently,handingRobinabrownpaperbagcontaininghertwobooksand receiving her ten-pound

noteinexchange.‘Irememberthatsinkhole,’

said Robin, which wasanother lie. She took hermobileoutofherpocketandpressed a few buttons whilehe conscientiously countedchange. ‘Yes, here it is…Schmalkalden… howamazing, that huge holeappearingoutofnowhere.‘But that happened,’ she

said, looking up at him, ‘onthefirstofNovember,notthe

eighth.’Heblinked.‘No, itwas the eighth,’ he

said,withalltheconvictionaprofound dislike of beingmistakencouldmuster.‘Butseehere,’saidRobin,

showing him the tiny screen;he pushed his glasses up hisforehead to stare at it. ‘Youdefinitely rememberdiscussing Owen Quine’svisit and the sinkhole in thesameconversation?’

‘Some mistake,’ hemuttered, and whether hereferred to the Guardianwebsite, himself or Robinwas unclear. He thrust herphonebackather.‘Youdon’tremem—?’‘Isthatall?’hesaidloudly,

flustered. ‘Then good day toyou,goodday.’AndRobin,recognisingthe

stubbornness of an offendedold egoist, took her leave tothetinklingofthebell.

36

Mr Scandal, I shall beveryglad toconferwithyou about these thingswhich he has uttered –his sayings are verymysterious andhieroglyphical.WilliamCongreve,Love

forLove

Strike had thought thatSimpson’s-in-the-Strand wasan odd place for JerryWaldegrave to want to meetfor lunch and his curiosityincreased as he approachedthe imposing stone façade,with its revolving woodendoors, its brass plaques andhanginglantern.Chessmotifsdecorated the tiled surroundoftheentrance.Hehadnever

set foot there, aged Londoninstitution though it was. Hehad assumed it to be thehome of well-heeledbusinessmen and out-of-townerstreatingthemselves.Yet Strike felt at home as

soonasheset foot inside thelobby. Once an eighteenth-century gentleman’s chessclub, Simpson’s spoke toStrike in an old and familiarlanguage, of hierarchy, orderand stately decorum. Here

were the dark, sludgyclubland colours that menchoose without reference totheir womenfolk: thickmarble columns and solidleather armchairs that wouldsupportadrunkendandyand,glimpsed beyond doubledoors, past the coat-checkgirl, a restaurant full of darkwood panelling. He mighthavebeenback inoneof thesergeants’ messes he hadfrequentedduringhismilitary

career.Allthatwasneededtomake the place feel trulyfamiliar were regimentalcolours and a portrait of theQueen.Solid wood-backed chairs,

snowy tablecloths, silversalvers on which enormousjoints of beef reposed; asStrikesatdownata table fortwobeside thewallhe foundhimself wondering whatRobin would make of theplace, whether she would be

amused or irritated by itsostentatioustraditionalism.Hehadbeenseatedfor ten

minutes before Waldegraveappeared,peeringmyopicallyaround the dining room.Strike raised a hand andWaldegrave made his waywith a shambling walktowardstheirtable.‘Hello, hello. Nice to see

youagain.’Hislightbrownhairwasas

messy as ever and his

crumpled jacket had a smearof toothpaste on the lapel. Afaint gust of vinous fumesreached Strike across thesmalltable.‘Good of you to see me,’

saidStrike.‘Not at all. Want to help.

Hopeyoudon’tmindcominghere. I chose it,’ saidWaldegrave, ‘because wewon’t run into anyone Iknow.My father broughtmehere once, years ago. Don’t

think they’ve changed athing.’Waldegrave’s round eyes,

framed by his horn-rimmedglasses, travelled over theheavily moulded plasterworkat the top of the dark woodpanelling. It was stainedochre,asthoughtarnishedbylongyearsofcigarettesmoke.‘Get enough of your co-

workers during office hours,doyou?’Strikeasked.‘Nothing wrong with

them,’saidJerryWaldegrave,pushing his glasses up hisnose andwaving at awaiter,‘but the atmosphere’spoisonous just now.Glass ofred,please,’hetoldtheyoungman who had answered hiswave. ‘I don’t care,anything.’But the waiter, on whose

front a small knight chesspiece was embroidered,answeredrepressively:‘I’ll send over the wine

waiter,sir,’andretreated.‘See the clock over the

doors as you come in here?’Waldegrave asked Strike,pushing his glasses up hisnose again. ‘They say itstoppedwhenthefirstwomancame in here in 1984. Littlein-joke. And on themenu, itsays “bill of fare”. Theywouldn’t use “menu”, yousee, because it was French.Myfatherlovedthatstuff.I’djust got into Oxford, that’s

why he broughtme here.Hehatedforeignfood.’Strike could feel

Waldegrave’s nervousness.He was used to having thateffect on people. Now wasnot the moment to askwhether Waldegrave hadhelped Quine write theblueprintforhismurder.‘What did you do at

Oxford?’‘English,’saidWaldegrave

with a sigh. ‘My father was

puttingabrave faceon it;hewantedmetodomedicine.’The fingers of

Waldegrave’s right handplayed an arpeggio on thetablecloth.‘Things tenseat theoffice,

arethey?’askedStrike.‘You could say that,’

replied Waldegrave, lookingaround again for the winewaiter. ‘It’s sinking in, nowwe know how Owen waskilled. People erasing emails

like idiots, pretending theynever looked at the book,don’t know how it ends. It’snotsofunnynow.’‘Was it funny before?’

askedStrike.‘Well…yeah,itwas,when

peoplethoughtOwenhadjustdone a runner. People loveseeingthepowerfulridiculed,don’t they? They aren’tpopular men, either of them,FancourtandChard.’The wine waiter arrived

and handed the list toWaldegrave.‘I’ll get a bottle, shall I?’

saidWaldegrave,scanning it.‘Itakeitthisisonyou?’‘Yeah,’ said Strike, not

withouttrepidation.Waldegrave ordered a

bottle of Château Lezongars,which Strike saw withprofound misgiving costnearlyfiftyquid,thoughtherewere bottles on the list thatcostnearlytwohundred.

‘So,’saidWaldegravewithsudden bravado, as the winewaiter retreated, ‘any leadsyet?Knowwhodidit?’‘Notyet,’saidStrike.An uncomfortable beat

followed.Waldegravepushedhis glasses up his sweatynose.‘Sorry,’ he muttered.

‘Crass–defencemechanism.It’s–Ican’tbelieveit.Ican’tbelieveithappened.’‘No one ever can,’ said

Strike.On a rush of confidence,

Waldegravesaid:‘I can’t shake this mad

bloody idea thatOwendid ittohimself.Thathestagedit.’‘Really?’ said Strike,

watchingWaldegraveclosely.‘I know he can’t have

done, I know that.’ Theeditor’shandswereplayingadeft scale on the edge of thetable now. ‘It’s so – sotheatrical,howhewas–how

he was killed. So – sogrotesque. And… the awfulthing… best publicity anyauthor ever got his book.God, Owen loved publicity.PoorOwen.Heoncetoldme– this isn’t a joke – he oncetoldmeinallseriousnessthathe liked to get his girlfriendto interview him. Said itclarified his thoughtprocesses. I said, “What doyouuseasamic?”,takingthemickey, you know, and you

knowwhatthesillysodsaid?“Biros mostly. Whatever’saround.”’Waldegrave burst into

pantingchucklesthatsoundedverylikesobs.‘Poor bastard,’ he said.

‘Poor silly bastard. Lost itcompletely at the end, didn’the? Well, I hope ElizabethTassel’shappy.Windinghimup.’Their original waiter

returnedwithanotebook.

‘Whatareyouhaving?’theeditor asked Strike, focusingshort-sightedly on his bill offare.‘The beef,’ said Strike,

whohadhadtimetowatchitbeing carved from the silversalver on a trolley thatcirculated the tables. He hadnothadYorkshirepuddinginyears; not, in fact, since thelasttimehehadgonebacktoStMawestoseehisauntanduncle.

WaldegraveorderedDoversole, then craned his neckagaintoseewhetherthewinewaiter was returning. Whenhe caught sight of the manapproaching with the bottlehenoticeablyrelaxed,sinkingmore comfortably into hischair. His glass filled, hedrank several mouthfulsbefore sighing like a manwho had received urgentmedicaltreatment.‘You were saying

Elizabeth Tassel woundQuineup,’Strikesaid.‘Eh?’ said Waldegrave,

cuppinghisrighthandaroundhisear.Strikerememberedhisone-

sideddeafness.Therestaurantwas indeed filling up,becoming noisier. Herepeated his question moreloudly.‘Oh yeah,’ said

Waldegrave. ‘Yeah, aboutFancourt. The pair of them

likedbroodingonthewrongsFancourtdidthem.’‘What wrongs?’ asked

Strike, and Waldegraveswiggedmorewine.‘Fancourt’s been

badmouthing them both foryears.’Waldegrave scratchedhis chest absent-mindedlythrough his creased shirt anddrank more wine. ‘Owen,becauseof thatparodyofhisdead wife’s novel; Liz,becauseshestuckbyOwen–

mind you, nobody’s everblamed Fancourt for leavingLiz Tassel. The woman’s abitch. Down to about twoclients now. Twisted.Probablyspendshereveningsworking out how much shelost: fifteen per cent ofFancourt’s royalties is bigmoney. Booker dinners, filmpremieres… instead she getsQuine interviewing himselfwith a biro and burntsausages in Dorcus

Pengelly’sbackgarden.’‘How do you know there

were burnt sausages?’ askedStrike.‘Dorcus told me,’ said

Waldegrave,whohadalreadyfinishedhisfirstglassofwineand was pouring a second.‘ShewantedtoknowwhyLizwasn’t at the firm’sanniversary party. When Itold her aboutBombyxMori,DorcusassuredmeLizwasalovely woman. Lovely.

Couldn’t have known whatwas in Owen’s book. Neverhavehurtanyone’sfeelings–wouldn’t hurt a bloody fly –ha!’‘Youdisagree?’‘Bloody right I disagree.

I’vemetpeoplewhogottheirstart in Liz Tassel’s office.Theytalklikekidnapvictimswho’ve been ransomed.Bully.Scarytemper.’‘You think she put Quine

uptowritingthebook?’

‘Well, not directly,’ saidWaldegrave. ‘But you take adeluded writer who wasconvinced he wasn’t abestseller because peoplewere jealous of him or notdoingtheirjobsrightandlockhim in with Liz, who’salways angry, bitter as sin,banging on about Fancourtdoingthembothdown,andisitasurprisehegetswounduptofeverpitch?‘She couldn’t even be

bothered to read his bookproperly. If he hadn’t died,I’d say she got what shedeserved. Silly mad bastarddidn’t just do over Fancourt,did he? Went after her aswell, ha ha! Went afterbloodyDaniel,wentafterme,went after ev’ryone.Ev’ryone.’In the manner of other

alcoholics Strike had known,JerryWaldegravehadcrossedthelineintodrunkennesswith

two glasses of wine. Hismovements were suddenlyclumsier, his manner moreflamboyant.‘D’you think Elizabeth

Tassel egged Quine on toattackFancourt?’‘Not a doubt of it,’ said

Waldegrave.‘Notadoubt.’‘But when I met her,

Elizabeth Tassel said thatwhat Quine wrote aboutFancourt was a lie,’ StriketoldWaldegrave.

‘Eh?’ said Waldegraveagain,cuppinghisear.‘She told me,’ said Strike

loudly, ‘that what Quinewrites inBombyxMoriaboutFancourt is false. ThatFancourt didn’t write theparodythatmadehiswifekillhimself – that Quine wroteit.’‘I’m not talking about

that,’ said Waldegrave,shaking his head as thoughStrike were being obtuse. ‘I

don’tmean–forgetit.Forgetit.’Hewasmorethanhalfway

down the bottle already; thealcoholhad inducedadegreeof confidence. Strike heldback, knowing that to pushwouldonlyinducethegranitestubbornness of the drunk.Better to let him drift wherehewantedtogo,keepingonelighthandonthetiller.‘Owen liked me,’

Waldegrave told Strike. ‘Oh

yeah. I knew how to handlehim. Stoke thatman’s vanityand you could get him to doanythingyouwanted.Halfanhour’s praise before youaskedhimtochangeanythingin amanuscript. ’Nother halfhour’s praise before youasked him to make anotherchange.Onlyway.‘He didn’t really wanna

hurt me. Wasn’t thinkingstraight,sillybastard.Wantedto get back on the telly.

Thoughtev’ryonewasagainsthim. Didn’t realise he wasplaying with fire. Mentallyill.’Waldegraveslumpedinhis

seatand thebackofhisheadcollided with that of a largeoverdressed woman sittingbehindhim.‘Sorry!Sorry!’While she glared over her

shoulder he pulled in hischair, causing the cutlery torattleonthetablecloth.‘So what,’ Strike asked,

‘wastheCutterallabout?’‘Huh?’saidWaldegrave.This time, Strike felt sure

that the cupped ear was apose.‘TheCutter—’‘Cutter: editor – obvious,’

saidWaldegrave.‘And the bloody sack and

the dwarf you try anddrown?’‘Symbolic,’ said

Waldegrave, with an airywave of the hand that nearly

upset his wine glass. ‘Someideaofhis I stifled, somebitof lovingly crafted prose Iwanted to kill off. Hurt hisfeelings.’Strike, who had heard a

thousand rehearsed answers,found the response too pat,toofluent,toofast.‘Justthat?’‘Well,’ said Waldegrave,

with a gasp of a laugh, ‘I’venever drowned a dwarf, ifthat’swhatyou’reimplying.’

Drunkswerealways trickyinterviewees. Back in theSIB, intoxicated suspects orwitnesses had been a rarity.Heremembered thealcoholicmajor whose twelve-year-olddaughterhaddisclosedsexualabuse at her school inGermany. When Strike hadarrived at the family housethe major had taken a swingat him with a broken bottle.Strike had laid him out. Buthere in the civilian world,

with the wine waiterhovering, this drunken,mild-mannerededitorcouldchoosetowalkawayandtherewouldbe nothing Strike could doabout it.He could only hopeforachancetodoublebacktothe subject of the Cutter, tokeepWaldegrave in his seat,tokeephimtalking.Thetrolleynowwendedits

statelywaytoStrike’sside.Arib of Scottish beef wascarved with ceremony while

Waldegrave was presentedwithDoversole.No taxis for three months,

Strike told himself sternly,salivating as his plate washeaped with Yorkshirepuddings, potatoes andparsnips.Thetrolleytrundledawayagain.Waldegrave,whowas now two-thirds of thewaydownhisbottleofwine,contemplated his fish asthoughhewasnotquite surehow it had endedup in front

ofhim,andputasmallpotatoinhismouthwithhisfingers.‘DidQuinediscusswhathe

waswritingwith you, beforehe handed in hismanuscripts?’askedStrike.‘Never,’ said Waldegrave.

‘The only thing he ever toldme about Bombyx Mori wasthat the silkworm was ametaphor for thewriter,whohas to go through agonies toget at the good stuff. Thatwasit.’

‘He never asked for youradviceorinput?’‘No, no, Owen always

thoughtheknewbest.’‘Isthatusual?’‘Writers vary,’ said

Waldegrave. ‘But Owen wasalwaysupthesecretiveendofthe scale. He liked the bigreveal, you know. Appealedtohissenseofdrama.’‘Policewillhaveaskedyou

about your movements afteryougot thebook,Isuppose,’

saidStrikecasually.‘Yeah, been through all

that,’ said Waldegraveindifferently. He wasattempting, without muchsuccess,toprisespinesoutofthe Dover sole he hadrecklesslyasked tobe leftonthebone.‘Gotthemanuscripton Friday, didn’t look at ituntiltheSunday—’‘You were meant to be

away,weren’tyou?’‘Paris,’ said Waldegrave.

‘Anniversaryweekend.Di’n’thappen.’‘Somethingcameup?’Waldegrave emptied the

lastofthewineintohisglass.Several drops of the darkliquid fell onto the whitetableclothandspread.‘Hadarow,abloodyawful

row,onthewaytoHeathrow.Turned round, went backhome.’‘Rough,’saidStrike.‘On the rocks for years,’

saidWaldegrave,abandoninghis unequal strugglewith thesole and throwing down hisknife and fork with a clatterthatmadenearbydiners lookround. ‘JoJo’s grown up. Nopointanymore.Splittingup.’‘I’m sorry to hear that,’

saidStrike.Waldegrave shrugged

lugubriously and took morewine.Thelensesofhishorn-rimmedglasseswerecoveredin fingerprints and his shirt

collarwasgrubbyandfrayed.He had the look, thoughtStrike, who was experiencedinsuchmatters,ofamanwhohassleptinhisclothes.‘You went straight home

aftertherow,didyou?’‘’Sabighouse.Noneedto

see each other if we don’twantto.’The drops of wine were

spreading like crimsonblossoms on the snowytablecloth.

‘Black spot, that’s whatthis reminds me of,’ saidWaldegrave. ‘TreasureIsland, y’know…black spot.Suspicion on everyone whoread that bloody book.Ev’ryonelookingsidewaysatev’ryone else. Ev’ryone whoknows the ending’s suspect.Police in my bloody office,ev’ryonestaring…‘I read it on Sunday,’ he

said,lurchingbacktoStrike’squestion,‘’nItoldLizTassel

what I thought of her – andlife went on. Owen notanswering his phone.Thought he was probablyhavingabreakdown–hadmyownbloodyproblems.DanielChardgoingberserk…‘Fuck him. Resigned. Had

enough. Accusations. Nomore. Being bloody bawledout in front of the wholeoffice.Nomore.’‘Accusations?’ asked

Strike.

His interview techniquewas starting to feel like thedexterous flicking ofSubbuteofootballfigures;thewobbling intervieweedirected by the right, lighttouch. (Strike had had anArsenal set in the seventies;he had played DavePolworth’s custom-paintedPlymouthArgyles,bothboyslying belly-down on Dave’smum’shearthrug.)‘Dan thinks I gossiped

about him to Owen. Bloodyidiot. Thinks the worlddoesn’t know… been gossipfor years.Didn’t have to tellOwen.Ev’ryoneknows.’‘ThatChard’sgay?’‘Gay, who cares…

repressed.NotsureDanevenknows he’s gay.But he likespretty young men, likespainting ’em in the nude.Commonknowledge.’‘Didheoffertopaintyou?’

askedStrike.

‘Christ, no,’ saidWaldegrave. ‘Joe North toldme,yearsago.Ah!’He had caught the wine

waiter’seye.‘’Nother glass of this,

please.’Strikewasonlygratefulhe

hadnotaskedforabottle.‘I’msorry,sir,wedon’tdo

thatbythe—’‘Anything, then. Red.

Anything.‘Years ago, this was,’

Waldegravewenton,pickingupwherehehadleftoff.‘Danwanted Joe to pose for him;Joe told him to piss off.Common knowledge,f’years.’He leaned back, ramming

the large woman behind himagain,whounfortunatelywasnow eating soup. Strikewatched her angry diningcompanionsummonapassingwaiter to complain. Thewaiter bent down to

Waldegrave and saidapologetically, yet withfirmness:‘Would you mind pulling

in your chair, sir? The ladybehindyou—’‘Sorry,sorry.’Waldegravetuggedhimself

nearer Strike, placed hiselbows on the table, pushedhis tangled hair out of hiseyesandsaidloudly:‘Headuphisbloodyarse.’‘Who?’ asked Strike,

finishingwith regret the bestmeal he had had in a longtime.‘Dan. Handed the bloody

companyonaplate…rollinginitallhislife…lethimlivein the country and paint hishouseboy if that’s what hewants… had enough of it.Startmyown…startmyownbloodycompany.’Waldegrave’s mobile

phone rang. It took him awhile to locate it. He peered

overhisglassesatthecaller’snumberbeforeanswering.‘What’sup,JoJo?’Busy though the restaurant

was, Strike heard theresponse: shrill, distantscreaming down the line.Waldegravelookedhorrified.‘JoJo?Areyou—?’But then the doughy,

amiable face became tauterthan Strike could havebelieved. Veins stood out onWaldegrave’s neck and his

mouth stretched in an uglysnarl.‘Fuck you!’ he said, and

hisvoicecarriedloudlytoallthesurroundingtablessothatfifty heads jerked upwards,conversationsstalled.‘Donotcall me on JoJo’s number!No, you drunken fucking –you heard me – I drinkbecause I’m fucking marriedtoyou,that’swhy!’The overweight woman

behind Waldegrave looked

around, outraged. Waiterswere glaring; one had so farforgotten himself as to havepaused with a Yorkshirepudding halfway to aJapanesebusinessman’splate.The decorous gentleman’sclubhaddoubtlessseenotherdrunken brawls, but theycouldnotfailtoshockamongthe dark wood panels, theglasschandeliersandthebillsoffare,whereeverythingwasstolidly British, calm and

staid.‘Well, whose fucking

fault’s that?’ shoutedWaldegrave.He staggered to his feet,

ramming his unfortunateneighbour yet again, but thistime there was noremonstrance from hercompanion. The restauranthad fallen silent.Waldegravewas weaving his way out ofit, a bottle and a third to thebad,swearingintohismobile,

and Strike, stranded at thetable, was amused to find inhimself some of thedisapproval felt in the messfor themanwhocannotholdhisdrink.‘Bill,please,’saidStriketo

thenearestgapingwaiter.Hewas disappointed that he hadnot gotten to sample thespotted dick, which he hadnoted on the bill of fare, buthemust catchWaldegrave ifhecould.

While the diners mutteredand watched him out of thecorners of their eyes, Strikepaid, pulled himself up fromthe table and, leaning on hisstick, followed inWaldegrave’s ungainlyfootsteps. From the outragedexpression of the maître d’andthesoundofWaldegravestill yelling just outside thedoor, Strike suspected thatWaldegrave had taken somepersuasion to leave the

premises.He found the editor

propped up against the coldwall to the left of the doors.Snow was falling thickly allaround them; the pavementswerecrunchywithit,passers-by muffled to the ears. Thebackdrop of solid grandeurremoved, Waldegrave nolonger looked like a vaguelyscruffy academic. Drunk,grubby and crumpled,swearing into a phone

disguised by his large hand,he might have been amentallyilldown-and-out.‘… not my fucking fault,

you stupidbitch! Did Iwritethe fucking thing? Did I?…you’d better fucking talk toher then, hadn’t you?… Ifyoudon’t,Iwill…Don’tyouthreatenme,youuglyfuckingslut…ifyou’dkeptyourlegsclosed… you fucking heardme—’WaldegravesawStrike.He

stood gaping for a fewsecondsthencutthecall.Themobile slipped through hisfumbling fingers and landedonthesnowypavement.‘Bollocks,’ said Jerry

Waldegrave.The wolf had turned back

into the sheep. He gropedwith bare fingers for thephoneintheslusharoundhisfeet and his glasses fell off.Strike picked them up forhim.

‘Thanks. Thanks. Sorryaboutthat.Sorry…’Strike saw tears on

Waldegrave’spuffycheeksastheeditorrammedhisglassesbackon.Stuffingthecrackedphone into his pocket, heturned an expression ofdespairuponthedetective.‘’Sruinedmyfuckinglife,’

he said. ‘That book. ’N IthoughtOwen…onethingheheld sacred. Father daughter.Onething…’

With another dismissivegesture, Waldegrave turnedand walked away, weavingbadly, thoroughly drunk. Hehad had, the detectiveguessed, at least a bottlebefore they met. There wasnopointfollowinghim.Watching Waldegrave

disappear into the swirlingsnow, past the Christmasshoppers scrambling, laden,along the slushy pavements,Strike remembered a hand

closingungentlyonanupperarm, a stern man’s voice, anangrier young woman’s.‘Mummy’s made a beeline,whydon’tyougrabher?’Turning up his coat collar

Strikethoughtheknew,now,what the meaning was: of adwarfinabloodybag,ofthehorns under the Cutter’s capand, cruellest of all, theattempteddrowning.

37

… when I am provok’dto fury, I cannotincorporate withpatienceandreason.WilliamCongreve,The

Double-Dealer

Strike set out for his office

beneath a sky of dirty silver,his feet moving withdifficulty through the rapidlyaccumulating snow, whichwas still falling fast. Thoughhe had touched nothing butwater,hefeltalittledrunkongood rich food, which gavehim the false sense of well-being that Waldegrave hadprobably passed some timemid-morning, drinking in hisoffice. The walk betweenSimpson’s-in-the-Strand and

his draughty little office onDenmarkStreetwould takeafit and unimpaired adultperhaps aquarterof anhour.Strike’s knee remained soreand overworked, but he hadjustspentmorethanhisentireweek’s food budget on asingle meal. Lighting acigarette, he limped awaythrough the knife-sharp cold,headbowedagainstthesnow,wondering what Robin hadfound out at the Bridlington

Bookshop.As he walked past the

flutedcolumnsoftheLyceumTheatre, Strike pondered thefact that Daniel Chard wasconvinced that JerryWaldegrave had helpedQuine write his book,whereas Waldegrave thoughtthat Elizabeth Tassel hadplayed upon his sense ofgrievanceuntil ithaderuptedinto print. Were these, hewondered, simple cases of

displacedanger?Havingbeenbaulkedof thetrueculpritbyQuine’s gruesome death,were Chard and Waldegraveseeking living scapegoats onwhomtovent their frustratedfury? Or were they right todetect, in Bombyx Mori, aforeigninfluence?The scarlet façade of the

Coach and Horses inWellington Street constituteda powerful temptation as heapproachedit,thestickdoing

heavydutynow,andhiskneecomplaining: warmth, beerandacomfortablechair…buta third lunchtime visit to thepub in a week… not a habithe ought to develop… JerryWaldegrave was an objectlesson in where suchbehaviourmightlead…He could not resist an

envious glance through thewindowashepassed,towardslightsgleamingonbrassbeerpumps and convivial men

withslackerconsciencesthanhisown—He saw her out of the

corner of his eye. Tall andstooping in her black coat,hands in her pockets,scurrying along the slushypavements behind him: hisstalkerandwould-beattackerofSaturdaynight.Strike’spacedidnotfalter,

nordidheturntolookather.He was not playing gamesthis time; there would be no

stopping to test heramateurish stalking style, noletting her know that he hadspotted her. On he walkedwithout looking over hisshoulder, and only a man orwoman similarly expert incounter-surveillance wouldhave noticed his casualglances into helpfullypositioned windows andreflective brass door plates;only they could have spottedthe hyper-alertness disguised

asinattentiveness.Most killerswere slapdash

amateurs; that was how theywere caught. To persist aftertheir encounter on Saturdaynight argued high-calibrerecklessness and it was onthis that Strike was countingas he continued upWellington Street, outwardlyoblivious to the womanfollowinghimwithaknifeinher pocket. As he crossedRussellStreetshehaddodged

out of sight, faking entrancetotheMarquessofAnglesey,butsoonreappeared,dodgingin and out of the squarepillarsofanofficeblockandlurkinginadoorwaytoallowhimtopullahead.Strikecouldbarelyfeelhis

kneenow.Hehadbecomesixfoot three of highlyconcentrated potential. Thistime she had no advantage;shewould not be taking himbysurprise.Ifshehadaplan

at all, he guessed that it wasto profit from any availableopportunity.Itwasuptohimto present her with anopportunity she dare not letpass, and to make sure shedidnotsucceed.Past the Royal Opera

House with its classicalportico, its columns andstatues; in Endell Street sheentered an old red telephonebox, gathering her nerve, nodoubt, double-checking that

he was not aware of her.Strike walked on, his paceunchanging, his eyes on thestreet ahead. She tookconfidence and emergedagain onto the crowdedpavement, following himthrough harried passers-bywith carrier bags swingingfrom their hands, drawingcloser to him as the streetnarrowed, flitting in and outofdoorways.As he drew nearer to the

office he made his decision,turning left off DenmarkStreet into Flitcroft Street,which led toDenmarkPlace,where a dark passage,plastered with flyers forbands,ledbacktohisoffice.Wouldshedare?Asheenteredthealleyway,

his footsteps echoing a littleoffthedankwalls,heslowedimperceptibly.Thenheheardhercoming–runningathim.Wheeling around on his

soundleftlegheflungouthiswalking stick – there was ashriekofpainasherarmmetit – the Stanley knife wasknocked out of her hand, hitthestonewall,reboundedandnarrowlymissed Strike’s eye– he had her now in aferocious grip that made herscream.He was afraid that some

hero would come to her aid,butnooneappeared,andnowspeedwasessential–shewas

strongerthanhehadexpectedand struggling ferociously,tryingtokickhimintheballsand claw his face. With afurther economical twist ofhis body he had her in aheadlock, her feet skiddingand scrambling on the dampalleyfloor.Asshewrithedinhisarms,

tryingtobitehim,hestoopedto pick up the knife, pullingherdownwithhimsothatshealmost lost her footing, then,

abandoningthewalkingstick,which he could not carrywhile managing her, hedragged her out ontoDenmarkStreet.He was fast, and she so

winded by the struggle thatshehadnobreathtoyell.Theshortcoldstreetwasemptyofshoppers and no passers-byon Charing Cross Roadnoticed anything amiss as heforced her the short distancetotheblackstreetdoor.

‘Needin,Robin!Quickly!’he shouted on the intercom,slamming his way throughthe outer door as soon asRobinhadbuzzeditopen.Upthe metal steps he draggedher, his right knee nowprotesting violently, and shestartedshrieking,thescreamsechoing around the stairwell.Strike sawmovement behindtheglassdoorofthedourandeccentric graphic designerwho worked in the office

beneathhis.‘Just messing around!’ he

bellowedatthedoor,heavinghispursuerupstairs.‘Cormoran? What’s – oh

myGod!’saidRobin,staringdownfromthe landing. ‘Youcan’t –what are you playingat?Lethergo!’‘She’s just – tried – to

bloody – knife me again,’panted Strike, and with agiganticfinaleffortheforcedhis pursuer over the

threshold.‘Lockthedoor!’heshouted at Robin, who hadhurried in behind them andobeyed.Strike threw the woman

onto the mock-leather sofa.Thehoodfellbacktorevealalong pale face with largebrown eyes and thick darkwavy hair that fell to hershoulders. Her fingersterminatedinpointedcrimsonnails. She looked barelytwenty.

‘You bastard! Youbastard!’She tried to get up, but

Strike was standing over herlooking murderous, so shethoughtbetterof it, slumpingback onto the sofa andmassaging her white neck,whichboredarkpink scratchmarks where he had seizedher.‘Want to tell me why

you’re trying to knife me?’Strikeasked.

‘Fuckyou!’‘That’s original,’ said

Strike.‘Robin,callthepolice—’‘Noooo!’ howled the

womaninblacklikeabayingdog.‘Hehurtme,’shegaspedto Robin, tugging down hertop with abandonedwretchedness to reveal themarks on the strong whiteneck. ‘He dragged me, hepulledme—’RobinlookedtoStrike,her

handonthereceiver.‘Why have you been

following me?’ Strike said,pantingashe stoodoverher,histonethreatening.She cowered into the

squeaking cushions yetRobin,whosefingershadnotleftthephone,detectedanoteofrelishinthewoman’sfear,a whisper of voluptuousnessin the way she twisted awayfromhim.‘Last chance,’ growled

Strike.‘Why—?’‘What’s happening up

there?’ came a querulousenquiry from the landingbelow.Robin’s eyes met Strike’s.

She hurried to the door,unlocked it and slid out ontothelandingwhileStrikestoodguard over his captive, hisjawsetandonefistclenched.Hesawtheideaofscreamingfor help pass behind the bigdark eyes, purple-shadowed

like pansies, and fade away.Shaking,shebegantocry,buther teeth were bared and hethought there was more ragethanmiseryinhertears.‘All OK, Mr Crowdy,’

Robin called. ‘Just messingaround. Sorry we were soloud.’Robin returned to the

office and locked the doorbehindheragain.Thewomanwas rigid on the sofa, tearstumbling down her face, her

talon-like nails gripping theedgeoftheseat.‘Fuck this,’ Strike said.

‘Youdon’twanttotalk–I’mcallingthepolice.’Apparently she believed

him.Hehadtakenbarelytwostepstowardsthephonewhenshesobbed:‘Iwantedtostopyou.’‘Stopmedoingwhat?’said

Strike.‘Likeyoudon’tknow!’‘Don’tplay fuckinggames

with me!’ Strike shouted,bendingtowardsherwithtwolargefistsclenched.Hecouldfeel his damaged knee onlytoo acutely now. It was herfaulthehadtakenthefallthathad damaged the ligamentsalloveragain.‘Cormoran,’ said Robin

firmly, sliding between themand forcing him to take apacebackwards.‘Listen,’shetold the girl. ‘Listen to me.Tell him why you’re doing

thisandmaybehewon’tcall—’‘You’ve gotta be fucking

joking,’ said Strike. ‘Twiceshe’striedtostab—’‘—maybehewon’tcallthe

police,’ said Robin loudly,undeterred.Thewomanjumpedupand

tried to make a break for ittowardsthedoor.‘Noyoudon’t,’saidStrike,

hobbling fast around Robin,catching his assailant round

the waist and throwing hernonetoogentlybackontothesofa.‘Whoareyou?’‘You’vehurtmenow!’she

shouted. ‘You’ve really hurtme – my ribs – I’ll get youforassault,youbastard—’‘I’ll call you Pippa, then,

shallI?’saidStrike.A shuddering gasp and a

malevolentstare.‘You–you–fuck—’‘Yeah,yeah,fuckme,’said

Strikeirritably.‘Yourname.’

Her chest was heavingundertheheavyovercoat.‘HowwillyouknowifI’m

tellingthetruth,evenifI tellyou?’ she panted, with afurthershowofdefiance.‘I’llkeepyouheretill I’ve

checked,’saidStrike.‘Kidnap!’ she shouted, her

voice as rough and loud as adocker’s.‘Citizen’s arrest,’ said

Strike. ‘You tried to fuckingknife me. Now, for the last

bloodytime—’‘PippaMidgley,’shespat.‘Finally. Have you got

ID?’With another mutinous

obscenitysheslidahandintoherpocketanddrewoutabuspass,whichshethrewtohim.‘This says Phillip

Midgley.’‘Noshit.’Watching the implication

hitStrike,Robinfeltasuddenurge,inspiteofthetensionin

theroom,tolaugh.‘Epicoene,’ said Pippa

Midgley furiously. ‘Didn’tyou get it? Too subtle foryou,dickhead?’Strike looked up at her.

The Adam’s apple on herscratched,marked throatwasstill prominent. She hadburied her hands in herpocketsagain.‘I’ll be Pippa on all my

documents next year,’ shesaid.

‘Pippa,’ Strike repeated.‘You’re the author of “I’llturnthehandleonthefuckingrackforyou”,areyou?’‘Oh,’saidRobin,onalong

drawn-out sigh ofcomprehension.‘Oooooh, you’re soclever,

Mr Butch,’ said Pippa inspitefulimitation.‘D’youknowKathrynKent

personally, or are you justcyber-friends?’‘Why? Is knowing Kath

Kentacrimenow?’‘HowdidyouknowOwen

Quine?’‘Idon’twant to talk about

that bastard,’ she said, herchest heaving. ‘What he’sdone to me… what he’sdone… pretending… helied… lying fuckingbastard…’Freshtearssplattereddown

her cheeks and she dissolvedinto hysterics. Her scarlet-tipped hands clawed at her

hair,herfeetdrummedonthefloor, she rocked backwardsand forwards,wailing. Strikewatchedherwithdistasteandafterthirtysecondssaid:‘Willyoushutthefuck—’But Robin quelled him

with a glance, tore a handfulof tissues out of the box onher desk and pushed themintoPippa’shand.‘T-t-ta—’‘Would you like a tea or

coffee, Pippa?’ asked Robin

kindly.‘Co…fee…pl…’‘She’s just tried to bloody

knifeme,Robin!’‘Well, she didn’t manage

it, did she?’ commentedRobin,busywiththekettle.‘Ineptitude,’ said Strike

incredulously, ‘is no fuckingdefenceunderthelaw!’He rounded on Pippa

again,whohad followed thisexchange with her mouthagape.

‘Why have you beenfollowingme?What are youtryingtostopmedoing?AndI’m warning you – justbecause Robin here’s buyingthesobstuff—’‘You’re working for her!’

yelled Pippa. ‘That twistedbitch, his widow! She’s gothismoney now, hasn’t she –we know what you’ve beenhiredtodo,we’renotfuckingstupid!’‘Who’s “we”?’ demanded

Strike, but Pippa’s dark eyesslidagaintowardsthedoor.‘Iswear to God,’ said Strike,whose much-tried knee wasnow throbbing in a way thatmade him want to grind histeeth,‘ifyougoforthatdoorone more fucking time I’mcalling the police and I’lltestify and be glad to watchyou go down for attemptedmurder. And it won’t be funfor you inside, Pippa,’ headded.‘Notpre-op.’

‘Cormoran!’ said Robinsharply.‘Statingfacts,’saidStrike.Pippa had shrunk back

ontothesofaandwasstaringatStrikeinunfeignedterror.‘Coffee,’ said Robin

firmly,emergingfrombehindthedeskandpressingthemuginto one of the long-talonedhands. ‘Just tell himwhat allthis is about, forGod’s sake,Pippa.Tellhim.’Unstable and aggressive

though Pippa seemed, Robincould not help pitying thegirl, who appeared to havegiven almost no thought tothe possible consequences oflungingat aprivatedetectivewith a blade. Robin couldonly assume that shepossessed in extreme formthetraitthatafflictedherownyounger brotherMartin,whowas notorious in their familyfor the lack of foresight andlove of danger that had

resulted in more trips tocasualty than the rest of hissiblingscombined.‘Weknowshehiredyouto

frameus,’croakedPippa.‘Who,’ growled Strike, ‘is

“she”andwhois“us”?’‘Leonora Quine!’ said

Pippa. ‘We knowwhat she’slikeandweknowwhatshe’scapable of! She hates us,meand Kath, she’d do anythingto get us. She murderedOwenandshe’s trying topin

it on us! You can look likethat all you want!’ sheshouted at Strike, whoseheavy eyebrows had risenhalfway to his thick hairline.‘She’s a crazy bitch, she’sjealousashell–shecouldn’tstandhimseeingusandnowshe’s got you poking aroundtrying to get stuff to useagainstus!’‘Idon’tknowwhetheryou

believethisparanoidbollocks—’

‘We know what’s goingon!’shoutedPippa.‘Shut up. Nobody except

the killer knew Quine wasdead when you startedstalking me. You followedme the day I found the bodyand I know you werefollowingLeonoraforaweekbeforethat.Why?’Andwhenshe did not answer, herepeated: ‘Last chance: whydid you follow me fromLeonora’s?’

‘I thought you might leadme to where he was,’ saidPippa.‘Why did you want to

knowwherehewas?’‘So I could fucking kill

him!’yelledPippa,andRobinwas confirmed in herimpression that Pippa sharedMartin’s almost total lack ofself-preservation.‘Andwhydidyouwant to

kill him?’ asked Strike, asthough she had said nothing

outoftheordinary.‘Becauseofwhathedidto

us in that horrible fuckingbook! You know – you’veread it – Epicoene – thatbastard,thatbastard—’‘Bloody calm down! So

you’d read Bombyx Mori bythen?’‘Yeah,ofcourseIhad—’‘And that’s when you

started putting shit throughQuine’sletterbox?’‘Shit for a shit!’ she

shouted.‘Witty.Whendidyouread

thebook?’‘Kathreadthebitsaboutus

onthephoneandthenIwentroundand—’‘Whendidshereadyouthe

bitsonthephone?’‘W-when she came home

and found it lying on herdoormat. Whole manuscript.Shecouldhardlygetthedooropen.He’dfeditthroughherdoorwith anote,’ saidPippa

Midgley.‘Sheshowedme.’‘Whatdidthenotesay?’‘It said “Payback time for

both of us. Hope you’rehappy!Owen.”’‘“Paybacktimeforbothof

us”?’ repeated Strike,frowning. ‘D’youknowwhatthatmeant?’‘Kathwouldn’t tellmebut

I know she understood. Shewasd-devastated,’saidPippa,her chest heaving. ‘She’s a–she’s a wonderful person.

You don’t know her. She’sbeen like am-mother tome.Wemetonhiswritingcourseand we were like – webecamelike—’Shecaughtupher breath and whimpered:‘Hewasabastard.Heliedtousaboutwhathewaswriting,he lied about – abouteverything—’She began to cry again,

wailing and sobbing, andRobin, worried about MrCrowdy,saidgently:

‘Pippa, just telluswhathelied about. Cormoran onlywants the truth, he’s nottryingtoframeanyone…’She did not knowwhether

Pippa had heard or believedher; perhaps she simplywanted to relieve heroverwroughtfeelings,butshetook a great shudderingbreath and out spilled atorrentofwords:‘He said I was like his

seconddaughter,he said that

tome; I told himeverything,he knew my mum threw meout and everything. And Ishowed him m-m-my bookabout my life and he w-wasso k-kind and interested andhesaidhe’dhelpmegetitp-published and he t-told usboth, me and Kath, that wewere in his n-new novel andhesaidIw-wasa“b-beautifullost soul” – that’s what hesaidtome,’gaspedPippa,hermobile mouth working, ‘and

he p-pretended to read a bitout to me one day, over thephone, and it was – it waslovelyandthenIr-readitandhe’d – he’d written that…Kath was in b-bits… thecave… Harpy andEpicoene…’‘So Kathryn came home

and found it all over thedoormat, did she?’ saidStrike. ‘Came home fromwhere–work?’‘From s-sitting in the

hospicewithherdyingsister.’‘And thatwaswhen?’said

Strikeforthethirdtime.‘Whocareswhenit—?’‘Ifuckingcare!’‘Was it the ninth?’ Robin

asked. She had brought upKathryn Kent’s blog on hercomputer, the screen angledaway from the sofa wherePippa was sitting. ‘Could ithavebeenTuesday theninth,Pippa? The Tuesday afterbonfirenight?’

‘It was… yeah, I think itwas!’ said Pippa, apparentlyawestruck by Robin’s luckyguess. ‘Yeah, Kath wentaway on bonfire nightbecauseAngelawassoill—’‘How d’you know it was

bonfirenight?’Strikeasked.‘Because Owen told Kath

he c-couldn’t see her thatnight, because he had to dofireworkswith his daughter,’said Pippa. ‘And Kath wasreally upset, because he was

supposedtobeleaving!He’dpromised her, he’d promisedatlongbloodylasthe’dleavehis bitch of a wife, and thenhe says he’s got to playsparklerswiththereta—’She drew up short, but

Strikefinishedforher.‘Withtheretard?’‘It’s just a joke,’ muttered

Pippa, shamefaced, showingmore regret about her use ofthe word than she had abouttrying to stab Strike. ‘Just

between me and Kath: hisdaughter was always theexcuse why Owen couldn’tleaveandbewithKath…’‘What didKathryn do that

night, instead of seeingQuine?’askedStrike.‘Iwent over to hers. Then

shegotthecallthathersisterAngela was a lot worse andsheleft.Angelahadcancer.Ithadgoneeverywhere.’‘WherewasAngela?’‘In the hospice in

Clapham.’‘How did Kathryn get

there?’‘Why’sthatmatter?’‘Just answer the bloody

question,willyou?’‘I don’t know – Tube, I

s’pose. And she stayed withAngela for three days,sleepingonamattresson thefloorbyherbedbecausetheythoughtAngelawasgoing todie any moment, but Angelakepthangingon soKathhad

to go home for clean clothesandthat’swhenshefoundthemanuscript all over thedoormat.’‘Why are you sure she

camehomeontheTuesday?’Robin asked andStrike,whohad been about to ask thesame thing, looked at her insurprise. He did not knowabout the old man in thebookshop and the Germansinkhole.‘Because on Tuesday

nights Iwork on a helpline,’said Pippa, ‘and I was therewhen Kath called me in f-floods, because she’dput themanuscript inorder,andreadwhathe’dwrittenaboutus—’‘Well, this is all very

interesting,’ said Strike,‘because Kathryn Kent toldthe police that she’d neverreadBombyxMori.’Pippa’s horrified

expressionmight,underothercircumstances, have been

amusing.‘Youfuckingtrickedme!’‘Yeah, you’re a really

tough nut to crack,’ saidStrike. ‘Don’t even thinkabout it,’ he added, standingoverherasshetriedtogetup.‘He was a – a shit!’

shouted Pippa seething withimpotent rage. ‘He was auser! Pretending to beinterested in our work andusingusallalong,thatl-lyingb-bastard… I thought he

understood what my life’sbeenabout–weused to talkfor hours about it and heencouraged me with my lifestory – he t-told me he wasgoing to help me get apublishingdeal—’Strike felt a sudden

weariness wash over him.What was this mania toappearinprint?‘—and he was just trying

tokeepmesweet,tellinghimall mymost private thoughts

andfeelings,andKath–whathe did to Kath – you don’tunderstand – I’m glad hisbitch wife killed him! If shehadn’t—’‘Why,’ demanded Strike,

‘d’you keep saying his wifekilledQuine?’‘Because Kath’s got

proof!’Ashortpause.‘What proof?’ asked

Strike.‘Wouldn’t you like to

know!’ shouted Pippawith acackle of hysterical laughter.‘Neveryoumind!’‘If she’s got proof, why

hasn’t she taken it to thepolice?’‘Out of compassion!’

shouted Pippa. ‘Somethingyouwouldn’t—’‘Why,’ came a plaintive

voice from outside the glassdoor, ‘is there still all thisshouting?’‘Oh bloody hell,’ said

Strikeas the fuzzyoutlineofMr Crowdy from downstairspressedclosetotheglass.Robinmovedtounlockthe

door.‘Verysorry,MrCrow—’Pippa was off the sofa in

aninstant.Strikemadeagrabfor her but his knee buckledagonisingly as he lunged.Knocking Mr Crowdy asideshewasgone,clatteringdownthestairs.‘Leave her!’ Strike said to

Robin,who lookedbraced togive chase. ‘Least I’ve gotherknife.’‘Knife?’ yelped Mr

Crowdy and it took themfifteen minutes to persuadehim not to contact thelandlord (for the publicityfollowing the Lula Landrycase had unnerved thegraphic designer, who livedin dread that anothermurderermightcomeseekingStrikeandperhapswanderby

mistake into the wrongoffice).‘Jesus H. Christ,’ said

Strike when they had at lastpersuaded Crowdy to leave.He slumped down on thesofa; Robin took hercomputer chair and theylookedateachotherforafewseconds before starting tolaugh.‘Decentgoodcop,badcop

routine we had going there,’saidStrike.

‘I wasn’t faking,’ saidRobin, ‘I reallydid feelabitsorryforher.’‘Inoticed.Whataboutme,

gettingattacked?’‘Didshereallywanttostab

you, or was it play-acting?’askedRobinsceptically.‘She might’ve liked the

idea of it more than thereality,’acknowledgedStrike.‘Trouble is, you’re just asdead if you’re knifed by aself-dramatising twat as by a

professional. And what shethought she’d gain bystabbingme—’‘Mother love,’ said Robin

quietly.Strikestaredather.‘Her own mother’s

disowned her,’ said Robin,‘and she’s going through areally traumatic time, Iexpect, taking hormones andGod knows what else she’sgot to do before she has theoperation. She thought she

hadanewfamily,didn’tshe?She thought Quine andKathryn Kent were her newparents. She told us Quinesaid she was a seconddaughter to him and he puther in the book as KathrynKent’s daughter. But inBombyxMoriherevealedhertotheworldashalfmale,halffemale. He also suggestedthat, beneath all the filialaffection,shewantedtosleepwithhim.

‘Her new father,’ saidRobin,‘hadletherdownverybadly. But her new motherwasstillgoodandloving,andshe’d been betrayed as well,so Pippa set out to get evenforbothofthem.’She could not stop herself

grinningatStrike’slookedofstunnedadmiration.‘Whythehelldidyougive

upthatpsychologydegree?’‘Long story,’ said Robin,

looking away towards the

computermonitor. ‘She’snotvery old… twenty, d’youthink?’‘Looked about that,’

agreedStrike. ‘Pitywenevergotroundtoaskingherabouther movements in the daysafterQuinedisappeared.’‘She didn’t do it,’ said

Robinwithcertainty, lookingbackathim.‘Yeah, you’re probably

right,’ sighed Strike, ‘if onlybecause shoving dog shit

through his letter boxmight’ve felt a bitanticlimacticaftercarvingouthisguts.’‘And she doesn’t seem

very strong on planning orefficiency,doesshe?’‘An understatement,’ he

agreed.‘Are you going to call the

policeabouther?’‘Idon’tknow.Maybe.But

shit,’ he said, thumpinghimself on the forehead, ‘we

didn’t even findoutwhy shewas bloody singing in thebook!’‘IthinkImightknow,’said

Robin after a short burst oftypingandreadingtheresultson her computer monitor.‘Singingtosoftenthevoice…vocal exercises fortransgenderedpeople.’‘Wasthatall?’askedStrike

indisbelief.‘Whatareyousaying–that

she was wrong to take

offence?’ said Robin. ‘Comeon – he was jeering atsomethingreallypersonalinapublic—’‘That’s notwhat Imeant,’

saidStrike.He frowned out of the

window, thinking. The snowwasfallingthickandfast.Afterawhilehesaid:‘What happened at the

BridlingtonBookshop?’‘God,yes,Inearlyforgot!’She told him all about the

assistant and his confusionbetween the first and theeighthofNovember.‘Stupid old sod,’ said

Strike.‘That’s a bit mean,’ said

Robin.‘Cocky, wasn’t he?

Mondays are always thesame, goes to his friendCharleseveryMonday…’‘But how do we know

whether it was the Anglicanbishop night or the sinkhole

night?’‘YousayheclaimsCharles

interrupted him with thesinkhole story while he wastelling him about Quinecomingintotheshop?’‘That’swhathesaid.’‘Then it’s odds on Quine

was in the shop on the first,nottheeighth.Heremembersthose twobitsof informationas connected. Silly bugger’sgot confused. He wanted tohave seen Quine after he’d

disappeared, hewanted to beable tohelpestablish timeofdeath, so he wassubconsciously looking forreasons to think it was theMondayinthetimeframeforthemurder, not an irrelevantMondayawholeweekbeforeanyone was interested inQuine’smovements.’‘There’s still something

odd,though,isn’tthere,aboutwhatheclaimsQuinesaid tohim?’askedRobin.

‘Yeah, there is,’ saidStrike. ‘Buying readingmatter because hewas goingawayforabreak…sohewasalreadyplanning to go away,four days before he rowedwith Elizabeth Tassel? Washe already planning to go toTalgarthRoad,afterall thoseyears he was supposed tohave hated and avoided theplace?’‘Are you going to tell

Anstis about this?’ Robin

asked.Strike gave awry snort of

laughter.‘No, I’m not going to tell

Anstis. We’ve got no realproof Quine was in there onthefirstinsteadoftheeighth.Anyway, Anstis and I aren’tonthebesttermsjustnow.’There was another long

pause,andthenStrikestartledRobinbysaying:‘I’vegottotalktoMichael

Fancourt.’

‘Why?’sheasked.‘A lot of reasons,’ said

Strike. ‘Things Waldegravesaid to me over lunch. Canyou get on to his agent orwhatevercontactyoucanfindforhim?’‘Yes,’ said Robin, making

anoteforherself.‘Youknow,Iwatchedthatinterviewbackjust now and I still couldn’t—’‘Look at it again,’ said

Strike.‘Payattention.Think.’

He lapsed into silenceagain, glaring now at theceiling.Notwishing tobreakhis train of thought, Robinmerely set to work on thecomputer to discover whorepresented MichaelFancourt.Finally Strike spoke over

thetappingofherkeyboard.‘What does Kathryn Kent

thinkshe’sgotonLeonora?’‘Maybe nothing,’ said

Robin, concentrating on the

resultsshehaduncovered.‘And she’s withholding it

“outofcompassion”…’Robin said nothing. She

was perusing the website ofFancourt’sliteraryagencyforacontactnumber.‘Let’s hope that was just

morehystericalbullshit,’saidStrike.Buthewasworried.

38

ThatinsolittlepaperShouldlieth’undoing…JohnWebster,TheWhite

Devil

Miss Brocklehurst, thepossibly unfaithful PA, wasstill claiming to be

incapacitatedbyhercold.Herlover, Strike’s client, foundthis excessive and thedetective was inclined toagree with him. Seveno’clock the followingmorning found StrikestationedinashadowyrecessoppositeMiss Brocklehurst’sBattersea flat,wrapped up incoat, scarf and gloves,yawning widely as the coldpenetratedhisextremitiesandenjoying the second of three

Egg McMuffins he hadpicked up from McDonald’sonhisway.There had been a severe

weather warning for thewhole of the south-east.Thickdarkbluesnowalreadylay over the entire street andthefirsttentativeflakesofthedaywere drifting down froma starless sky as he waited,movinghis toes fromtime totime to check that he couldstillfeelthem.Onebyonethe

occupants left for work,slipping and sliding offtowards the station orclambering into cars whoseexhaustssoundedparticularlyloud in the muffled quiet.Three Christmas treessparkled at Strike fromliving-roomwindows,thoughDecember would only startthe following day, tangerine,emerald and neon blue lightswinkinggarishlyasheleanedagainst the wall, his eyes on

the windows of MissBrocklehurst’s flat, layingbets with himself as towhether she would leave thehouse at all in this weather.Hiskneewasstillkillinghim,but the snow had slowed therest of the world to a pacethatmatchedhisown.HehadneverseenMissBrocklehurstin heels lower than fourinches. In these conditions,she might well be moreincapacitatedthanhewas.

In the lastweek thesearchforQuine’s killer had startedto eclipse all his other cases,but it was important to keepup with them unless hewantedtolosebusiness.MissBrocklehurst’s lover was arich man who was likely toputplentymore jobsStrike’swayifhelikedthedetective’swork.Thebusinessmanhadapredilection for youthfulblondes, a succession ofwhom (as he had freely

confessed to Strike at theirfirstmeeting)hadtakenlargeamounts of money andsundry expensive gifts fromhim only to leave or betrayhim.Asheshowednosignofdeveloping better judgementof character, Strikeanticipated many morelucrative hours spent tailingfuture Miss Brocklehursts.Perhaps it was the betrayalthat thrilled his client,reflected Strike, his breath

rising in clouds through theicy air; he had known othersuchmen. Itwas a taste thatfounditsfullestexpressioninthosewho became infatuatedwithhookers.At ten to nine the curtains

gave a small twitch. Fasterthan might have beenexpected from his attitude ofcasual relaxation, Strikeraisedthenight-visioncamerahehadbeenconcealingathisside.

Miss Brocklehurst stoodbriefly exposed to the dimsnowystreetinbraandpants,though her cosmeticallyenhancedbreastshadnoneedof support.Behindher in thedarkness of the bedroomwalked a paunchy, bare-chested man who brieflycupped one breast, earninghimself a giggled reproof.Both turned away into thebedroom.Strike lowered his camera

and checked his handiwork.Themostincriminatingimagehe had managed to captureshowed theclearoutlineofaman’s hand and arm, MissBrocklehurst’s face halfturned in a laugh, but herembracer’s face was inshadow.Strikesuspectedthathemightbeabouttoleaveforwork, so he stowed thecamera in an inside pocket,ready to give slow andcumbersomechase,andsetto

workonhisthirdMcMuffin.Sureenough,atfivetonine

Miss Brocklehurst’s frontdoor opened and the loveremerged; he resembled herboss in nothing except ageandamoneyedappearance.Asleek leather messenger bagwas slung diagonally acrosshis chest, large enough for aclean shirt and a toothbrush.Strike had seen these sofrequentlyof late thathehadcome to think of them as

Adulterer’s Overnight Bags.ThecoupleenjoyedaFrenchkissonthedoorstepcurtailedby the icy cold and the factthat Miss Brocklehurst waswearinglessthantwoouncesof fabric. Then she retreatedindoors and Paunchy set offtowards Clapham Junction,already speaking on hismobile phone, doubtlessexplaining that he would belate due to the snow. Strikeallowed him twenty yards’

headstart thenemergedfromhis hiding place, leaning onthe stick that Robin hadkindly retrieved fromDenmarkPlace theprecedingafternoon.Itwaseasysurveillance,as

Paunchy was oblivious toanything but his telephoneconversation. They walkeddown the gentle incline ofLavender Hill together,twenty yards apart, the snowfalling steadily again.

Paunchyslippedseveraltimesinhishandmadeshoes.WhentheyreachedthestationitwaseasyforStriketofollowhim,still gabbling, into the samecarriageand,underpretextofreadingtexts, totakepicturesofhimonhisownmobile.Ashedidso,agenuinetext

arrivedfromRobin.

MichaelFancourt’sagentjustcalledmeback–MFsayshe’dbe

delightedtomeetyou!He’sinGermanybutwillbebackon6th.SuggestsGrouchoClubwhatevertimesuits?Rx

It was quite extraordinary,

Strike thought, as the trainrattled into Waterloo, howmuch the people who hadreadBombyxMoriwanted totalktohim.Whenbeforehadsuspectsjumpedsoeagerlyat

the chance to sit face to facewith a detective? And whatdidfamousMichaelFancourthope to gain from aninterview with the privatedetective who had foundOwenQuine’sbody?Strike got out of the train

behind Paunchy, followinghim through the crowdsacross the wet, slippery tilesof Waterloo station, beneaththe ceiling of cream girdersand glass that reminded

Strike of Tithebarn House.Out again into the cold,withPaunchy still oblivious andgabbling into his mobile,Strike followed him alongslushy, treacherouspavements edged with clodsof mucky snow, betweensquare office blockscomprised of glass andconcrete, in and out of theswarm of financial workersbustling along, ant-like, intheir drab coats, until at last

Paunchy turned into the carpark of one of the biggestoffice blocks and headed forwhat was obviously his owncar.Apparentlyhehad felt itwiser to leave the BMW attheofficethantoparkoutsideMiss Brocklehurst’s flat. AsStrike watched, lurkingbehind a convenient RangeRover, he felt the mobile inhispocketvibratebutignoredit,unwillingtodrawattentionto himself. Paunchy had a

named parking space. Aftercollecting a few items fromhis boot he headed into thebuilding, leaving Strike freeto amble over to the wallwhere the directors’ nameswere written and take aphotograph of Paunchy’s fullnameandtitleforhisclient’sbetterinformation.Strike thenheadedback to

the office.Once on theTubehe examined his phone andsaw that his missed call was

from his oldest friend, theshark-mangled DavePolworth.Polworth had the ancient

habit of calling Strike‘Diddy’. Most peopleassumed this was an ironicreference to his size (allthrough primary school,Strike had been the biggestboyoftheyearandusuallyoftheyearabove),but infact itderived from the endlesscomings and goings from

school that were due to hismother’s peripatetic lifestyle.These had once, long ago,resulted in a small, shrillDave Polworth telling Strikehe was like a didicoy, theCornishwordforgypsy.Strike returned the call as

soon as he got off the Tubeand they were still talkingtwentyminuteslaterwhenheentered his office. Robinlooked up and began tospeak, but seeing that Strike

was on the phone merelysmiledandturnedbacktohermonitor.‘Coming home for

Christmas?’ Polworth askedStrikeashemovedthroughtotheinnerofficeandclosedhisdoor.‘Maybe,’saidStrike.‘FewpintsintheVictory?’

Polworth urged him. ‘ShagGweniferArscottagain?’‘I never,’ said Strike (it

wasa jokeof longstanding),

‘shaggedGweniferArscott.’‘Well, have another bash,

Diddy, youmight strikegoldthistime.Timesomeonetookher cherry. And speaking ofgirls neither of us evershagged…’The conversation

degenerated into a series ofsalacious and very funnyvignettes from Polworthabouttheanticsofthemutualfriends they had both leftbehind in St Mawes. Strike

was laughing so much heignored the ‘call waiting’signal and did not bother tocheckwhoitwas.‘Haven’t got back with

Milady Berserko, have you,boy?’Dave asked, this beingthenameheusuallyused forCharlotte.‘Nope,’ said Strike. ‘She’s

getting married in… fourdays,’hecalculated.‘Yeah,well,youbeon the

watch,Diddy,forsignsofher

galloping back over thehorizon. Wouldn’t besurprisedifshebolts.Breatheasighofreliefifitcomesoff,mate.’‘Yeah,’ said Strike.

‘Right.’‘That’sadeal then,yeah?’

said Polworth. ‘Home forChristmas? Beers in theVictory?’‘Yeah, why not,’ said

Strike.After a few more ribald

exchanges Dave returned tohis work and Strike, stillgrinning, checked his phoneandsawthathehadmissedacallfromLeonoraQuine.Hewanderedbackintothe

outerofficewhilediallinghisvoicemail.‘I’ve watched Michael

Fancourt’s documentaryagain,’ said Robin excitedly,‘and I’ve realised what you—’Strike raised a hand to

quiet her as Leonora’sordinarily deadpan voicespoke in his ear, soundingagitatedanddisorientated.‘Cormoran, I’ve been

bloodyarrested.Idon’tknowwhy – nobody’s telling menothing – they’ve got me atthe station. They’re waitingfor a lawyer or something. Idunnowhattodo–Orlando’swithEdna,Idon’t–anyway,that’swhereIam…’A few seconds of silence

andthemessageended.‘Shit!’ said Strike, so

loudly that Robin jumped.‘SHIT!’‘What’sthematter?’‘They’ve arrested Leonora

– why’s she calling me, notIlsa?Shit…’He punched in Ilsa

Herbert’snumberandwaited.‘HiCorm—’‘They’ve arrested Leonora

Quine.’‘What?’ cried Ilsa. ‘Why?

Notthatbloodyoldraginthelock-up?’‘They might have

somethingelse.’(Kath’sgotproof…)‘Whereisshe,Corm?’‘Police station… it’ll be

Kilburn,that’snearest.’‘Christ almighty, why

didn’tshecallme?’‘Fuck knows. She said

somethingaboutthemfindingheralawyer—’‘Nobody’s contactedme –

Godabove,doesn’tshethink?Whydidn’tshegivethemmyname?I’mgoingnow,Corm,I’lldumpthislotonsomeoneelse.I’mowedafavour…’He could hear a series of

thunks, distant voices, Ilsa’srapidfootsteps.‘Call me when you know

what’sgoingon,’hesaid.‘Itmightbeawhile.’‘Idon’tcare.Callme.’Shehungup.Strike turned

to face Robin, who looked

appalled.‘Ohno,’shebreathed.‘I’m calling Anstis,’ said

Strike, jabbing again at hisphone.But his old friend was in

nomoodtodispensefavours.‘I warned you, Bob, I

warnedyou thiswascoming.Shedidit,mate.’‘What’ve you got?’ Strike

demanded.‘Can’t tell you that, Bob,

sorry.’

‘Did you get it fromKathrynKent?’‘Can’tsay,mate.’Barely deigning to return

Anstis’s conventional goodwishes,Strikehungup.‘Dickhead!’ he said.

‘Bloodydickhead!’Leonora was now in a

place where he could notreachher.Strikewasworriedabout how her grudgingmanner and the animosity tothe police would appear to

interlocutors. He couldalmost hear her complainingthat Orlando was alone,demandingtoknowwhenshewouldbeabletoreturntoherdaughter, indignant that thepolice had meddled with thedaily grind of her miserableexistence. He was afraid ofher lack of self-preservation;he wanted Ilsa there, fast,before Leonora utteredinnocently self-incriminatingcomments about her

husband’sgeneralneglectandhis girlfriends, before shecould state again her almostincredible and suspiciousclaim that she knew nothingabout her husband’s booksbeforetheyhadpropercoverson, before she attempted toexplain why she hadtemporarily forgotten thatthey owned a second housewhere her husband’s remainshadlaindecayingforweeks.Five o’clock in the

afternoon came and wentwithout news from Ilsa.Lookingoutat thedarkeningsky and the snow, StrikeinsistedRobingohome.‘But you’ll ring me when

you hear?’ she begged him,pulling on her coat andwrapping a thick woollenscarfaroundherneck.‘Yeah, of course,’ said

Strike.But not until six thirty did

Ilsacallhimback.

‘Couldn’t be worse,’ wereher first words. She soundedtired and stressed. ‘They’vegotproofofpurchase,on theQuines’ joint credit card, ofprotective overalls,wellington boots, gloves andropes. They were boughtonlineandpaidforwiththeirVisa.Oh–andaburqa.’‘You’re fucking kidding

me.’‘I’mnot.Iknowyouthink

she’sinnocent—’

‘Yeah, I do,’ said Strike,conveying a clear warningnot to bother trying topersuadehimotherwise.‘All right,’ said Ilsa

wearily, ‘have it your ownway, but I’ll tell you this:she’s not helping herself.She’s being aggressive ashell, insisting Quine musthaveboughtthestuffhimself.A burqa, for God’s sake…Theropesboughtonthecardare identical to the ones that

were found tying the corpse.They asked her why Quinewouldwantaburqaorplasticoverallsofastrengthtoresistchemical spills, and all shesaid was: “I don’t bloodyknow, do I?” Every othersentence, she kept askingwhen she could go home toherdaughter;shejustdoesn’tget it. The stuff was boughtsix months ago and sent toTalgarth Road – it couldn’tlook more premeditated

unless they’dfoundaplan inher handwriting. She’sdenyingsheknewhowQuinewas going to end his book,butyourguyAnstis—’‘Thereinperson,washe?’‘Yeah, doing the

interrogation.He kept askingwhether she really expectedthem to believe that Quinenever talked about what hewaswriting.Thenshesays,“Idon’t pay much attention.”“So he does talk about his

plots?” On and on it went,trying towearherdown,andintheendshesays,“Well,hesaid something about thesilkwormbeingboiled.”Thatwas all Anstis needed to beconvinced she’s been lyingall along and she knew thewhole plot. Oh, and they’vefounddisturbedearth in theirbackgarden.’‘And I’ll lay you odds

they’ll find a dead cat calledMrPoop,’snarledStrike.

‘That won’t stop Anstis,’predicted Ilsa. ‘He’sabsolutely sure it’s her,Corm. They’ve got the rightto keep her until eleven a.m.tomorrow and I’m surethey’regoingtochargeher.’‘Theyhaven’tgotenough,’

saidStrikefiercely. ‘Where’sthe DNA evidence? Wherearethewitnesses?’‘That’stheproblem,Corm,

there aren’t any and thatcredit card bill’s pretty

damning. Look, I’m on yourside,’saidIlsapatiently.‘Youwant my honest opinion?Anstis is taking a punt,hopingit’sgoingtoworkout.I think he’s feeling thepressure from all the pressinterest.Andtobefrank,he’sfeeling agitated about youslinking around the case andwantstotaketheinitiative.’Strikegroaned.‘Where did they get a six-

month-old Visa bill? Has it

taken them this long to gothrough the stuff they tookoutofhisstudy?’‘No,’saidIlsa. ‘It’son the

backofoneofhisdaughter’spictures. Apparently thedaughtergaveittoafriendofhis months ago, and thisfriendwenttothepolicewithit early this morning,claiming they’d only justlooked at the back andrealised what was on there.Whatdidyoujustsay?’

‘Nothing,’Strikesighed.‘It sounded like

“Tashkent”.’‘Notthatfaroff.I’llletyou

go, Ilsa… thanks foreverything.’Strikesatforafewseconds

infrustratedsilence.‘Bollocks,’hesaidsoftlyto

hisdarkoffice.He knew how this had

happened. PippaMidgley, inherparanoiaandherhysteria,convinced that Strike had

beenhiredbyLeonora topinthemurderonsomebodyelse,had run from his officestraight to Kathryn Kent.Pippa had confessed that shehadblownKathryn’spretencenever to have read BombyxMoriandurgedhertousetheevidence she had againstLeonora. And so KathrynKent had ripped down herlover’s daughter’s picture(Strike imagined it stuck,with amagnet, to the fridge)

and hurried off to the policestation.‘Bollocks,’ he repeated,

more loudly, and dialledRobin’snumber.

39

I am sowell acquaintedwithdespair,I know not how tohope…

ThomasDekkerandThomasMiddleton,TheHonestWhore

As her lawyer had predicted,Leonora Quine was chargedwith the murder of herhusbandateleveno’clockthefollowing morning. Alertedby phone, Strike and Robinwatched the news spreadonline where, minute byminute, the story proliferatedlike multiplying bacteria. Byhalf past eleven the Sunwebsite had a full article onLeonora headed ROSE WESTLOOKALIKE WHO TRAINED AT

THEBUTCHER’S.The journalists had been

busily collecting evidence ofQuine’s poor record as ahusband. His frequentdisappearanceswerelinkedtoliaisons with other women,thesexualthemesofhisworkdissected and embellished.Kathryn Kent had beenlocated, doorstepped,photographedandcategorisedas‘Quine’scurvyred-headedmistress, a writer of erotic

fiction’.Shortlybeforemidday,Ilsa

calledStrikeagain.‘She’s going to be up in

courttomorrow.’‘Where?’‘Wood Green, eleven

o’clock. Straight from theretoHolloway,Iexpect.’Strike had once livedwith

his mother and Lucy in ahouse a mere three minutesaway from the closedwomen’s prison that served

northLondon.‘Iwanttoseeher.’‘You can try, but I can’t

imagine the police will wantyou near her and I’ve got totellyou,Corm,asherlawyer,itmightnotlook—’‘Ilsa, I’m the only chance

she’sgotnow.’‘Thanks for the vote of

confidence,’shesaiddrily.‘YouknowwhatImean.’Heheardhersigh.‘I’m thinking of you too.

Doyoureallywanttoputthepolice’sbacks—?’‘How is she?’ interrupted

Strike.‘Notgood,’ said Ilsa. ‘The

separation from Orlando’skillingher.’The afternoon was

punctuated with calls fromjournalists and people whohad known Quine, bothgroups equally desperate forinside information. ElizabethTassel’s voice was so deep

and rough on the phone thatRobinthoughtheraman.‘Where’s Orlando?’ the

agent demanded of Strikewhen he came to the phone,as though he had beendelegated charge of allmembersoftheQuinefamily.‘Who’sgother?’‘She’s with a neighbour, I

think,’ he said, listening toherwheezedowntheline.‘My God, what a mess,’

rasped the agent. ‘Leonora…

the worm turning after allthese years… it’sincredible…’Nina Lascelles’s reaction

was,notaltogethertoStrike’ssurprise, poorly disguisedrelief.Murderhadreceded toits rightful place on the hazyedge of the possible. Itsshadow no longer touchedher;thekillerwasnobodysheknew.‘His wife does look a bit

likeRoseWest,doesn’tshe?’

sheaskedStrikeonthephoneand he knew that she wasstaring at the Sun’s website.‘Exceptwithlonghair.’She seemed to be

commiserating with him. Hehad not solved the case. Thepolicehadbeatenhimtoit.‘Listen, I’m having a few

people over on Friday, fancycoming?’‘Can’t, sorry,’ said Strike.

‘I’m having dinner with mybrother.’

He could tell that shethought he was lying. Therehad been an almostimperceptible hesitationbefore he had said ‘mybrother’, which might wellhave suggested a pause forrapid thought. Strike couldnotremembereverdescribingAl as his brother before. Herarely discussed his half-siblingsonhisfather’sside.Before she left the office

thateveningRobinsetamug

ofteainfrontofhimashesatporing over the Quine file.She could almost feel theanger that Strike was doinghis best to hide, andsuspectedthat itwasdirectedathimselfquiteasmuchasatAnstis.‘It’s not over,’ she said,

winding her scarf around herneck as she prepared todepart.‘We’llproveitwasn’ther.’She had once before used

the plural pronoun whenStrike’s faith in himself hadbeen at a low ebb. Heappreciated the moralsupport, but a feeling ofimpotencewas swampinghisthought processes. Strikehated paddling on theperiphery of the case, forcedto watch as others dived forclues,leadsandinformation.He sat up late with the

Quine file that night,reviewing the notes he had

made of interviews,examining again thephotographs he had printedoff his phone. The mangledbodyofOwenQuineseemedtosignaltohiminthesilenceascorpsesoftendid,exhalingmute appeals for justice andpity.Sometimesthemurderedcarried messages from theirkillers like signs forced intotheir stiff dead hands. Strikestared for a long time at theburned and gaping chest

cavity, theropes tightaroundanklesandwrists, thecarcasstrussed and gutted like aturkey,buttryashemight,hecouldgleannothing from thepictures that he did notalready know. Eventually heturned off all the lights andheadedupstairstobed.

It was a bittersweet relief tohave to spend Thursdaymorning at the offices of hisbrunette client’s exorbitantly

expensive divorce lawyers inLincoln’s Inn Fields. Strikewas glad to have somethingtowhileawaytimethatcouldnot be spent investigatingQuine’s murder, but he stillfelt thathehadbeen lured tothe meeting under falsepretences. The flirtatiousdivorcée had given him tounderstand that her lawyerwantedtohearfromStrikeinperson how he had collectedthe copious evidence of her

husband’s duplicity. He satbeside her at a highlypolishedmahoganytablewithroom for twelve while shereferred constantly to ‘whatCormoran managed to findout’ and ‘as Cormoranwitnessed, didn’t you?’,occasionally touching hiswrist. It did not take Strikelong to deduce from hersuave lawyer’s barelyconcealedirritationthatithadnot been his idea to have

Strike in attendance.Nevertheless, as might havebeen expected when thehourly fee ran to over fivehundred pounds, he showedno disposition to hurrymattersalong.On a trip to the bathroom

Strikecheckedhisphoneandsaw, in tiny thumbnailpictures,Leonorabeingledinand out of Wood GreenCrown Court. She had beenchargedanddrivenawayina

police van. There had beenplentyofpressphotographersbutnomembersofthepublicbayingforherblood;shewasnot supposed to havemurdered anyone that thepublicmuchcaredabout.A text fromRobin arrived

just as he was about to re-entertheconferenceroom:

CouldgetyouintoseeLeonoraat6thisevening?

Great,hetextedback.‘I thought,’ said his

flirtatiousclient,oncehehadsat back down, ‘thatCormoran might be ratherimpressive on the witnessstand.’Strike had already shown

her lawyer the meticulousnotesandphotographshehadcompiled, detailing MrBurnett’s every coverttransaction, the attempted

saleof theapartmentand thepalming of the emeraldnecklace included. To MrsBurnett’s evidentdisappointment, neither mansaw any reason for Strike toattend court in person giventhe quality of his records.Indeed, the lawyer couldbarelyconcealhisresentmentof thereliancesheseemed toplace upon the detective. Nodoubthethoughtthiswealthydivorcée’s discreet caresses

andbattedeyelashesmightbebetter directed towards him,in his bespoke pinstripe suit,with his distinguished salt-and-pepper hair, instead of aman who looked like alimpingprizefighter.Relieved to quit the

rarefied atmosphere, Strikecaught the Tube back to hisoffice,gladtotakeoffhissuitinhisflat,happytothinkthathewould soon be rid of thatparticular case and in

possession of the fat chequethathadbeentheonlyreasonhe had taken it. Hewas freenow to focus on that thin,grey-haired fifty-year-oldwomaninHollowaywhowastouted as WRITER’S MOUSYWIFEEXPERTWITHCLEAVERonpage two of the EveningStandardhehadpickeduponthejourney.‘Was her lawyer happy?’

Robin asked when hereappearedintheoffice.

‘Reasonably,’ said Strike,staringat theminiature tinselChristmastreeshehadplacedon her tidy desk. It wasdecorated with tiny baublesandLEDlights.‘Why?’ he asked

succinctly.‘Christmas,’ said Robin,

with a faint grin but withoutapology.‘Iwasgoingtoputitup yesterday, but afterLeonorawaschargedIdidn’tfeel very festive. Anyway,

I’ve got you an appointmenttoseeheratsix.You’llneedtotakephotoID—’‘Goodwork,thanks.’‘—and I got you

sandwichesandIthoughtyoumight like to see this,’ shesaid. ‘Michael Fancourt’sgiven an interview aboutQuine.’She passed him a pack of

cheeseandpicklesandwichesand a copy of The Times,folded to the correct page.

Strike lowered himself ontothe farting leather sofa andate while reading the article,which was adorned with asplitphotograph.On the left-hand side was a picture ofFancourt standing in front ofanElizabethancountryhouse.Photographed from below,his head looked less out ofproportionthanusual.Ontheright-hand side was Quine,eccentricandwild-eyedinhisfeather-trimmed trilby,

addressing a sparse audienceinwhatseemedtobeasmallmarquee.The writer of the piece

made much of the fact thatFancourtandQuinehadonceknown each other well, hadeven been consideredequivalenttalents.

Few now rememberQuine’s breakout work,Hobart’s Sin, althoughFancourttoutsitstillasa

fineexampleofwhathecalls Quine’s magical-brutalism. For allFancourt’s reputation ofa man who nurses hisgrudges, he brings asurprising generosity toour discussion ofQuine’soeuvre.‘Always interesting

andoftenunderrated,’hesays. ‘I suspect that hewill be treated morekindly by future critics

than ourcontemporaries.’This unexpected

generosity is the moresurprising when oneconsiders that 25 yearsago Fancourt’s firstwife, Elspeth Kerr,killed herself afterreadingacruelparodyofher first novel. Thespoof was widelyattributed to Fancourt’sclose friend and fellow

literary rebel: the lateOwenQuine.‘One mellows almost

without realising it – acompensation of age,because anger isexhausting. Iunburdened myself ofmany of the feelingsaboutEllie’sdeathinmylastnovel,which shouldnot be read asautobiographical,although…’

Strike skimmed the next

two paragraphs, whichappeared to be promotingFancourt’s next book, andresumed reading at the pointwhere the word ‘violence’jumpedoutathim.

Itisdifficulttoreconcilethe tweed-jacketedFancourt in front of mewith the one-time self-described literary punk

who drew both plauditsand criticism for theinventive and gratuitousviolence of his earlywork.‘IfMrGrahamGreene

wascorrect,’wrotecriticHarvey Bird ofFancourt’s first novel,‘and the writer needs achip of ice in his heart,then Michael Fancourtsurely has what it takesin abundance. Reading

the rape scene inBellafront one starts toimagine that this youngman’s innards must beglacial.Infact, therearetwo ways of looking atBellafront, which isundoubtedlyaccomplished andoriginal. The firstpossibility is that MrFancourt has written anunusually mature firstnovel, in which he has

resisted the neophytetendency to inserthimself into the (anti-)heroic role. We maywince at itsgrotesqueries or itsmorality, but nobodycoulddenythepowerorartistryoftheprose.Thesecond,moredisturbing,possibility is that MrFancourt does notpossess much of anorganinwhichtoplacea

chip of ice and hissingularly inhuman talecorresponds to his owninner landscape. Time –and further work – willtell.’Fancourt hailed

originally from Slough,theonlysonofanunwednurse. His mother stilllives in the house inwhichhegrewup.‘She’s happy there,’

he says. ‘She has an

enviable capacity forenjoyingthefamiliar.’His own home is a

longwayfromaterracedhouse in Slough. Ourconversation takes placein a long drawing roomcrammed with Meissenknick-knacks andAubusson rugs, itswindows overlookingtheextensivegroundsofEndsorCourt.‘This is allmywife’s

choice,’ says Fancourtdismissively. ‘My tastein art is very differentand confined to thegrounds.’A large trenchto the side of thebuilding is beingpreparedfortheconcretefoundation to support asculptureinrustedmetalrepresenting the FuryTisiphone, which hedescribeswithalaughasan ‘impulse buy… the

avenger of murder, youknow…averypowerfulpiece. My wife loathesit.’Andsomehowwefind

ourselvesbackwheretheinterview began: at themacabre fate of OwenQuine.‘I haven’t yet

processed Owen’smurder,’ says Fancourtquietly. ‘Like mostwriters,Itendtofindout

what I feel on a subjectbywriting about it. It ishow we interpret theworld, how we makesenseofit.’Does this mean that

we can expect afictionalised account ofQuine’skilling?‘I can hear the

accusations of bad tasteand exploitationalready,’ smilesFancourt.‘Idaresaythe

themes of lostfriendship, of a lastchancetotalk,toexplainand make amends maymake an appearance indue course, but Owen’smurderhasalreadybeentreated fictionally – byhimself.’He is one of the few

to have read thenotorious manuscriptthat appears to haveformed the blueprint of

themurder.‘Ireadit theveryday

that Quine’s body wasdiscovered. Mypublisherwas very keenfor me to see it – I’mportrayedinit,yousee.’He seems genuinelyindifferent about hisinclusion, howeverinsulting the portraitmayhavebeen.‘Iwasn’tinterested in calling inlawyers. I deplore

censorship.’What did he think of

the book, in literaryterms?‘It’s what Nabokov

called a maniac’smasterpiece,’ he replies,smiling.‘Theremaybeacase for publishing it indue course, whoknows?’He can’t, surely, be

serious?‘But why shouldn’t it

be published?’ demandsFancourt. ‘Art issupposedtoprovoke:bythat standard alone,Bombyx Mori has morethan fulfilled its remit.Yes,why not?’ asks theliterary punk, ensconcedin his Elizabethanmanor.‘With an introduction

byMichael Fancourt?’ Isuggest.‘Stranger things have

happened,’ repliesMichaelFancourt,withagrin.‘Muchstranger.’

‘Christalmighty,’muttered

Strike, throwing The Timesback onto Robin’s desk andnarrowly missing theChristmastree.‘Did you see he only

claims to have read BombyxMori the day you foundQuine?’‘Yeah,’saidStrike.

‘He’slying,’saidRobin.‘We think he’s lying,’

Strikecorrectedher.Holding fast to his

resolution not to waste anymore money on taxis, butwith the snow still falling,Striketookthenumber29busthrough the darkeningafternoon.Itrannorth,takingStrike on a twenty-minutejourney through recentlygritted roads. A haggardwoman got on at Hampstead

Road, accompanied by asmall, grizzling boy. SomesixthsensetoldStrikethatthethreeof themwereheadedinthe same direction and, sureenough, both he and thewoman stood to get out inCamden Road, alongside thebareflankofHMPHolloway.‘You’re gonna see

Mummy,’ she told hercharge,whomStrikeguessedto be her grandson, thoughshelookedaroundforty.

Surroundedbybare-limbedtrees and grass vergescoveredinthicksnow,thejailmight have been a redbrickuniversity faculty but forauthoritarian signs ingovernment-issue blue andwhite, and the sixteen-foot-highdoorssetintothewallsothat prison vans might pass.Strike joined the trickle ofvisitors, severalof themwithchildren who strained tomakemarksintheuntouched

snowheapedbesidethepaths.The line shuffled togetherpast the terracottawallswiththeir cement frets, past thehangingbasketsnowballsofsnow in the freezingDecember air. The majorityof his fellow visitors werewomen; Strike was uniqueamong the men not merelyfor his size but for the factthathedidnotlookasthoughlifehadpummelledhimintoaquiescent stupor. A heavily

tattooed youth in saggingjeans walking ahead of himstaggered a little with everystep. Strike had seenneurological damage back inSelly Oak, but guessed thatthis kind had not beensustainedundermortarfire.The stout female prison

officer whose job it was tocheck IDs examined hisdriver’s licence, then staredupathim.‘Iknowwhoyouare,’ she

said,withapiercinglook.Strike wondered whether

AnstishadaskedtobetippedoffifhewenttoseeLeonora.Itseemedprobable.Hehadarriveddeliberately

early, so as not to waste aminute of his allotted timewithhisclient.Thisforesightpermittedhimacoffee in thevisitors’ centre, which wasrun by a children’s charity.The room was bright andalmostcheerful,andmanyof

the kids greeted the trucksand teddies as old friends.Strike’s haggard companionfrom the bus watched, gauntand impassive, as the boywith her played with anAction Man around Strike’slarge feet, treatinghim likeamassive piece of sculpture(Tisiphone, the avenger ofmurder…).He was called through to

thevisitors’hallatsixonthedot.Footsteps echoedoff the

shiny floors. The walls wereof concrete blocks but brightmurals painted by theprisoners did their best tosoften the cavernous space,which echoedwith the clangof metal and keys and themurmur of talk. The plasticseatswerefixedeithersideofa small, low central table,similarlyimmovable,soastominimise contact betweenprisoner and visitor, andprevent the passing of

contraband.Atoddlerwailed.Warders stood around thewalls, watching. Strike, whohadonlyeverdealtwithmaleprisoners, felt a repugnancefor the place unusual in him.The kids staring at gauntmothers, the subtle signs ofmental illness in the fiddlingand twitching of bittenfingers, drowsy, over-medicated women curled intheir plastic seats were quiteunlike the male detention

facilities with which he wasfamiliar.Leonora sat waiting, tiny

and fragile, pathetically gladto see him. Shewaswearingher own clothes, a loosesweatshirt and trousers inwhichshelookedshrunken.‘Orlando’s been in,’ she

said. Her eyes were brightred;hecouldtellthatshehadbeen crying for a long time.‘Didn’t want to leave me.They dragged her out.

Wouldn’t let me calm herdown.’Where she would have

showndefianceandangerhecould hear the beginnings ofinstitutionalisedhopelessness.Forty-eight hours had taughther that she had lost allcontrolandpower.‘Leonora, we need to talk

about that credit cardstatement.’‘Ineverhadthatcard,’she

said,herwhitelipstrembling.

‘Owenalwayskeptit,Ineverhad it except sometimes if Ineeded to go to thesupermarket.Healwaysgavemecash.’Strikerememberedthatshe

had come to him in the firstplace because money wasrunningout.‘Ileftallourfinancesupto

Owen, that’showhe liked it,buthewascareless,heneverusedtocheckhisbillsnorhisbank statements, used to just

sling’eminhisoffice.Iusedto say to him, “You wannacheck those, someone couldbe diddling you,” but henever cared. He’d giveanything to Orlando to drawon, that’s why it had herpicture—’‘Never mind the picture.

Somebody other than you orOwen must have had accessto that credit card. We’regoing to run through a fewpeople,OK?’

‘All right,’ she mumbled,cowed.‘Elizabeth Tassel

supervisedworkonthehouseinTalgarthRoad,right?Howwas that paid for? Did shehave a copy of your creditcard?’‘No,’saidLeonora.‘Areyousure?’‘Yeah, I’m sure, cos we

offered it toher and she saiditwaseasierjusttotakeitoutof Owen’s next royalties cos

he was due some any time.He sells well in Finland, Idunnowhy, but they like his—’‘You can’t think of any

time where Elizabeth Tasseldid something for the houseandhadtheVisacard?’‘No,’shesaid,shakingher

head,‘never.’‘OK,’saidStrike,‘canyou

remember – and take yourtime – any occasion whenOwen paid for something

with his credit card atRoperChard?’And to his astonishment

shesaid,‘NotatRoperChardexactly,butyeah.‘Theywereallthere.Iwas

there,too.Itwas…Idunno…twoyearsago?Maybeless…abigdinnerforpublishers, itwas, at the Dorchester. Theyput me and Owen at a tablewith all the junior people.Daniel Chard and JerryWaldegrave were nowhere

nearus.Anyway,therewasasilent auction, you know,when you write down yourbidfor—’‘Yeah, I know how they

work,’ said Strike, trying tocontainhisimpatience.‘It was for some writers’

charity,whentheytryandgetwriters outta prison. AndOwen bid on a weekend inthis country house hotel andhewon it andhehad togivehis credit card details at the

dinner. Some of the younggirlsfromthepublisherswerethere all tarted up, takingpayment.Hegavethegirlhiscard.Irememberthatbecausehewaspissed,’shesaid,witha shadow of her formersullenness, ‘an’hepaideighthundred quid for it. Showin’off. Tryin’ to make out heearned money like theothers.’‘He handed his credit card

over to a girl from the

publishers,’ repeated Strike.‘Did she take the details atthetableor—?’‘She couldn’t make her

little machine work,’ saidLeonora. ‘She took it awayandbroughtitback.’‘Anyone else there you

recognised?’‘Michael Fancourt was

therewithhis publisher,’ shesaid,‘ontheothersideoftheroom. That was before hemovedtoRoperChard.’

‘DidheandOwenspeak?’‘Notlikely,’shesaid.‘Right, what about—?’ he

said, andhesitated.Theyhadnever before acknowledgedthe existence of KathrynKent.‘His girlfriend coulda got

at it any time, couldn’t she?’said Leonora, as though shehadreadhismind.‘You knew about her?’ he

asked,matter-of-fact.‘Police said something,’

replied Leonora, herexpression bleak. ‘There’salways been someone. Wayhe was. Picking them up athis writing classes. I used togive him right tellings-off.When they said he was –when they said he was – hewastiedup—’She had started to cry

again.‘I knew it must’ve been a

womanwhatdoneit.Helikedthat.Gothimgoing.’

‘You didn’t know aboutKathryn Kent before thepolicementionedher?’‘I saw her name on a text

onhisphoneonetimebuthesaid itwas nothing. Said shewas just one of his students.Likehealwayssaid.Toldmehe’d never leave us, me andOrlando.’She wiped her eyes under

her outdated glasseswith theback of a thin, tremblinghand.

‘But you never sawKathrynKent until she cameto the door to say that hersisterhaddied?’‘Was that her, was it?’

asked Leonora, sniffing anddabbing at her eyes with hercuff.‘Fat,i’n’tshe?Well,shecould’ve got his credit carddetails any time, couldn’tshe?Takenitoutofhiswalletwhilehewassleeping.’Itwasgoingtobedifficult

to find and questionKathryn

Kent, Strike knew. He wassure she would haveabsconded from her flat toavoid the attentions of thepress.‘The things the murderer

bought on the card,’ he said,changing tack, ‘were orderedonline. You haven’t got acomputer at home, haveyou?’‘Owennever liked’em,he

preferredhisoldtype—’‘Have you ever ordered

shoppingovertheinternet?’‘Yeah,’shereplied,andhis

heart sank a little. He hadbeen hoping that Leonoramightbethatalmostmythicalbeast:acomputervirgin.‘Wheredidyoudothat?’‘Edna’s,sheletmeborrow

hers to order Orlando an artsetforherbirthdaysoIdidn’thave to go into town,’ saidLeonora.Doubtlessthepolicewould

soon be confiscating and

rippingapartthekind-heartedEdna’scomputer.A woman with a shaved

headanda tattooed lipat thenexttablebeganshoutingatawarder, who had warned herto stay in her seat. Leonoracowered away from theprisoner as she erupted intoobscenities and the officerapproached.‘Leonora, there’s one last

thing,’ said Strike loudly, asthe shoutingat thenext table

reached a crescendo. ‘DidOwen say anything to youaboutmeaningtogoaway,totake a break, before hewalkedoutonthefifth?’‘No,’ she said, ‘’F course

not.’The prisoner at the next

table had been persuaded toquieten down. Her visitor, awomansimilarlytattooedandonly slightly less aggressive-looking, gave the prisonofficer the finger as she

walkedaway.‘You can’t think of

anything Owen said or didthat might’ve suggested hewasplanningtogoawayforawhile?’ Strike persisted asLeonora watched theirneighbours with anxious,owl-likeeyes.‘What?’ she said

distractedly. ‘No – he nevertells – toldme – always justwent… If he knew he wasgoing, why wouldn’t he say

goodbye?’She began to cry, one thin

handoverhermouth.‘What’sgoingtohappento

Dodo if they keep me inprison?’ she asked himthroughhersobs.‘Ednacan’thave her for ever. She can’thandleher.Shewent an’ leftCheeky Monkey behind an’Dodohaddonesomepicturesfor me,’ and after adisconcerted moment or twoStrike decided that she must

be talking about the plushorang-utan that Orlando hadbeen cradling on his visit totheirhouse.‘Iftheymakemestayhere—’‘I’mgoingtogetyouout,’

said Strike with moreconfidence than he felt; butwhatharmwoulditdotogiveher something to hold on to,something to get her throughthenexttwenty-fourhours?Their timewasup.He left

thehallwithoutlookingback,

wonderingwhat itwas aboutLeonora, faded and grumpy,fifty years old with a brain-damaged daughter and ahopeless life, that hadinspired in him this fiercedetermination,thisfury…Because she didn’t do it,

came the simple answer.Becauseshe’sinnocent.In the last eight months a

stream of clients had pushedopen theengravedglassdoorbearing his name and the

reasons they had sought himhad been uncannily similar.They had come because theywanted a spy, a weapon, ameans of redressing somebalance in their favour or ofdivesting themselves ofinconvenient connections.They came because theysoughtanadvantage,becausethey felt they were owedretribution or compensation.Because overwhelmingly,theywantedmoremoney.

But Leonora had come tohim because she wanted herhusbandtocomehome.Ithadbeen a simple wish born ofweariness and of love, if notfor the errant Quine then forthedaughterwhomissedhim.For the purity of her desire,Strike felt he owed her thebesthecouldgive.The cold air outside the

prison tasteddifferent. It hadbeena long timesinceStrikehad been in an environment

where following orders wasthebackboneofdailylife.Hecould feel his freedom as hewalked, leaning heavily onthe stick, back towards thebusstop.At the back of the bus,

three drunken young womenwearing headbands fromwhich reindeer antlersprotrudedweresinging:

‘They say it’sunrealistic,

But I believe in youSaintNick…’

BloodyChristmas, thought

Strike, thinking irritably ofthe presents he would beexpected to buy for hisnephews and godchildren,noneofwhoseageshecouldeverremember.The bus groaned on

through the slush and thesnow.Lights of every colourgleamed blurrily at Strike

through the steamed-up buswindow. Scowling, with hismindoninjusticeandmurder,he effortlessly and silentlyrepelled anyone who mighthaveconsideredsittingintheseatbesidehim.

40

Be glad thou artunnam’d; ’tis not worththeowning.FrancisBeaumontand

JohnFletcher,TheFalseOne

Sleet, rain and snow pelted

theofficewindowsinturnthefollowing day. MissBrocklehurst’sbossturnedupattheofficearoundmiddaytoview confirmation of herinfidelity.ShortlyafterStrikehad bidden him farewell,Caroline Ingles arrived. Shewas harried, on her way topick up her children fromschool, but determined togive Strike the card for thenewly opened Golden LaceGentleman’s Club and Bar

that she had found in herhusband’swallet.MrIngles’spromise to stay well awayfrom lap-dancers, call girlsand strippers had been arequirement of theirreconciliation. Strike agreedto stake out Golden Lace tosee whether Mr Ingles hadagain succumbed totemptation. By the timeCaroline Ingles had left,Strikewasveryreadyfor thepack of sandwiches waiting

forhimonRobin’sdesk, buthe had taken barely amouthful when his phonerang.Aware that their

professional relationship wascoming to a close, hisbrunette client was throwingcaution to the winds andinviting Strike out to dinner.Strike thought he could seeRobin smiling as she ate hersandwich, determinedlyfacing her monitor. He tried

to decline with politeness, atfirst pleading his heavyworkload and finally tellingher that he was in arelationship.‘You never told me that,’

shesaid,suddenlycold.‘I like to keep my private

and professional livesseparate,’hesaid.She hung up halfway

throughhispolitefarewell.‘Maybe you should have

gone out with her,’ said

Robin innocently. ‘Just tomakesureshe’llpayherbill.’‘She’ll bloody pay,’

growledStrike,makingupforlost timebycramminghalfasandwichintohismouth.Thephone buzzed. He groanedand lookeddown to seewhohadtextedhim.Hisstomachcontracted.‘Leonora?’ asked Robin,

whohadseenhisfacefall.Strike shook his head, his

mouthfullofsandwich.

The message comprisedthreewords:

Itwasyours.He had not changed his

number sincehehad split upwith Charlotte. Too muchhassle, when a hundredprofessional contacts had it.This was the first time shehaduseditineightmonths.Strike remembered Dave

Polworth’swarning:

You be on the watch,Diddy, for signs of hergalloping back over thehorizon. Wouldn’t besurprisedifshebolts.Today was the third, he

reminded himself. She wassupposed to be gettingmarriedtomorrow.For the first time since he

had owned a mobile phone,Strike wished it had thefacility to reveal a caller’slocation. Had she sent this

from the Castle of FuckingCroy,inaninterludebetweenchecking thecanapésand theflowersinthechapel?Orwasshestandingon thecornerofDenmarkStreet,watchinghisoffice like Pippa Midgley?Running away from a grand,well-publicised wedding likethis would be Charlotte’scrowning achievement, thevery apex of her career ofmayhemanddisruption.Strike put themobile back

intohispocketandstartedonhis second sandwich.Deducing that she was notabout to discover what hadmadeStrike’sexpressionturnstony, Robin screwed up herempty crisp packet, droppeditinthebinandsaid:‘You’re meeting your

brothertonight,aren’tyou?’‘What?’‘Aren’t you meeting your

brother—?’‘Oh yeah,’ said Strike.

‘Yeah.’‘AttheRiverCafé?’‘Yeah.’Itwasyours.‘Why?’askedRobin.Mine.Thehell itwas. If it

evenexisted.‘What?’ said Strike,

vaguelyawarethatRobinhadaskedhimsomething.‘AreyouOK?’‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ he said,

pulling himself together.‘Whatdidyouaskme?’

‘Whyareyougoing to theRiverCafé?’‘Oh. Well,’ said Strike,

reaching for his own packetofcrisps,‘it’salongshot,butI want to speak to anyonewho witnessed Quine andTassel’s row. I’m trying toget a handle on whether hestaged it, whether he wasplanninghisdisappearanceallalong.’‘You’re hoping to find a

member of staff who was

there thatnight?’ saidRobin,clearlydubious.‘Which is why I’m taking

Al,’ said Strike. ‘He knowsevery waiter in every smartrestaurant inLondon.Allmyfather’skidsdo.’When he had finished

lunch he took a coffee intohisofficeandclosedthedoor.Sleetwasagainspatteringhiswindow. He could not resistglancingdownintothefrozenstreet, half-expecting

(hoping?) to see her there,long black hair whippingaroundherperfect,pale face,staring up at him, imploringhim with her flecked green-hazel eyes… but there wasnobody in the street exceptstrangers swaddled againsttherelentlessweather.He was crazy on every

count. She was in Scotlandanditwasmuch,muchbetterso.Later, when Robin had

gone home, he put on theItaliansuit thatCharlottehadbought him over a year ago,when they had dined at thisvery restaurant to celebratehisthirty-fifthbirthday.Afterpulling on his overcoat helocked his flat door and setout for the Tube in the sub-zerocold, still leaningonhisstick.Christmas assailed him

from every window hepassed; spangled lights,

mounds of new objects, oftoys and gadgets, fake snowon glass and sundry pre-Christmassalesignsaddingamournful note in the depthsof the recession. More pre-Christmas revellers on theFriday-night Tube: girls inludicrously tiny glitteringdresses risking hypothermiafor a fumble with the boyfrom Packaging. Strike feltwearyandlow.The walk from

Hammersmith was longerthan he had remembered.Ashe proceeded down FulhamPalaceRoad he realised howclose he was to ElizabethTassel’s house. Presumablyshe had suggested therestaurant, a long way fromthe Quines’ place inLadbroke Grove, preciselybecauseofitsconveniencetoher.After ten minutes Strike

turned right and headed

through thedarkness towardsThames Wharf, throughempty echoing streets, hisbreath rising in a smokycloud. The riverside gardenthat insummerwouldbefullof diners at white table-clothed chairs was buriedunder thick snow. TheThames glinted darklybeyond the pale carpet, iron-cold and menacing. Striketurned into the convertedbrickstoragefacilityandwas

at once subsumed in light,warmthandnoise.There, just insidethedoor,

leaning against the bar withhis elbow on its shiny steelsurface, was Al, deep infriendlyconversationwiththebarman.He was barely five foot

ten,whichwas short for oneof Rokeby’s children, andcarrying a little too muchweight. His mouse-brownhairwasslickedback;hehad

his mother’s narrow jaw buthe had inherited the weakdivergentsquintthataddedanattractive strangeness toRokeby’shandsome faceandmarkedAlinescapablyashisfather’sson.CatchingsightofStrike,Al

let out a roar of welcome,bouncedforwardsandhuggedhim.Strikebarelyresponded,being hampered by his stickand thecoathewas trying toremove.Alfellback,looking

sheepish.‘Howareyou,bruv?’In spite of the comic

Anglicism, his accent was astrange mid-Atlantic hybridthat testified to years spentbetween Europe andAmerica.‘Not bad,’ said Strike,

‘you?’‘Yeah,notbad,’echoedAl.

‘Notbad.Couldbeworse.’He gave a kind of

exaggerated Gallic shrug. Al

had been educated at LeRosey, the internationalboarding school inSwitzerland, and his bodylanguage still bore traces ofthe Continental manners hehadmetthere.Somethingelseunderlay the response,however, something thatStrike felt every time theymet: Al’s guilt, hisdefensiveness,apreparednesstomeetaccusationsofhavinghad a soft and easy life

comparedtohisolderbrother.‘What’re you having?’ Al

asked. ‘Beer? Fancy aPeroni?’Theysatsidebysideatthe

crammed bar, facing glassshelvesofbottles,waitingfortheirtable.Lookingdownthelong, packed restaurant, withits industrial steel ceiling instylised waves, its ceruleancarpet and the wood-burningoven at the end like a giantbeehive, Strike spotted a

celebrated sculptor, a famousfemale architect and at leastonewell-knownactor.‘Heard about you and

Charlotte,’Alsaid.‘Shame.’Strike wondered whether

Al knew somebody whoknew her.He ranwith a jet-set crowd that might wellstretch to thefutureViscountofCroy.‘Yeah, well,’ said Strike

withashrug.‘Forthebest.’(He and Charlotte had sat

here, in this wonderfulrestaurant by the river, andenjoyed theirvery lasthappyeveningtogether.Ithadtakenfour months for therelationship to unravel andimplode, four months ofexhausting aggression andmisery…itwasyours.)A good-looking young

woman whomAl greeted byname showed them to theirtable; an equally attractiveyoung man handed them

menus. Strike waited for Altoorderwineandforthestaffto depart before explainingwhytheywerethere.‘Four weeks ago tonight,’

he told Al, ‘a writer calledOwenQuine had a rowwithhis agent in here. By allaccountsthewholerestaurantsaw it. He stormed out andshortlyafterwards–probablywithin days and maybe eventhatnight—’‘—hewasmurdered,’ said

Al,whohadlistenedtoStrikewithhismouthopen.‘Isawitin the paper. You found thebody.’His tone conveyed a

yearning for details thatStrikechosetoignore.‘Theremightbenothingto

findouthere,butI—’‘His wife did it, though,’

said Al, puzzled. ‘They’vegother.’‘Hiswifedidn’tdoit,’said

Strike,turninghisattentionto

the paper menu. He hadnoticed before now that Al,who had grown upsurrounded by innumerableinaccuratepress stories abouthis father and his family,never seemed to extend hishealthy mistrust of Britishjournalismtoanyothertopic.(It had had two campuses,

Al’s school: lessons by LakeGeneva in the summermonthsandthenuptoGstaadfor the winter; afternoons

spent skiing and skating. Alhad grown up breathingexorbitantly priced mountainair, cushioned by thecompanionship of othercelebritychildren.Thedistantsnarling of the tabloids hadbeen a mere backgroundmurmur in his life… this, atleast, was how Strikeinterpreted the little that Alhadtoldhimofhisyouth.)‘The wife didn’t do it?’

said Al when Strike looked

upagain.‘No.’‘Whoa. You gonna pull

another Lula Landry?’ askedAl, with a wide grin thatadded charm to his off-kilterstare.‘That’s the idea,’ said

Strike.‘Youwantmetosoundout

thestaff?’askedAl.‘Exactly,’saidStrike.He was amused and

touchedbyhowdelightedAl

seemed to be at being giventhe chance to render himservice.‘No problem.No problem.

Try and get someone decentfor you. Where’s Loulougone?She’sasmartcookie.’After theyhadordered,Al

strolled to the bathroom toseewhetherhecouldspotthesmart Loulou. Strike satalone, drinking Tignanelloordered by Al, watching thewhite-coated chefs working

in the open kitchen. Theywere young, skilled andefficient. Flames darted,knives flickered, heavy ironpans moved hither andthither.He’s not stupid, Strike

thought of his brother,watching Al meander backtowards the table, leading adark girl in a white apron.He’sjust…‘This is Loulou,’ said Al,

sitting back down. ‘She was

herethatnight.’‘You remember the

argument?’ Strike asked her,focusing at once on the girlwho was too busy to sit butstoodsmilingvaguelyathim.‘Ohyeah,’shesaid.‘Itwas

reallyloud.Broughttheplacetoastandstill.’‘Can you remember what

the man looked like?’ Strikesaid, keen to establish thatshe had witnessed the rightrow.

‘Fat bloke wearing a hat,yeah,’ she said. ‘Yelling at awomanwithgreyhair.Yeah,theyhadarealbust-up.Sorry,I’mgoingtohaveto—’And shewasgone, to take

anothertable’sorder.‘We’llgrabherontheway

back,’ Al reassured Strike.‘Eddie sends his best, by theway. Wishes he could’vebeenhere.’‘How’s he doing?’ asked

Strike, feigning interest.

WhereAlhadshownhimselfkeentoforgeafriendship,hisyounger brother, Eddie,seemed indifferent. He wastwenty-four and the leadsingerinhisownband.Strikehad never listened to any oftheirmusic.‘He’sgreat,’saidAl.Silence fell between them.

Theirstartersarrivedandtheyate without talking. Strikeknew that Al had achievedexcellent grades in his

International Baccalaureate.Oneeveninginamilitarytentin Afghanistan, Strike hadseen a photograph online ofeighteen-year-old Al in acream blazer with a crest onthe pocket, long hair sweptsideways and gleaming goldin the bright Geneva sun.Rokeby had had his armaround Al, beaming withpaternal pride. The picturehad been newsworthybecause Rokeby had never

been photographed in a suitandtiebefore.‘Hello,Al,’ saida familiar

voice.And, to Strike’s

astonishment, there stoodDanielChardoncrutches,hisbaldheadreflectingthesubtlespots shining from theindustrialwaves above them.Wearing a dark red open-necked shirt and a grey suit,the publisher looked stylishamong this more bohemian

crowd.‘Oh,’ said Al, and Strike

could tell that he wasstrugglingtoplaceChard,‘er–hi—’‘Dan Chard,’ said the

publisher. ‘We met when Iwas speaking to your fatherabouthisautobiography?’‘Oh – oh yeah!’ said Al,

standing up and shakinghands. ‘This is my brotherCormoran.’IfStrikehadbeensurprised

to see Chard approach Al, itwasnothingtotheshockthatregistered onChard’s face atthesightofStrike.‘Your–yourbrother?’‘Half-brother,’ said Strike,

inwardly amused by Chard’sevident bewilderment. Howcould the hireling detectivebe related to the playboyprince?TheeffortithadcostChard

to approach the son of apotentially lucrative subject

seemed tohave lefthimwithnothing to spare for a three-wayawkwardsilence.‘Legfeelingbetter?’Strike

asked.‘Oh, yes,’ said Chard.

‘Much.Well, I’ll…I’ll leaveyoutoyourdinner.’Hemoved away, swinging

deftly between tables, andresumedhisseatwhereStrikecould no longer watch him.StrikeandAl satbackdown,Strikereflectingonhowvery

small London was once youreached a certain altitude;once you had left behindthose who could not easilysecure tables at the bestrestaurantsandclubs.‘Couldn’t remember who

he was,’ said Al with asheepishgrin.‘He’s thinking of writing

his autobiography, is he?’Strikeasked.He never referred to

Rokeby as Dad, but tried to

remember not to call himRokebyinfrontofAl.‘Yeah,’ said Al. ‘They’re

offering him big money. Idunnowhether he’s going togowith that bloke or one ofthe others. It’ll probably beghosted.’Strike wondered fleetingly

how Rokeby might treat hiseldest son’s accidentalconceptionanddisputedbirthin such a book. Perhaps, hethought, Rokeby would skip

anymentionofit.Thatwouldcertainly be Strike’spreference.‘He’dstillliketomeetyou,

you know,’ said Al, with anairofhavingscrewedhimselfup to say it. ‘He’s reallyproud… he read everythingabouttheLandrycase.’‘Yeah?’ said Strike,

lookingaround the restaurantforLoulou, thewaitresswhorememberedQuine.‘Yeah,’saidAl.

‘So what did he do,interview publishers?’ Strikeasked.HethoughtofKathrynKent, of Quine himself, theone unable to find apublisher, the other dropped;and the ageing rock star abletotakehispick.‘Yeah,kindof,’saidAl.‘I

dunnoifhe’sgoingtodoitornot. I think that Chard guywasrecommendedtohim.’‘Whoby?’‘Michael Fancourt,’ said

Al,wipinghisplateofrisottocleanwithapieceofbread.‘RokebyknowsFancourt?’

asked Strike, forgetting hisresolution.‘Yeah,’ said Al, with a

slightfrown;then:‘Let’sfaceit,Dadknowseveryone.’It reminded Strike of the

wayElizabethTasselhadsaid‘I thought everyone knew’why she no longerrepresented Fancourt, buttherewasadifference.ToAl,

‘everyone’ meant the‘someones’: the rich, thefamous, the influential. Thepoor saps who bought hisfather’smusicwerenobodies,just as Strike had beennobodyuntilhehadburstintoprominence for catching akiller.‘When did Fancourt

recommendRoperChardto–when did he recommendChard?’askedStrike.‘Dunno – few months

ago?’ said Al vaguely. ‘Hetold Dad he’d just movedthere himself. Half a millionadvance.’‘Nice,’saidStrike.‘Told Dad to watch the

news, that there’d be a buzzabout the place once hemoved.’Loulou the waitress had

moved back into view. Alhailed her again; sheapproached with a harriedexpression.

‘Give me ten,’ she said,‘and I’ll be able to talk. Justgivemeten.’While Strike finished his

pork, Al asked about hiswork.Strikewassurprisedbythe genuineness of Al’sinterest.‘D’youmissthearmy?’Al

asked.‘Sometimes,’ admitted

Strike. ‘What are you up tothesedays?’Hefeltavagueguiltatnot

having asked already. Nowthathecametothinkaboutit,he was not clear how, orwhether, Al had ever earnedhisliving.‘Might be going into

business with a friend,’ saidAl.Notworking, then, thought

Strike.‘Bespoke services…

leisure opportunities,’mutteredAl.‘Great,’saidStrike.

‘Will be if it comes toanything,’saidAl.A pause. Strike looked

aroundforLoulou,thewholepoint of being here, but shewas out of sight, busy as Alhadprobablyneverbeenbusyinhislife.‘You’ve got credibility, at

least,’saidAl.‘Hmn?’saidStrike.‘Made it on your own,

haven’tyou?’saidAl.‘What?’

Strike realised that therewas a one-sided crisishappening at the table. Alwas looking at him with amixture of mingled defianceandenvy.‘Yeah, well,’ said Strike,

shrugginghislargeshoulders.He could not think of any

more meaningful responsethatwouldnotsoundsuperiororaggrieved,nordidhewishto encourage Al in whatseemed to be an attempt to

have a more personalconversation than they hadevermanaged.‘You’re theonlyoneofus

who doesn’t use it,’ said Al.‘Don’t suppose it would’vehelped in the army, anyway,wouldit?’Futile to pretend not to

knowwhat‘it’was.‘S’pose not,’ said Strike

(and indeed, on the rareoccasions that his parentagehad attracted the attention of

fellow soldiers he had metnothing but incredulity,especiallygivenhowlittlehelookedlikeRokeby).Buthethoughtwrylyofhis

flat on this ice-cold winternight:twoandahalfclutteredrooms, ill-fittingwindowpanes. Al would bespending tonight in Mayfair,intheirfather’sstaffedhouse.It might be salutary to showhis brother the reality ofindependence before he

romanticisedittoomuch…‘S’pose you think this is

self-pitying bloodywhinging?’demandedAl.Strike had seen Al’s

graduationphotographonlineabarehourafterinterviewingan inconsolable nineteen-year-old private who hadaccidentally shot his bestfriend in the chest and neckwithamachinegun.‘Everyone’s entitled to

whinge,’saidStrike.

Al looked as though hemight take offence, then,reluctantly,grinned.Loulou was suddenly

besidethem,clutchingaglassofwateranddeftly removingher apron with one handbefore she sat down withthem.‘OK, I’ve got five

minutes,’ she said to Strikewithout preamble. ‘Al saysyouwant to knowabout thatjerkofawriter?’

‘Yeah,’ said Strike,focusing at once. ‘Whatmakes you say he was ajerk?’‘He loved it,’ she said,

sippingherwater.‘Loved—?’‘Causing a scene. He was

yelling and swearing, but itwasforshow,youcould tell.He wanted everyone to hearhim, he wanted an audience.Hewasn’tagoodactor.’‘Can you remember what

hesaid?’askedStrike,pullingout a notebook. Al waswatchingexcitedly.‘Therewas loads of it.He

called the woman a bitch,said she’d lied to him, thathe’dputthebookouthimselfand screw her. But he wasenjoying himself,’ she said.‘Itwasfakefury.’‘AndwhataboutEliz–the

woman?’‘Oh, she was bloody

furious,’ said Loulou

cheerfully. ‘She wasn’tpretending. The more heponced about waving hisarmsandshoutingather, thereddershegot–shakingwithanger, she could hardlycontain herself. She saidsomething about “roping inthat stupid bloody woman”andIthinkitwasaroundthenthat he stormed out, parkingher with the bill, everyonestaring at her – she lookedmortified. I felt awful for

her.’‘Did she try and follow

him?’‘No, she paid and then

went into the loo for a bit. Iwondered whether she wascrying, actually. Then sheleft.’‘That’s very helpful,’ said

Strike. ‘You can’t rememberanything else they said toeachother?’‘Yeah,’ said Loulou

calmly, ‘he shouted, “All

because of Fancourt and hislimpfuckingdick.”’StrikeandAlstaredather.‘“All because of Fancourt

and his limp fucking dick?”’repeatedStrike.‘Yeah,’ saidLoulou. ‘That

was the bit that made therestaurantgoquiet—’‘You can see why it

would,’ commented Al, withasnigger.‘She tried to shout him

down, she was absolutely

incensed, but he wasn’thaving any of it. He wasloving the attention. Lappingitup.‘Look, I’ve got to get

going,’ said Loulou, ‘sorry.’She stood up and re-tied herapron.‘Seeyou,Al.’She did not know Strike’s

name, but smiled at him asshebustledawayagain.Daniel Chardwas leaving;

hisbaldheadhad reappearedover thecrowd,accompanied

by a group of similarly agedand elegant people, all ofthem walking out together,talking, nodding to eachother.Strikewatchedthemgowith hismind elsewhere. Hedidnotnotice theremovalofhisemptyplate.All because of Fancourt

andhislimpfuckingdick…Odd.I can’t shake this mad

bloody idea thatOwendid itto himself. That he staged

it…‘Youallright,bruv?’asked

Al.A note with a kiss:

Paybacktimeforbothofus…‘Yeah,’saidStrike.Load of gore and arcane

symbolism…stokethatman’svanityandyoucouldgethimtodoanythingyouwanted…two hermaphrodites, twobloody bags… A beautifullost soul, that’swhat he saidtome… the silkwormwas a

metaphor for thewriter,whohas togo throughagonies togetatthegoodstuff…Like the turning lid that

findsitsthread,amultitudeofdisconnected facts revolvedin Strike’s mind and slidsuddenly into place,incontrovertibly correct,unassailably right. He turnedhistheoryaroundandaround:itwasperfect,snugandsolid.The problem was that he

could not yet see how to

proveit.

41

Think’st thou mythoughts are lunacies oflove?No,theyarebrandsfirèdinPluto’sforge…RobertGreene,Orlando

Furioso

Strike rose early nextmorning after a night ofbroken sleep, tired, frustratedand edgy. He checked hisphone for messages beforeshoweringandafterdressing,thenwentdownstairsintohisempty office, irritated thatRobin was not there on aSaturday and feeling theabsence, unreasonably, as amark of her lack ofcommitment.Shewouldhavebeenausefulsoundingboard

thismorning; he would haveliked company after hisrevelation of the previousevening. He consideredphoning her, but it would beinfinitely more satisfying totell her face to face ratherthan doing it over thetelephone, particularly ifMatthewwerelisteningin.Strikemadehimselfteabut

let it grow cold while heporedovertheQuinefile.Thesenseofhisimpotence

ballooned in the silence. Hekeptcheckinghismobile.He wanted to do

something, but he wascompletely stymied by lackof official status, having noauthoritytomakesearchesofprivatepropertyortoenforcethe cooperation ofwitnesses.There was nothing he coulddo until his interview withMichael Fancourt onMonday, unless… Ought heto call Anstis and lay his

theory before him? Strikefrowned, running thickfingers through his densehair, imagining Anstis’spatronising response. Therewas literally not a shred ofevidence. All was conjecture–butI’mright,thoughtStrikewitheasyarrogance,andhe’sscrewed up. Anstis hadneither the wit nor theimagination to appreciate atheory that explained everyoddity in the killing, but

which would seem to himincredible compared to theeasy solution, riddled withinconsistencies andunansweredquestions thoughthecaseagainstLeonorawas.Explain, Strike demanded

ofanimaginaryAnstis,whyawomansmartenoughtospiritaway his guts without tracewould have been dumbenough to order ropes and aburqaonherowncreditcard.Explainwhyamotherwithno

relatives, whose solepreoccupation in life is thewell-being of her daughter,would risk a life sentence.Explain why, after years ofaccommodating Quine’sinfidelityandsexualquirkstokeep their family together,she suddenly decided to killhim?But to the last question

Anstis might just have areasonableanswer:thatQuinehad been on the verge of

leaving his wife for KathrynKent. The author’s life hadbeen well insured: perhapsLeonora would have decidedthat financial security as awidowwouldbepreferabletoan uncertain hand-to-mouthexistence while her fecklessex squandered money on hissecond wife. A jury wouldbuy that version of events,especially if Kathryn Kenttook thestandandconfirmedthat Quine had promised to

marryher.Strike was afraid that he

had blown his chance withKathryn Kent, turning upunexpectedlyonherdoorstepas he had – in retrospect aclumsy, inept move. He hadscaredher,loomingoutofthedarkness on her balcony,making it only too easy forPippaMidgleytopainthimasLeonora’s sinister stooge.Heoughttohaveproceededwithfinesse,easedhimselfintoher

confidence the way he haddonewithLord Parker’s PA,so that he could extractconfessions like teeth underthe influence of concernedsympathy, instead of jack-booting to her door like abailiff.He checked his mobile

again. No messages. Heglanced at his watch. It wasbarelyhalfpastnine.Againsthis will, he felt his attentiontuggingtobefreeoftheplace

where hewanted and neededit–onQuine’skiller,andthethings that must be done tosecure an arrest – to theseventeenth-centurychapelintheCastleofCroy…She would be getting

dressed, no doubt in a bridalgown costing thousands. Hecould imagine her naked infront of the mirror, paintingherface.Hehadwatchedherdo it a hundred times;wieldingthemake-upbrushes

in front of dressing-tablemirrors, hotel mirrors, soacutely aware of her owndesirability that she almostattainedunselfconsciousness.Was Charlotte checking

her phone as the minutesslippedby,nowthattheshortwalk up the aisle was soclose,nowthatitfeltlikethewalkalongagangplank?Wasshestillwaiting,hoping,foraresponse from Strike to herthree-word message of

yesterday?And if he sent an answer

now…whatwould it take tomakeherturnherbackonthewedding dress (he couldimagine it hanging like aghost in the corner of herroom) and pull on her jeans,throw a few things in aholdallandslipoutofabackdoor?Intoacar,herfootflatto the floor, heading backsouth to the man who hadalwaysmeantescape…

‘Fuck this,’ Strikemuttered.He stood up, shoved the

mobile in his pocket, threwback the last of his cold teaand pulled on his overcoat.Keeping busy was the onlyanswer: action had alwaysbeenhisdrugofchoice.Sure though he was that

Kathryn Kent would havedecamped to a friend’s nowthat the press had found her,and notwithstanding the fact

that he regretted turning upunannouncedonherdoorstep,he returned to Clem AttleeCourt only to have hissuspicions confirmed.Nobody answered the door,the lights were off and allseemedsilentwithin.Anicywindblewalongthe

brick balcony. As Strikemoved away, the angry-looking woman from nextdoorappeared,thistimeeagertotalk.

‘She’s gawn away. Youpress,areyou?’‘Yeah,’ said Strike,

because he could tell theneighbour was excited at theidea and because he did notwant Kent to know that hehadbeenback.‘The things your lot’ve

written,’shesaidwithpoorlydisguised glee. ‘The thingsyou’ve said about her! No,she’sgawn.’‘Any idea when she’ll be

back?’‘Nah,’ said the neighbour

with regret. Her pink scalpwas visible through thesparse, tightly permed greyhair. ‘I could call ya,’ shesuggested. ‘If she shows upagain.’‘That’d be very helpful,’

saidStrike.His name had been in the

papers a little too recently tohand over one of his cards.He tore out a page of his

notebook, wrote his numberoutforherandhandeditoverwithatwenty-poundnote.‘Cheers,’ she said,

businesslike.‘Seeya.’Hepassedacatonhisway

back downstairs, the sameone, he was sure, at whichKathryn Kent had taken akick. It watched him withwary but superior eyes as hepassed. The gang of youthshe had met previously hadgone; too cold today if your

warmestitemofclothingwasasweatshirt.Limping through the

slippery grey snow requiredphysical effort,which helpeddistract his busy mind,makingmoot the question ofwhetherhewasmovingfromsuspect to suspect onLeonora’s behalf, orCharlotte’s. Let the lattercontinue towards the prisonof her own choosing: hewould not call, hewould not

text.WhenhereachedtheTube,

he pulled out his phone andtelephonedJerryWaldegrave.He was sure that the editorhad information that Strikeneeded, that he had notknown he needed before hismoment of revelation in theRiver Café, but Waldegravedid not pick up. Strike wasnot surprised. Waldegravehad a failing marriage, amoribund career and a

daughtertoworryabout;whytake a detective’s calls too?Why complicate your lifewhen it did not needcomplicating,whenyouhadachoice?The cold, the ringing of

unanswered phones, silentflats with locked doors: hecould do nothing else today.Strike bought a newspaperand went to the Tottenham,sittinghimselfbeneathoneofthe voluptuous women

painted by a Victorian set-designer,cavortingwithflorain their flimsy draperies.TodayStrikefeltstrangelyasthough he was in a waitingroom, whiling away thehours. Memories likeshrapnel, for ever embedded,infected by what had comelater… words of love andundying devotion, times ofsublime happiness, lies uponlies upon lies… his attentionkept sliding away from the

storieshewasreading.His sister Lucy had once

said to him in exasperation,‘Whydoyouput upwith it?Why? Just because she’sbeautiful?’And he had answered: ‘It

helps.’She had expected him to

say ‘no’, of course. Thoughthey spent so much timetrying to make themselvesbeautiful, you were notsupposed to admit towomen

that beauty mattered.Charlotte was beautiful, themostbeautifulwomanhehadever seen, and he had neverrid himself of a sense ofwonder at her looks, nor ofthe gratitude they inspired,norofpridebyassociation.Love, Michael Fancourt

hadsaid,isadelusion.Striketurnedthepageona

picture of the Chancellor ofthe Exchequer’s sulky facewithout seeing it. Had he

imagined things in Charlottethat had never been there?Had he invented virtues forher, to add lustre to herstaggering looks? He hadbeennineteenwhentheymet.ItseemedincrediblyyoungtoStrike now, as he sat in thispub carrying a good twostone of excess weight,missinghalfaleg.Perhaps he had created a

Charlotte in her own imagewho had never existed

outside his own besottedmind,butwhatof it?Hehadloved the real Charlotte too,thewomanwho had strippedherself bare in front of him,demanding whether he couldstillloveherifshedidthis,ifshe confessed to this, if shetreated him like this… untilfinallyshehadfoundhislimitand beauty, rage and tearshad been insufficient to holdhim,andshehadfledintothearmsofanotherman.

And maybe that’s love, hethought, siding in his mindwith Michael Fancourtagainst an invisible andcensorious Robin, who forsome reason seemed to besitting in judgement on himashe sat drinkingDoomBarand pretending to read aboutthe worst winter on record.You and Matthew… Strikecouldseeitevenifshecouldnot: the condition of beingwith Matthew was not to be

herself.Wherewas thecouple that

saweachotherclearly?Intheendless parade of suburbanconformity thatseemed tobeLucyandGreg’smarriage?Inthe tedious variations onbetrayal and disillusionmentthat brought a never-endingstreamofclients tohisdoor?In the wilfully blindallegiance of Leonora Quineto a man whose every faulthad been excused because

‘he’s a writer’, or the heroworship that Kathryn Kentand Pippa Midgley hadbrought to the same fool,trussed like a turkey anddisembowelled?Strike was depressing

himself. He was halfwaydown his third pint. As hewondered whether he wasgoing to have a fourth, hismobile buzzed on the tablewhere he had laid it, facedown.

He drank his beer slowlywhilethepubfilleduparoundhim, looking at his phone,taking bets against himself.Outsidethechapel,givingmeonelastchancetostopit?Orshe’sdoneitandwantstoletmeknow?He drank the last of his

beer before flipping themobileover.

Congratulateme.MrsJagoRoss.

Strike stared at the words

for a few seconds, then slidthephoneintohispocket,gotup, folded the newspaperunder his arm and set offhome.As hewalkedwith the aid

ofhis stickback toDenmarkStreet he remembered wordsfrom his favourite book,unread for a very long time,buried at the bottom of thebox of belongings on his

landing.

… difficile est longumsubitodeponereamoren,

difficileest,uerumhocqualubetefficias…… it is hard to throw off

long-establishedlove:Hard, but this youmustmanagesomehow…

The restlessness that had

consumed him all day hadgone. He felt hungry and in

need of relaxation. ArsenalwereplayingFulhamatthree;there was just time to cookhimself a late lunch beforekick-off.And after that, he thought,

he might go round to seeNina Lascelles. Tonight wasnot a night he fanciedspendingalone.

42

MATHEO:…anoddtoy.GIULIANO: Ay, to mockanapewithal.BenJonson,EveryMan

inHisHumour

Robin arrived at work onMondaymorningfeelingtired

andvaguelybattle-weary,butproudofherself.SheandMatthewhadspent

most of the weekenddiscussing her job. In someways (strange to think this,after nine years together) ithad been the deepest andmost serious conversationthat they had ever had.Whyhad she not admitted for solongthathersecretinterestininvestigative work had longpre-dated meeting Cormoran

Strike?Matthew had seemedstunnedwhenshehadfinallyconfessedtohimthatshehadhad an ambition to work insome form of criminalinvestigation since her earlyteens.‘I’d have thought it

would’ve been the lastthing…’ Matthew hadmumbled, tailing off butreferring obliquely, as Robinknew, to the reason she haddroppedoutofuniversity.

‘I just never knew how tosayittoyou,’shetoldhim.‘Ithought you’d laugh. So itwasn’tCormoranmakingmestay, or anything to do withhim as a – as a person’ (shehad been on the verge ofsaying ‘as aman’, but savedherself just in time). ‘It wasme. It’swhat Iwant to do. Iloveit.Andnowhesayshe’lltrain me, Matt, and that’swhatIalwayswanted.’The discussion had gone

on all through Sunday, thedisconcerted Matthewshifting slowly, like aboulder.‘How much weekend

work?’ he had asked hersuspiciously.‘I don’t know; when it’s

needed.Matt, I love the job,don’tyouunderstand?Idon’twant to pretend any more. Ijustwanttodoit,andI’dlikeyoursupport.’In the end he had put his

arms around her and agreed.She had tried not to feelgrateful that his mother hadjust died, making him, shecouldnothelpthinking,justalittle more amenable topersuasion than he mightusuallyhavebeen.Robin had been looking

forward to telling Strikeabout this maturedevelopment in herrelationshipbuthewasnotinthe office when she arrived.

Lyingon thedeskbesidehertiny tinsel tree was a shortnote in his distinctive, hard-to-readhandwriting:

Nomilk,goneoutforbreakfast,thentoHamleys,wanttobeatcrowds.PSKnowwhokilledQuine.

Robin gasped. Seizing thephone, she called Strike’smobile, only to hear the

engagedsignal.Hamleys would not open

until ten but Robin did notthink she could bear to waitthat long. Again and againshe pressed redial while sheopened and sorted the post,but Strike was still on theothercall.Sheopenedemails,thephoneclampedtooneear;half an hour passed, then anhour, and still the engagedtone emanated from Strike’snumber. She began to feel

irritated, suspecting that itwasadeliberateploytokeepherinsuspense.Athalfpasttenasoftping

fromthecomputerannouncedthe arrival of an email froman unfamiliar sender calledClodia2@live.com, who hadsent nothing but anattachmentlabelledFYI.Robin clicked on it

automatically, still listeningto the engaged tone. A largeblack-and-white picture

swelled to fill her computermonitor.Thebackdropwasstark;an

overcast sky and the exteriorof an old stone building.Everyone in the picture wasoutoffocusexceptthebride,who had turned to lookdirectly at the camera. Shewas wearing a long, plain,slim-fitting white gown witha floor-length veil held inplacebyathindiamondband.Herblackhairwasflyinglike

the folds of tulle in whatlookedlikeastiffbreeze.Onehandwasclaspedin thatofablurred figure in a morningsuit who appeared to belaughing, but her expressionwas unlike any bride’s thatRobin had ever seen. Shelooked broken, bereft,haunted. Her eyes staringstraight into Robin’s asthough they alone werefriends,asthoughRobinwerethe only one who might

understand.Robin lowered the mobile

shehadbeen listening toandstaredat thepicture.Shehadseen that extraordinarilybeautiful face before. Theyhad spoken once, on thetelephone: Robinremembered a low,attractivelyhuskyvoice.Thiswas Charlotte, Strike’s ex-fiancée, the woman she hadonce seen running from thisverybuilding.

She was so beautiful.Robin felt strangely humbledby the other woman’s looks,and awed by her profoundsadness. Sixteen years, onandoff,withStrike –Strike,with his pube-like hair, hisboxer’sprofileandhishalfaleg… not that those thingsmattered, Robin told herself,staring transfixed at thisincomparably stunning, sadbride…The door opened. Strike

was suddenly there besideher, two carrier bags of toysinhishands,andRobin,whohadnotheardhimcomingupthe stairs, jumped as thoughshehadbeencaughtpilferingfromthepettycash.‘Morning,’hesaid.Shereachedhastily for the

computer mouse, trying toclosedownthepicturebeforehe could see it, but herscramble to cover up whatshe was viewing drew his

eyesirresistiblytothescreen.Robinfroze,shamefaced.‘She sent it a fewminutes

ago, I didn’t know what itwaswhen I opened it. I’m…sorry.’Strike stared at the picture

forafewsecondsthenturnedaway,settingthebagsoftoysdown on the floor by herdesk.‘Justdelete it,’hesaid.He

sounded neither sad norangry,butfirm.

Robin hesitated, thenclosed the file, deleted theemail and emptied the trashfolder.‘Cheers,’ he said,

straightening up, and by hismanner informed her thattherewouldbenodiscussionof Charlotte’s weddingpicture. ‘I’vegotabout thirtymissedcalls fromyouonmyphone.’‘Well, what do you

expect?’ said Robin with

spirit. ‘Your note – you said—’‘I had to take a call from

my aunt,’ said Strike. ‘Anhour and ten minutes on themedical complaints ofeveryone in St Mawes, allbecause I told her I’m goinghomeforChristmas.’He laughed at the sight of

her barely containedfrustration.‘Allright,butwe’vegotto

be quick. I’ve just realised

there’s something we coulddothismorningbeforeImeetFancourt.’Stillwearinghiscoathesat

downon the leather sofaandtalked for ten solid minutes,layinghistheorybeforeherindetail.Whenhehadfinishedthere

wasalongsilence.Themisty,mystical image of the boy-angel in her local churchfloated into Robin’s mind asshe stared at Strike in near

totaldisbelief.‘Which bit’s causing you

problems?’ asked Strikekindly.‘Er…’saidRobin.‘We already agreed that

Quine’s disappearance mightnot’ve been spontaneous,right?’ Strike asked her. ‘Ifyouaddtogetherthemattressat Talgarth Road –convenient, in a house thathasn’t been used in twenty-fiveyears–andthefactthata

week before he vanishedQuine told that bloke in thebookshophewasgoingawayand bought himself readingmaterial–andthewaitressatthe River Café saying Quinewasn’t really angry when hewas shouting at Tassel, thathe was enjoying himself – Ithink we can hypothesise astageddisappearance.’‘OK,’shesaid.Thispartof

Strike’s theory seemed theleast outlandish to her. She

didnotknowwhere tobeginin telling him howimplausibleshefoundtherestof it, but the urge to pickholes made her say,‘Wouldn’t he have toldLeonora what he wasplanning,though?’‘Course not. She can’t act

tosaveherlife;hewantedherworried, so she’d beconvincing when she wentround telling everyone he’ddisappeared. Maybe she’d

involve the police. Make afusswith the publisher. Startthepanic.’‘But that had never

worked,’saidRobin.‘Hewasalways flouncing off andnobody cared – surely evenhemusthaverealised thathewasn’t going to get massivepublicity just for runningaway and hiding in his oldhouse.’‘Ah, but this time he was

leavingbehindhimabookhe

thought was going to be thetalk of literary London,wasn’t he? He’d drawn asmuch attention to it as hecould by rowing with hisagent in the middle of apacked restaurant, andmakingapublicthreattoself-publish. He goes home,stages the grand walkout infrontofLeonoraandslipsoffto Talgarth Road. Later thatevening he lets in hisaccomplice without a second

thought, convinced thatthey’reinittogether.’After a long pause Robin

saidbravely(becauseshewasnot used to challengingStrike’s conclusions, whichshe had never known to bewrong):‘But you haven’t got a

single bit of evidence thattherewas an accomplice, letalone… I mean… it’s all…opinion.’Hebegantoreiteratepoints

hehadalreadymade,butsheheldupherhandtostophim.‘I heard all that the first

time, but… you’reextrapolating from thingspeople have said. There’s no–nophysicalevidenceatall.’‘Of course there is,’ said

Strike.‘BombyxMori.’‘That’snot—’‘It’s the single biggest

pieceofevidencewe’vegot.’‘You’re the one,’ said

Robin, ‘who’s always telling

me: means and opportunity.You’retheonewho’salwayssayingmotivedoesn’t—’‘I haven’t said a word

about motive,’ Strikeremindedher.‘Asithappens,I’mnotsurewhat themotivewas, although I’ve got a fewideas.And if youwantmorephysical evidence, you cancomeandhelpmegetitrightnow.’She looked at him

suspiciously. In all the time

she had worked for him hehadneveraskedhertocollectaphysicalclue.‘I want you to come and

help me talk to OrlandoQuine,’ he said, pushinghimself back off the sofa. ‘Idon’t want to do it on myown, she’s… well, she’stricky. Doesn’t like my hair.She’s in Ladbroke Grovewiththenext-doorneighbour,so we’d better get a moveon.’

‘This is the daughter withlearning difficulties?’ Robinasked,puzzled.‘Yeah,’ said Strike. ‘She’s

got thismonkey,plush thing,hangs round her neck. I’vejust seen a pile of them inHamleys – they’re reallypyjama cases. CheekyMonkeys,theycallthem.’Robinwasstaringathimas

thoughfearfulforhissanity.‘WhenImethershehadit

round her neck and she kept

producing things out ofnowhere – pictures, crayonsandacardshesneakedoffthekitchen table. I’ve justrealisedshewaspullingitallout of the pyjama case. Shenicks things from people,’Strikewenton, ‘and shewasin and out of her father’sstudy all the time when hewasalive.Heusedtogiveherpapertodrawon.’‘You’re hoping she’s

carryingaroundaclue toher

father’s killer inside herpyjamacase?’‘No, but I think there’s

reasonable chance that shepicked up a bit of BombyxMoriwhile shewas skulkingaround in Quine’s office, orthat he gave her the back ofanearlydrafttodrawon.I’mlooking for scraps of paperwith notes on them, adiscarded couple ofparagraphs,anything.Look,Iknow it’s a long shot,’ said

Strike, correctly reading herexpression, ‘butwe can’t getintoQuine’sstudy,thepolicehave already been througheverything in thereandcomeup with nothing and I’mbetting the notebooks anddrafts Quine took away withhim have been destroyed.Cheeky Monkey’s the lastplace I can think of to look,and,’ he checked his watch,‘wehaven’tgotmuchtimeifwe’re going to Ladbroke

GroveandbackbeforeImeetFancourt.‘Whichremindsme…’He left the office. Robin

heard him heading upstairsandthoughthemustbegoingtohisflat,butthenthesoundsofrummagingtoldherthathewas searching the boxes ofhis possessions on thelanding. When he returned,hewasholdingaboxoflatexgloves that he had clearlyfilchedbeforeleavingtheSIB

for good, and a clear plasticevidence bag of exactly thesize that airlines provided toholdtoiletries.‘There’sanothercrucialbit

of physical evidence I’d liketo get,’ he said, taking out apair of gloves and handingthem to an uncomprehendingRobin. ‘I thought you couldhaveabashatgettingholdofit while I’m with Fancourtthisafternoon.’Inafewsuccinctwordshe

explainedwhathewantedhertoget,andwhy.Not altogether to Strike’s

surprise, a stunned silencefollowedhisinstructions.‘You’re joking,’ said

Robinfaintly.‘I’mnot.’She raised one hand

unconsciouslytohermouth.‘It won’t be dangerous,’

Strikereassuredher.‘That’s not what’s

worrying me. Cormoran,

that’s–that’shorrific.You–areyoureallyserious?’‘If you’d seen Leonora

QuineinHollowaylastweek,you wouldn’t ask that,’ saidStrikedarkly.‘We’regoingtohave to be bloody clever togetheroutofthere.’Clever? thought Robin,

still fazed as she stood withthe limp gloves danglingfrom her hand. Hissuggestions for the day’sactivities seemed wild,

bizarreand,inthecaseofthelast,disgusting.‘Look,’ he said, suddenly

serious.‘Idon’tknowwhattotellyouexceptIcanfeelit.Icansmellit,Robin.Someonederanged, bloody dangerousbut efficient lurking behindall this. They got that idiotQuine exactly where theywantedhimbyplayingonhisnarcissism, and I’m not theonly one who thinks soeither.’

StrikethrewRobinhercoatand she put it on; he wastucking evidence bags intohisinsidepocket.‘People keep telling me

there was someone elseinvolved: Chard says it’sWaldegrave, Waldegravesays it’s Tassel, PippaMidgley’s too stupid tointerpretwhat’sstaringherinthe face andChristian Fisher– well, he’s got moreperspective, not being in the

book,’saidStrike.‘Heputhisfinger on it without realisingit.’Robin,whowasstruggling

to keep up with Strike’sthought processes andsceptical of those parts shecould understand, followedhimdownthemetalstaircaseandoutintothecold.‘This murder,’ said Strike,

lighting a cigarette as theywalkeddownDenmarkStreettogether, ‘was months if not

years in the planning. Workof genius, when you thinkabout it, but it’s over-elaborate and that’s going tobe its downfall. You can’tplot murder like a novel.There are always loose endsinreallife.’Strike could tell that he

was not convincing Robin,but he was not worried. Hehadworkedwithdisbelievingsubordinatesbefore.TogethertheydescendedintotheTube

andontoaCentrallinetrain.‘Whatdidyougetforyour

nephews?’ Robin asked afteralongsilence.‘Camouflagegearandfake

guns,’ said Strike, whosechoice had been entirelymotivated by the desire toaggravate his brother-in-law,‘and I got Timothy Anstis abloody big drum. They’llenjoy that at five o’clock onChristmasmorning.’In spite of her

preoccupation, Robin snortedwithlaughter.The quiet row of houses

fromwhichOwenQuinehadfled amonthpreviouslywas,like the rest of London,coveredinsnow,pristineandpaleon the roofs andgrubbygrey underfoot. The happyInuit smiled down from hispub sign like the presidingdeity of the wintry street astheypassedbeneathhim.A different policeman

stood outside the Quineresidence now and a whitevan was parked at the kerbwithitsdoorsopen.‘Digging for guts in the

garden,’ Strike muttered toRobin as they drew nearerand spotted spades lying onthe van floor. ‘They didn’thave any luck at MuckingMarshes and they’re notgoing to have any luck inLeonora’s flower bedseither.’

‘Soyousay,’repliedRobinsottovoce,alittleintimidatedbythestaringpoliceman,whowasquitehandsome.‘So you’re going to help

me prove this afternoon,’replied Strike under hisbreath. ‘Morning,’ he calledto the watchful constable,whodidnotrespond.Strikeseemedenergisedby

hiscrazytheory,butifbyanyremote chance he was right,Robinthought,thekillinghad

grotesque features evenbeyond that carved-outcorpse…They headed up the front

path of the house beside theQuines’, bringing themwithin feet of the watchfulPC. Strike rang the bell, andafter a short wait the dooropened revealing a short,anxious-looking woman inher early sixties who waswearing a housecoat andwool-trimmedslippers.

‘Are you Edna?’ Strikeasked.‘Yes,’ she said timidly,

lookingupathim.When Strike introduced

himself and Robin Edna’sfurrowedbrow relaxed, tobereplacedbyalookofpatheticrelief.‘Oh,it’syou,I’veheardall

about you. You’re helpingLeonora, you’re going to getherout,aren’tyou?’Robin felt horribly aware

ofthehandsomePC,listeningtoallofit,feetaway.‘Come in, come in,’ said

Edna, backing out of theirway and beckoning thementhusiasticallyinside.‘Mrs – I’m sorry, I don’t

know your surname,’ beganStrike,wipinghis feeton thedoormat (her house waswarm,cleanandmuchcosierthan the Quines’, thoughidenticalinlayout).‘Call me Edna,’ she said,

beamingathim.‘Edna, thank you – you

know,yououghttoasktoseeIDbeforeyouletanyoneintoyourhouse.’‘Oh, but,’ said Edna,

flustered, ‘Leonora told meallaboutyou…’Strike insisted,

nevertheless, on showing herhis driving licence beforefollowing her down the hallintoablue-and-whitekitchenmuch brighter than

Leonora’s.‘She’s upstairs,’ saidEdna

when Strike explained thatthey had come to seeOrlando. ‘She’s not having agood day. Do you wantcoffee?’As she flitted around

fetchingcupsshetalkednon-stopinthepent-upfashionofthestressedandlonely.‘Don’t get me wrong, I

don’t mind having her, poorlamb, but…’ She looked

hopelessly between Strikeand Robin then blurted out,‘But how long for? They’venofamily,yousee.Therewasa social worker roundyesterday, checking on her;shesaidifIcouldn’tkeephershe’dhavetogoinahomeorsomething; I said, you can’tdo that to Orlando, they’veneverbeenapart,herandhermum, no, she can stay withme,but…’Ednaglancedattheceiling.

‘She’s very unsettled justnow, very upset. Just wantsher mum to come home andwhatcanIsaytoher?Ican’ttell her the truth, can I?Andthere they are next door,diggingup thewholegarden,they’ve gone and dug upMrPoop…’‘Deadcat,’Strikemuttered

under his breath to Robin astears bubbled behind Edna’sspectaclesandbounceddownherroundcheeks.

‘Poor lamb,’ she saidagain.WhenshehadgivenStrike

andRobin theircoffeesEdnawent upstairs to fetchOrlando. It took ten minutesforhertopersuadethegirltocome downstairs, but Strikewas glad to see CheekyMonkeyclutchedinherarmswhen she appeared, todaydressed in a grubby tracksuitand wearing a sullenexpression.

‘He’s called like a giant,’sheannounced to thekitchenatlargewhenshesawStrike.‘I am,’ said Strike,

nodding.‘Wellremembered.’Orlando slid into the chair

that Edna pulled out for her,holdingherorang-utantightlyinherarms.‘I’m Robin,’ said Robin,

smilingather.‘Likeabird,’saidOrlando

atonce.‘Dodo’sabird.’‘It’swhathermumanddad

calledher,’explainedEdna.‘We’re both birds,’ said

Robin.Orlandogazed at her, then

gotupandwalkedoutof thekitchenwithoutspeaking.Ednasigheddeeply.‘She takes upset over

anything. You never knowwhatshe’s—’But Orlando had returned

with crayons and a spiral-bound drawing pad thatStrike was sure had been

boughtbyEdnatotrytokeepher happy.Orlando sat downat the kitchen table andsmiled at Robin, a sweet,open smile that made Robinfeelunaccountablysad.‘I’m going to draw you a

robin,’sheannounced.‘I’dlovethat,’saidRobin.Orlando set to work with

hertonguebetweenherteeth.Robin said nothing, butwatched the picture develop.Feeling that Robin had

already forged a betterrapportwithOrlando thanhehad managed, Strike ate achocolate biscuit offered byEdna and made small talkaboutthesnow.Eventually Orlando

finished her picture, tore itout of the pad and pushed itacrosstoRobin.‘It’sbeautiful,’saidRobin,

beaming at her. ‘I wish Icoulddrawadodo,butIcan’tdraw at all.’ This, Strike

knew,was a lie.Robin drewvery well; he had seen herdoodles.‘I’vegottogiveyousomething,though.’She rummaged in her bag,

watched eagerly by Orlando,and eventually pulled out asmall round make-up mirrordecoratedon thebackwith astylisedpinkbird.‘There,’saidRobin.‘Look.

That’s a flamingo. Anotherbird.Youcankeepthat.’Orlando took her giftwith

partedlips,staringatit.‘Say thank you to the

lady,’promptedEdna.‘Thank you,’ saidOrlando

andsheslidthemirror insidethepyjamacase.‘Isheabag?’askedRobin

withbrightinterest.‘My monkey,’ said

Orlando,clutchingtheorang-utan closer. ‘My daddy givehimtome.Mydaddydied.’‘I’m sorry to hear that,’

said Robin quietly, wishing

that the image of Quine’sbody had not slid instantlyinto her mind, his torso ashollowasapyjamacase…Strike surreptitiously

checked his watch. Theappointment with Fancourtwas drawing ever closer.Robin sipped some coffeeandasked:‘Do you keep things in

yourmonkey?’‘I like your hair,’ said

Orlando. ‘It’s shiny and

yellow.’‘Thank you,’ said Robin.

‘Have you got any otherpicturesinthere?’Orlandonodded.‘C’n Ihaveabiscuit?’ she

askedEdna.‘Can I see your other

pictures?’ Robin asked asOrlandomunched.Andafterabriefpausefor

consideration, Orlandoopenedupherorang-utan.A sheaf of crumpled

pictures came out, on anassortment of different sizedand coloured papers. NeitherStrikenorRobinturnedthemover at first, but madeadmiring comments asOrlando spread them outacrossthetable,Robinaskingquestions about the brightstarfish and the dancingangels that Orlando haddrawn in crayon and felt tip.Baskingintheirappreciation,Orlando dug deeper into her

pyjama case for her workingmaterials. Up came a usedtypewriter cartridge, oblongand grey, with a thin striptape carrying the reversedwords it had printed. Strikeresisted the urge to palm itimmediatelyasitdisappearedbeneath a tin of colouredpencils and a box of mints,but kept his eye on it asOrlandolaidoutapictureofabutterflythroughwhichcouldbeseentracesofuntidyadult

writingontheback.Encouraged by Robin,

Orlando now brought outmore: a sheet of stickers, apostcardoftheMendipHills,a round fridge magnet thatreadCareful!Youmayendupin my novel! Last of all sheshowedthemthreeimagesonbetter-quality paper: twoproofbookillustrationsandamocked-upbookcover.‘My daddy gave me them

fromhiswork,’Orlandosaid.

‘Dannulchar touched mewhen I wanted it,’ she said,pointing at a brightlycoloured picture that Strikerecognised: Kyla theKangaroo Who Loved toBounce.Orlandohadaddedahat andhandbag toKyla andcoloured in the line drawingofaprincesstalkingtoafrogwithneonfelttips.Delighted to see Orlando

so chatty, Edna made morecoffee.Consciousofthetime,

but aware of the need not toprovoke a row and aprotective grab of all hertreasures, Robin and Strikechattedastheypickedupandexamined each of the piecesof paper on the table.Whenever she thoughtsomething might be helpful,Robin slid it sideways toStrike.There was a list of

scribbled names on the backofthebutterflypicture:

SamBreville.EddieBoyne?EdwardBaskinville?StephenBrook?

The postcard of the MendipHills had been sent in Julyandcarriedabriefmessage:

Weathergreat,hoteldisappointing,hopethebook’sgoingwell!Vxx

Other than that, therewasnotrace of handwriting. A fewof Orlando’s pictures werefamiliartoStrikefromhislastvisit.Onehadbeendrawnonthe reverse of a child’srestaurant menu, another ontheQuines’gasbill.‘Well, we’d better head

off,’ said Strike, draining hiscoffee cup with a decentshow of regret. Almostabsent-mindedlyhecontinuedto hold the cover image for

Dorcus Pengelly’s Upon theWicked Rocks. A bedraggledwoman lay supine on thestony sands of a steep cliff-enclosed cove, with theshadow of a man fallingacross her midriff. Orlandohaddrawnthicklylinedblackfish in the seething bluewater. The used typewritercassette lay beneath theimage, nudged there byStrike.‘I don’t want you to go,’

OrlandotoldRobin,suddenlytenseandtearful.‘It’sbeenlovely,hasn’tit?’

said Robin. ‘I’m sure we’llsee each other again. You’llkeep your flamingo mirror,won’t you, and I’ve got myrobinpicture—’But Orlando had begun to

wail and stamp. She did notwantanothergoodbye.UndercoveroftheescalatingfuroreStrikewrappedthetypewritercassettesmoothlyinthecover

illustration for Upon theWickedRocksandslid it intohis pocket, unmarked by hisfingerprints.They reached the street

five minutes later, Robin alittleshakenbecauseOrlandohad wailed and tried to grabher as she headed down thehall. Edna had had tophysically restrain Orlandofromfollowingthem.‘Poor girl,’ said Robin

under her breath, so that the

staring PC could not hearthem. ‘Oh God, that wasdreadful.’‘Useful, though,’ said

Strike.‘You got that typewriter

ribbon?’‘Yep,’saidStrike,glancing

over his shoulder to checkthat the PC was out of sightbeforetakingoutthecassette,still wrapped in Dorcus’scover, and tipping it into aplastic evidence bag. ‘And a

bitmorethanthat.’‘You did?’ said Robin,

surprised.‘Possiblelead,’saidStrike,

‘mightbenothing.’He glanced again at his

watch and sped up, wincingas his knee throbbed inprotest.‘I’mgoingtohavetogeta

move on if I’m not going tobelateforFancourt.’Astheysatonthecrowded

Tube train carrying them

back to central Londontwenty minutes later, Strikesaid:‘You’re clear about what

you’redoingthisafternoon?’‘Completely clear,’ said

Robin, but with a note ofreservation.‘I know it’s not a fun job

—’‘That’s not what’s

botheringme.’‘AndlikeIsay,itshouldn’t

be dangerous,’ he said,

preparing to stand as theyapproached Tottenham CourtRoad.‘But…’Something made him

reconsider, a slight frownbetweenhisheavyeyebrows.‘Yourhair,’hesaid.‘What’s wrong with it?’

said Robin, raising her handself-consciously.‘It’s memorable,’ said

Strike. ‘Haven’t got a hat,haveyou?’‘I– I couldbuyone,’ said

Robin, feeling oddlyflustered.‘Charge it to petty cash,’

he toldher. ‘Can’thurt tobecareful.’

43

Hoy-day, what a sweepof vanity comes thisway!

WilliamShakespeare,TimonofAthens

Strike walked up crowdedOxford Street, past snatches

ofcannedcarolsandseasonalpop songs, and turned leftinto the quieter, narrowerDean Street. There were noshops here, just block-likebuildings packed togetherwith their different faces,white, red and dun, openinginto offices, bars, pubs orbistro-type restaurants. Strikepaused to allow boxes ofwine to pass from deliveryvan to catering entrance:Christmaswas amore subtle

affairhereinSoho,wheretheartsworld,theadvertisersandpublishers congregated, andnowheremore so than at theGrouchoClub.A grey building, almost

nondescript, with its black-framed windows and smalltopiaries sitting behind plain,convexbalustrades.Itscachetlay not in its exterior but inthe fact that relatively fewwere allowed within themembers-only club for the

creative arts. Strike limpedover the threshold and foundhimself in a small hall area,whereagirlbehindacountersaidpleasantly:‘CanIhelpyou?’‘I’m here tomeetMichael

Fancourt.’‘Oh yes – you’re Mr

Strick?’‘That’sme,’saidStrike.Hewas directed through a

long bar room with leatherseats packed with lunchtime

drinkersandupthestairs.Ashe climbed Strike reflected,not for thefirst time, thathisSpecial Investigation Branchtraining had not envisagedhim conducting interviewswithout official sanction orauthority,onasuspect’sownterritory, where hisinterviewee had the right toterminate the encounterwithout reason or apology.The SIB required its officersto organise their questioning

in a template of people,places, things… Strike neverlost sight of the effective,rigorous methodology, butthesedays itwas essential todisguise the fact that he wasfiling facts in mental boxes.Different techniques wererequired when interviewingthosewho thought theyweredoingyouafavour.He saw his quarry

immediatelyhesteppedintoasecond wooden-floored bar,

where sofas in primarycolours were set along thewall beneath paintings bymodern artists. Fancourt wassitting slantwise on a brightred couch, one arm along itsback,alegalittleraisedinanexaggerated pose of ease. ADamien Hirst spot paintinghung right behind his over-largehead,likeaneonhalo.The writer had a thick

thatch of greying dark hair,his features were heavy and

the lines beside his generousmouth deep. He smiled asStrikeapproached.Itwasnot,perhaps, the smile he wouldhave given someone heconsidered an equal(impossible not to think inthoseterms,giventhestudiedaffectation of ease, thehabitually sour expression),butagesturetoonewhomhewishedtobegracious.‘MrStrike.’Perhaps he considered

standing up to shake hands,but Strike’s height and bulkoften dissuaded smaller menfromleavingtheirseats.Theyshookhandsacross the smallwooden table. Unwillingly,butleftwithnochoiceunlesshe wanted to sit on the sofawithFancourt–afartoocosysituation,particularlywiththeauthor’s arm lying along theback of it – Strike sat downon a solid round pouffe thatwasunsuitedboth tohis size

andhissoreknee.Besidethemwasashaven-

headed ex-soap starwho hadrecentlyplayeda soldier inaBBC drama. He was talkingloudly about himself to twoother men. Fancourt andStrike ordered drinks, butdeclined menus. Strike wasrelieved that Fancourt wasnot hungry. He could notafford to buy anyone elselunch.‘How long’ve you been a

member of this place?’ heasked Fancourt, when thewaiterhadleft.‘Since it opened. Iwas an

earlyinvestor,’saidFancourt.‘OnlyclubI’veeverneeded.Istay overnight here if I needto.Thereareroomsupstairs.’Fancourt fixed Strike with

aconsciouslyintensestare.‘I’vebeen lookingforward

to meeting you. The hero ofmynextnovelisaveteranofthe so-called war on terror

and its military corollaries.I’d like to pick your brainsonce we’ve got OwenQuineoutoftheway.’Strikehappened toknowa

littleaboutthetoolsavailableto the famous when theywishedtomanipulate.Lucy’sguitaristfather,Rick,waslessfamous than either Strike’sfather or Fancourt, but stillcelebrated enough to cause amiddle-aged woman to gaspand tremble at the sight of

himqueuingforicecreamsinStMawes–‘ohmigod–whatare you doing here?’ Rickhad once confided in theadolescentStrikethattheonesurewaytogetawomanintobedwas to tell her youwerewriting a song about her.Michael Fancourt’spronouncement that he wasinterested in capturingsomething of Strike in hisnextnovelfeltlikeavariationon the same theme. He had

clearly not appreciated thatseeing himself in print wasneither a novelty to Strike,nor something he had everchased. With anunenthusiastic nod toacknowledge Fancourt’srequest, Strike took out anotebook.‘D’youmind if I use this?

Helps me remember what Iwanttoaskyou.’‘Feel free,’ said Fancourt,

looking amused. He tossed

aside the copy of theGuardian that he had beenreading. Strike saw thepicture of a wizened butdistinguished-looking oldman who was vaguelyfamiliar even upside-down.The caption read: PinkelmanatNinety.‘Dear old Pinks,’ said

Fancourt, noticing thedirection of Strike’s gaze.‘We’re giving him a littlepartyattheChelseaArtsClub

nextweek.’‘Yeah?’ said Strike,

huntingforapen.‘He knewmy uncle. They

did their national servicetogether,’ said Fancourt.‘WhenIwrotemyfirstnovel,Bellafront–IwasfreshoutofOxford – my poor old Unc,trying to be helpful, sent acopy to Pinkelman,whowasthe only writer he’d evermet.’He spoke in measured

phrases, as though someinvisible third party weretaking down every word inshorthand.Thestorysoundedpre-rehearsed, as though hehad told it many times, andperhaps he had; he was anoft-interviewedman.‘Pinkelman – at that time

authoroftheseminalBunty’sBigAdventure series–didn’tunderstand a word I’dwritten,’ Fancourt went on,‘but to please my uncle he

forwarded it toChardBooks,where it landed, mostfortuitously, on the desk ofthe only person in the placewhocouldunderstandit.’‘Stroke of luck,’ said

Strike.The waiter returned with

wineforFancourtandaglassofwaterforStrike.‘So,’ said the detective,

‘were you returning a favourwhen you introducedPinkelmantoyouragent?’

‘Iwas,’saidFancourt,andhis nod held the hint ofpatronageofateachergladtonotethatoneofhispupilshadbeen paying attention. ‘Inthose days Pinks was withsome agent who kept“forgetting” to hand on hisroyalties. Whatever you sayabout Elizabeth Tassel, she’shonest – in business terms,she’s honest,’ Fancourtamended,sippinghiswine.‘She’ll be at Pinkelman’s

party too, won’t she?’ saidStrike,watchingFancourt forhis reaction. ‘She stillrepresentshim,doesn’tshe?’‘It doesn’tmatter tome if

Liz is there. Does sheimaginethatI’mstillburningwith malice towards her?’askedFancourt,withhissoursmile. ‘I don’t think I giveLizTasselathoughtfromoneyear’sendtothenext.’‘Why did she refuse to

ditch Quine when you asked

herto?’askedStrike.Strike did not see why he

should not deploy the directattack to a man who hadannouncedanulteriormotiveformeetingwithinsecondsoftheirfirstencounter.‘Itwasneveraquestionof

measkinghertodropQuine,’said Fancourt, still inmeasured cadences for thebenefit of that invisibleamanuensis. ‘I explained thatI could not remain at her

agency while he was there,andleft.’‘I see,’ said Strike, who

waswellusedtothesplittingof hairs. ‘Why d’you thinkshe let you leave?Youwerethebiggerfish,weren’tyou?’‘Ithinkit’sfairtosaythatI

wasabarracudacompared toQuine’s stickleback,’ saidFancourt with a smirk, ‘but,you see,Liz andQuineweresleepingtogether.’‘Really? I didn’t know

that,’saidStrike,clickingoutthenibofhispen.‘Liz arrived at Oxford,’

saidFancourt, ‘this strappinggreatgirlwho’dbeenhelpingher father castrate bulls andthe like on sundry northernfarms, desperate to get laid,and nobody fancied the jobmuch.Shehadathingforme,a very big thing – we weretutorial partners, juicyJacobean intrigue calculatedto get a girl going – but I

neverfeltaltruisticenoughtorelieve her of her virginity.We remained friends,’ saidFancourt, ‘and when shestarted her agency IintroducedhertoQuine,whonotoriously preferred toplumb the bottom of thebarrel,sexuallyspeaking.Theinevitableoccurred.’‘Very interesting,’ said

Strike. ‘Is this commonknowledge?’‘I doubt it,’ said Fancourt.

‘Quine was already marriedtohis–well,hismurderess,Isuppose we have to call hernow, don’t we?’ he saidthoughtfully. ‘I’d imagine“murderess” trumps “wife”when defining a closerelationship? And Liz wouldhavethreatenedhimwithdireconsequencesifhe’dbeenhisusualindiscreetselfaboutherbedroom antics, on the wildoff-chancethatImightyetbepersuadedtosleepwithher.’

Was this blind vanity,Strike wondered, amatter offact,oramixtureofboth?‘She used to look at me

with those big cow eyes,waiting, hoping…’ saidFancourt, a cruel twist to hismouth. ‘After Ellie died sherealisedthatIwasn’tgoingtooblige her even when grief-stricken. I’d imagineshewasunable tobear the thoughtofdecadesoffuturecelibacy,soshestoodbyherman.’

‘Did you ever speak toQuineagainafteryoulefttheagency?’Strikeasked.‘For the first few years

after Ellie died he’d scuttleoutofanybarIentered,’saidFancourt. ‘Eventually he gotbraveenoughtoremaininthesamerestaurant,throwingmenervous looks. No, I don’tthink we ever spoke to eachotheragain,’saidFancourt,asthough the matter were oflittle interest. ‘You were

injured in Afghanistan, Ithink?’‘Yeah,’saidStrike.It might work on women,

Strike reflected, thecalculated intensity of thegaze. Perhaps Owen Quinehad fixed Kathryn Kent andPippa Midgley with theidentical hungry, vampiricstare when he told them hewould be putting them intoBombyxMori…and theyhadbeen thrilled to think of part

of themselves, their lives,forever encased in the amberofawriter’sprose…‘Howdidithappen?’asked

Fancourt,hiseyesonStrike’slegs.‘IED,’ said Strike. ‘What

about Talgarth Road? YouandQuinewereco-ownersofthe house. Didn’t you everneed to communicate aboutthe place? Did you ever runintoeachotherthere?’‘Never.’

‘Haven’tyoubeentheretocheckonit?You’veownedit–what—?’‘Twenty, twenty-five

years, something like that,’said Fancourt indifferently.‘No, I haven’t been insidesinceJoedied.’‘I suppose the police have

asked you about the womanwho thinks she saw yououtside on the eighth ofNovember?’‘Yes,’ said Fancourt

shortly.‘Shewasmistaken.’Besidethem,theactorwas

stillinfullandloudflow.‘…thoughtI’dbloodyhad

it, couldn’t see where thefuck I was supposed to berunning, sand in my bloodyeyes…’‘Soyouhaven’tbeeninthe

housesinceeighty-six?’‘No,’ said Fancourt

impatiently. ‘Neither Owennor I wanted it in the firstplace.’

‘Whynot?’‘Because our friend Joe

died there in exceptionallysqualid circumstances. Hehated hospitals, refusedmedication. By the time hefell unconscious the placewas in a disgusting state andhe, who had been the livingembodiment of Apollo, wasreduced to a sack of bones,his skin… it was a grislyend,’ said Fancourt, ‘madeworsebyDanielCh—’

Fancourt’s expressionhardened. He made an oddchewing motion as thoughliterally eating unspokenwords.Strikewaited.‘He’s an interesting man,

Dan Chard,’ said Fancourt,with a palpable effort atreversing out of a cul-de-sacinto which he had drivenhimself. ‘I thought Owen’streatment of him in BombyxMori was the biggest missedopportunity of all – though

future scholars are hardlygoingtolooktoBombyxMorifor subtlety ofcharacterisation,arethey?’headdedwithashortlaugh.‘How would you have

writtenDanielChard?’Strikeasked and Fancourt seemedsurprised by the question.After a moment’sconsiderationhesaid:‘Dan’s themostunfulfilled

manI’veevermet.Heworksin a field where he’s

competent but unhappy. Hecraves the bodies of youngmenbutcanbringhimself todo nomore than draw them.He’s full of inhibitions andself-disgust, which explainshis unwise and hystericalresponsetoOwen’scaricatureof him. Dan was dominatedby a monstrous socialitemother who wanted herpathologicallyshysontotakeover the family business. Ithink,’ said Fancourt, ‘I’d

have been able to makesomething interesting of allthat.’‘WhydidChardturndown

North’sbook?’Strikeasked.Fancourtmadethechewing

motionagain,thensaid:‘I like Daniel Chard, you

know.’‘I had the impression that

there had been a grudge atsomepoint,’saidStrike.‘Whatgaveyouthatidea?’‘You said that you

“certainly didn’t expect tofind yourself” back at RoperChard when you spoke attheiranniversaryparty.’‘You were there?’ said

Fancourt sharply and whenStrike nodded he said:‘Why?’‘Iwas looking forQuine,’

said Strike. ‘His wife hadhiredmetofindhim.’‘But,aswenowknow,she

knewexactlywherehewas.’‘No,’ said Strike, ‘I don’t

thinkshedid.’‘You genuinely believe

that?’ asked Fancourt, hislargeheadtiltedtooneside.‘Yeah,Ido,’saidStrike.Fancourt raised his

eyebrows, considering Strikeintently as though he were acuriosityinacabinet.‘So you didn’t hold it

against Chard that he turneddown North’s book?’ Strikeasked, returning to the mainpoint.

After a brief pauseFancourtsaid:‘Well, yes, I did hold it

againsthim.ExactlywhyDanchanged his mind aboutpublishing it only Dan couldtell you, but I think it wasbecause there was asmattering of press aroundJoe’scondition,drummingupmiddle-Englanddisgustaboutthe unrepentant book he wasabout to publish, and Dan,whohadnotrealisedthatJoe

now had full-blown Aids,panicked. He didn’t want tobeassociatedwithbathhousesand Aids, so he told Joe hedidn’twantthebookafterall.It was an act of greatcowardiceandOwenandI—’Another pause. How long

had it been since Fancourthad bracketed himself andQuinetogetherinamity?‘Owen and I believed that

itkilledJoe.Hecouldhardlyhold a pen, he was virtually

blind, but he was tryingdesperatelytofinishthebookbefore he died. We felt thatwasall thatwaskeepinghimalive. Then Chard’s letterarrived cancelling theircontract; Joe stopped workand within forty-eight hourshewasdead.’‘There are similarities,’

said Strike, ‘with whathappenedtoyourfirstwife.’‘They weren’t the same

thing at all,’ said Fancourt

flatly.‘Whynot?’‘Joe’s was an infinitely

betterbook.’Yet another pause, this

timemuchlonger.‘That’s considering the

matter,’ said Fancourt, ‘froma purely literary perspective.Naturally, there are otherwaysoflookingatit.’He finished his glass of

wine and raised a hand toindicatetothebarmanthathe

wanted another. The actorbeside them,who had barelydrawn breath, was stilltalking.‘… said, “Screw

authenticity,whatd’youwantmetodo,sawmyownbloodyarmoff?”’‘It must have been a very

difficult time for you,’ saidStrike.‘Yes,’ said Fancourt

waspishly. ‘Yes, I think wecancallit“difficult”.’

‘Youlostagoodfriendanda wife within – what –monthsofeachother?’‘Afewmonths,yes.’‘You were writing all

throughthattime?’‘Yes,’ said Fancourt, with

an angry, condescendinglaugh, ‘I was writing allthrough that time. It’s myprofession. Would anyoneask you whether you werestill in the army while youwere having private

difficulties?’‘I doubt it,’ said Strike,

without rancour. ‘What wereyouwriting?’‘It was never published. I

abandoned the book I wasworking on so that I couldfinishJoe’s.’The waiter set a second

glassinfrontofFancourtanddeparted.‘Did North’s book need

muchdoingtoit?’‘Hardly anything,’ said

Fancourt. ‘Hewas a brilliantwriter.Itidiedupafewroughbits and polished the ending.He’d leftnotesabouthowhewanteditdone.ThenItookitto Jerry Waldegrave, whowaswithRoper.’Strike remembered what

Chard had said aboutFancourt’s over-closeness toWaldegrave’s wife andproceededwithsomecaution.‘Had you worked with

Waldegravebefore?’

‘I’ve never worked withhim on my own stuff, but IknewofhimbyreputationasagiftededitorandIknewthathe’d liked Joe. Wecollaborated on Towards theMark.’‘He did a good job on it,

didhe?’Fancourt’s flash of bad

temperhadgone.Ifanything,he looked entertained byStrike’slineofquestioning.‘Yes,’hesaid, takingasip

ofwine,‘verygood.’‘But you didn’t want to

work with him now you’vemovedtoRoperChard?’‘Not particularly,’ said

Fancourt, still smiling. ‘Hedrinksalotthesedays.’‘Why d’you think Quine

put Waldegrave in BombyxMori?’‘Howcan I possiblyknow

that?’‘Waldegraveseemstohave

beengoodtoQuine.It’shard

to see why Quine felt theneedtoattackhim.’‘Is it?’ asked Fancourt,

eyeingStrikeclosely.‘Everyone I talk to seems

to have a different angle onthe Cutter character inBombyxMori.’‘Really?’‘Most people seem

outraged that Quine attackedWaldegraveatall.Theycan’tsee what Waldegrave did todeserve it. Daniel Chard

thinks the Cutter shows thatQuine had a collaborator,’saidStrike.‘Whothehelldoeshethink

wouldhavecollaboratedwithQuine on Bombyx Mori?’asked Fancourt, with a shortlaugh.‘He’s got ideas,’ said

Strike. ‘MeanwhileWaldegrave thinks theCutter’s really an attack onyou.’‘But I’m Vainglorious,’

said Fancourt with a smile.‘Everyoneknowsthat.’‘Why would Waldegrave

think that theCutter is aboutyou?’‘You’ll need to ask Jerry

Waldegrave,’ said Fancourt,still smiling. ‘But I’ve got afunny feeling you think youknow,MrStrike.AndI’lltellyou this: Quine was quite,quite wrong – as he reallyshouldhaveknown.’Impasse.

‘So in all these years,you’venevermanagedtosellTalgarthRoad?’‘It’s been very difficult to

findabuyerwhosatisfiestheterms of Joe’s will. It was aquixotic gesture of Joe’s.Hewasaromantic,anidealist.‘I set down my feelings

aboutallofthis–thelegacy,the burden, the poignancy ofhis bequest – in House ofHollow,’saidFancourt,muchlikea lecturer recommending

additional reading. ‘Owenhadhissay–suchasitwas–’added Fancourt, with theghost of a smirk, ‘in TheBalzacBrothers.’‘The Balzac Brothers was

about the house in TalgarthRoad, was it?’ asked Strike,who had not gleaned thatimpression during the fiftypageshehadread.‘Itwassetthere.Reallyit’s

about our relationship, thethree of us,’ said Fancourt.

‘Joe dead in the corner andOwen and I trying to followin his footsteps, make senseofhisdeath.Itwasset in thestudio where I think – fromwhat I’ve read – you foundQuine’sbody?’Strike said nothing, but

continuedtotakenotes.‘The critic Harvey Bird

called The Balzac Brothers“wincingly, jaw-droppingly,sphincter-clenchinglyawful”.’

‘I just remember a lot offiddling with balls,’ saidStrike and Fancourt gave asudden,unforcedgirlishtitter.‘You’veread it,haveyou?

Oh yes, Owen was obsessedwithhisballs.’The actor beside themhad

paused for breath at last.Fancourt’swords rang in thetemporary silence. Strikegrinned as the actor and histwodiningcompanionsstaredatFancourt,whotreatedthem

to his sour smile. The threemen began talking hurriedlyagain.‘He had a real idée fixe,’

saidFancourt,turningbacktoStrike. ‘Picasso-esque, youknow,his testicles thesourceofhiscreativepower.Hewasobsessed in both his life andhis work with machismo,virility, fertility. Somemightsayitwasanoddfixationforamanwholikedtobetiedupanddominated,butIseeitas

a natural consequence… theyin and yang of Quine’ssexual persona. You’ll havenoticedthenameshegaveusinthebook?’‘Vas andVaricocele,’ said

Strikeandhenotedagainthatslight surprise in Fancourtthat a man who looked likeStrike read books, or paidattentiontotheircontents.‘Vas – Quine – the duct

that carries sperm from ballstopenis–thehealthy,potent,

creativeforce.Varicocele–apainfulenlargementofaveinin the testicle, sometimesleading to infertility. Atypically crass Quine-esqueallusion to the fact that Icontracted mumps shortlyafterJoediedandinfactwastoo unwell to go to thefuneral, but also to the factthat–asyou’vepointedout–I was writing under difficultcircumstances around thattime.’

‘You were still friends atthispoint?’Strikeclarified.‘When he started the book

we were still – in theory –friends,’saidFancourt,withagrimsmile.‘Butwritersareasavage breed, Mr Strike. Ifyouwant life-long friendshipandselflesscamaraderie,jointhe army and learn to kill. Ifyou want a lifetime oftemporary alliances withpeerswhowill glory in youreveryfailure,writenovels.’

Strike smiled. Fancourtsaidwithdetachedpleasure:‘The Balzac Brothers

received some of the worstreviewsI’veeverread.’‘Didyoureviewit?’‘No,’saidFancourt.‘Youweremarriedtoyour

firstwifeatthispoint?’Strikeasked.‘That’s right,’ said

Fancourt. The flicker of hisexpressionwasliketheshiverof an animal’s flank when a

flytouchesit.‘I’m just trying to get the

chronology right – you losthershortlyafterNorthdied?’‘Euphemismsfordeathare

so interesting, aren’t they?’saidFancourtlightly.‘Ididn’t“lose”her.Onthecontrary,Itripped over her in the dark,dead in our kitchen with herheadintheoven.’‘I’m sorry,’ said Strike

formally.‘Yes,well…’

Fancourtcalledforanotherdrink. Strike could tell that adelicate point had beenreached, where a flow ofinformation might either betapped,orrunforeverdry.‘DidyouevertalktoQuine

about the parody that causedyourwife’ssuicide?’‘I’ve already told you, I

never talked to him againabout anything after Elliedied,’ said Fancourt calmly.‘So,no.’

‘Youweresurehewroteit,though?’‘Without question. Like a

lotofwriterswithoutmuchtosay, Quine was actually agood literary mimic. IrememberhimspoofingsomeofJoe’sstuffanditwasquitefunny. He wasn’t going tojeerpubliclyatJoe,ofcourse,it did him too much goodhanging aroundwith the pairofus.’‘Did anyone admit to

seeing the parody beforepublication?’‘Nobody said as much to

me, but it would have beensurprising if they had,wouldn’t it, given what itcaused? Liz Tassel denied tomy face that Owen hadshownittoher,butIheardonthe grapevine that she’d readit pre-publication. I’m sureshe encouraged him topublish. Liz was insanelyjealousofEllie.’

There was a pause, thenFancourt said with anassumptionoflightness:‘Hard to remember these

days that there was a timewhenyouhad towait for theink and paper reviews to seeyour work excoriated. Withthe invention of the internet,any subliterate cretin can beMichikoKakutani.’‘Quine always denied

writing it, didn’t he?’ Strikeasked.

‘Yeshedid,gutlessbastardthat he was,’ said Fancourt,apparently unconscious ofany lack of taste. ‘Like a lotof soi-disant mavericks,Quine was an envious,terminally competitivecreature who cravedadulation. He was terrifiedthat he was going to beostracisedafterElliedied.Ofcourse,’ said Fancourt, withunmistakable pleasure, ‘ithappenedanyway.Owenhad

benefited from a lot ofreflected glory, being part ofa triumvirate with Joe andme.WhenJoediedand Icuthim adrift, he was seen forwhat he was: a man with adirty imagination and aninteresting style who hadbarely an idea that wasn’tpornographic.Someauthors,’saidFancourt,‘haveonlyonegoodbookinthem.ThatwasOwen. He shot his bolt – anexpression he would have

approved of – withHobart’sSin.Everythingafterthatwaspointlessrehashes.’‘Didn’t you say you

thoughtBombyxMoriwas“amaniac’smasterpiece”?’‘You read that, did you?’

said Fancourt, with vaguelyflatteredsurprise.‘Well,soitis, a true literary curiosity. IneverdeniedthatOwencouldwrite, you know, it was justthat he was never able todredge up anything profound

or interesting to write about.It’s a surprisingly commonphenomenon. But withBombyx Mori he found hissubject at last, didn’t he?Everybody hates me,everyone’s againstme, I’mageniusandnobodycanseeit.The result is grotesque andcomic, it reeks of bitternessand self-pity, but it has anundeniable fascination. Andthe language,’ said Fancourt,with the most enthusiasm he

had so far brought to thediscussion, ‘is admirable.Somepassagesareamongthebestthingsheeverwrote.’‘This is all very useful,’

saidStrike.Fancourtseemedamused.‘How?’‘I’ve got a feeling that

BombyxMori’scentraltothiscase.’‘“Case”?’ repeated

Fancourt, smiling.Therewasa short pause. ‘Are you

seriously telling me that youstill think the killer ofOwenQuineisatlarge?’‘Yeah, I think so,’ said

Strike.‘Then,’ said Fancourt,

smiling still more broadly,‘wouldn’titbemoreusefultoanalyse the writings of thekillerratherthanthevictim?’‘Maybe,’ said Strike, ‘but

we don’t know whether thekillerwrites.’‘Oh, nearly everyone does

these days,’ said Fancourt.‘The whole world’s writingnovels, but nobody’s readingthem.’‘I’m sure people would

readBombyxMori,especiallyif you did an introduction,’saidStrike.‘I think you’re right,’ said

Fancourt, smiling morebroadly.‘When exactly did you

read the book for the firsttime?’

‘It would have been… letmesee…’Fancourt appeared to do a

mentalcalculation.‘Not until the, ah, middle

of the week after Quinedelivered it,’ said Fancourt.‘Dan Chard called me, toldme that Quine was trying tosuggest that Ihadwritten theparody of Ellie’s book, andtried to persuade me to joinhim in legal action againstQuine.Irefused.’

‘Did Chard read any of itouttoyou?’‘No,’ said Fancourt,

smilingagain. ‘Frightenedhemight lose his staracquisition, you see. No, hesimplyoutlinedtheallegationthat Quine had made andofferedmetheservicesofhislawyers.’‘When was this telephone

call?’‘On the evening of the…

seventh, it must have been,’

said Fancourt. ‘The Sundaynight.’‘The same day you filmed

an interview about your newnovel,’saidStrike.‘You’re very well-

informed,’ said Fancourt, hiseyesnarrowing.‘I watched the

programme.’‘Youknow,’saidFancourt,

withaneedle-prickofmalice,‘you don’t have theappearance of a man who

enjoysartsprogrammes.’‘I never said I enjoyed

them,’ said Strike and wasunsurprised to note thatFancourt appeared to enjoyhis retort. ‘But I did noticethat youmisspoke when yousaidyourfirstwife’snameoncamera.’Fancourt said nothing, but

merely watched Strike overhiswineglass.‘You said “Eff” then

corrected yourself, and said

“Ellie”,’saidStrike.‘Well, as you say – I

misspoke. It can happen tothemostarticulateofus.’‘InBombyxMori,yourlate

wife—’‘—iscalled“Effigy”.’‘Which is a coincidence,’

saidStrike.‘Obviously,’saidFancourt.‘Because you couldn’t yet

have known that Quine hadcalled her “Effigy” on theseventh.’

‘Obviouslynot.’‘Quine’s mistress got a

copy of the manuscript fedthrough her letter box rightafter he disappeared,’ saidStrike. ‘You didn’t get sentan early copy, by anychance?’Theensuingpausebecame

over-long. Strike felt thefragile thread that he hadmanaged to spin betweenthem snap. It did notmatter.He had saved this question

forlast.‘No,’ said Fancourt. ‘I

didn’t.’He pulled out his wallet.

His declared intention ofpicking Strike’s brains for acharacter in his next novelseemed, not at all to Strike’sregret, forgotten. Strikepulled out some cash, butFancourt held up a hand andsaid, with unmistakableoffensiveness:‘No, no, allow me. Your

press coverage makes muchof the fact that you haveknownbettertimes.Infact,itputs me in mind of BenJonson: “I am a poorgentleman,asoldier;onethat,in the better state of myfortunes, scorned so mean arefuge”.’‘Really?’ said Strike

pleasantly, returning his cashto his pocket. ‘I’m put moreinmindof

sicine subrepsti mi,atqueintestinapururens

ei misero eripuisti omnianostrabona?Eripuisti, eheu, nostrae

crudeleuenenumUitae, eheu nostraepestisamicitiae.’

He looked unsmilingly

upon Fancourt’sastonishment. The writerralliedquickly.‘Ovid?’

‘Catullus,’ said Strike,heaving himself off the lowpouffe with the aid of thetable.‘Translatesroughly:

So that’s how you creptuponme,anacideatingaway

My guts, stole from meeverythingImosttreasure?Yes, alas, stole: grim

poisoninmybloodThe plague, alas, of thefriendshipweoncehad.

‘Well, I expect we’ll see

each other around,’ saidStrikepleasantly.He limped off towards the

stairs, Fancourt’s eyes uponhisback.

44

AllhisalliesandfriendsrushintotroopsLikeragingtorrents.

ThomasDekker,TheNobleSpanishSoldier

Strike sat for a long time onthe sofa inhiskitchen-sitting

room that night, barelyhearing the rumble of thetrafficonCharingCrossRoadand the occasional muffledshouts of more earlyChristmas party-goers. Hehadremovedhisprosthesis;itwas comfortable sitting therein his boxers, the end of hisinjured leg free of pressure,the throbbing of his kneedeadened by another doubledose of painkillers.Unfinished pasta congealed

ontheplatebesidehimonthesofa,theskybeyondhissmallwindow achieved the darkblue velvet depth of truenight, and Strike did notmove,thoughwideawake.Itfeltlikeaverylongtime

sincehehad seen thepictureof Charlotte in her weddingdress. He had not given heranother thought all day.Wasthis the start of true healing?She had married Jago Rossandhewasalone,mullingthe

complexities of an elaboratemurderinthedimlightofhischilly attic flat. Perhaps eachof them was, at last, wheretheyreallybelonged.Onthetableinfrontofhim

in the clear plastic evidencebag, still halfwrapped in thephotocopied cover of Uponthe Wicked Rocks, sat thedark grey typewriter cassettethat he had taken fromOrlando.Hehadbeenstaringatitforwhatseemedlikehalf

anhouratleast,feelinglikeachild on Christmas morningconfronted by a mysterious,inviting package, the largestunder the tree. And yet heought not to look, or touch,lest he interfere withwhatever forensic evidencemight be gleaned from thetape. Any suspicion oftampering…He checked his watch. He

had promised himself not tomake the call until half past

nine. There were children tobewrestledintobed,awifetoplacateafteranotherlongdayonthejob.Strikewantedtimetoexplainfully…Buthispatiencehadlimits.

Getting up with somedifficulty,hetookthekeystohis office and movedlaboriously downstairs,clutching the handrail,hopping and occasionallysitting down. Ten minuteslaterhere-enteredhisflatand

returned to the still-warmspot on the sofa carrying hispenknifeandwearinganotherpairofthelatexgloveshehadearliergiventoRobin.He lifted the typewriter

tape and the crumpled coverillustrationgingerlyoutoftheevidence bag and set thecassette, still resting on thepaper, on the ricketyFormica-topped table. Barelybreathing, he pulled out thetoothpickattachmentfromhis

knife and inserted itdelicately behind the twoinches of fragile tape thatwere exposed. By dint ofcareful manipulation hemanaged to pull out a littlemore. Reversed words wererevealed, the letters back tofront.

YOBEIDDEWENKITHGUOHTDAHIDNHis sudden rush of

adrenalinwasexpressedonlyin Strike’s quiet sigh of

satisfaction. He deftlytightened the tape again,using the knife’s screwdriverattachment in the cog at thetopof thecassette, thewholeuntouchedbyhishands,then,stillwearingthelatexgloves,slipped it back into theevidencebag.Hecheckedhiswatch again. Unable to waitany longer, he picked up hismobile and called DavePolworth.‘Badtime?’heaskedwhen

hisoldfriendanswered.‘No,’ said Polworth,

soundingcurious.‘What’sup,Diddy?’‘Need a favour, Chum. A

bigone.’The engineer, over a

hundred miles away in hissitting room in Bristol,listened without interruptingwhile the detective explainedwhat it was hewanted done.Whenfinallyhehadfinished,therewasapause.

‘I know it’s a big ask,’Strike said, listeninganxiously to the linecrackling.‘Dunnoifit’llevenbepossibleinthisweather.’‘Course it will,’ said

Polworth. ‘I’d have to seewhen I could do it, though,Diddy. Got two days offcoming up… not surePenny’sgoingtobekeen…’‘Yeah,Ithoughtthatmight

be aproblem,’ saidStrike, ‘Iknowit’dbedangerous.’

‘Don’tinsultme,I’vedoneworse than this,’ saidPolworth. ‘Nah, she wantedmetotakeherandhermotherChristmas shopping… butfuck it, Diddy, did you saythisislifeordeath?’‘Close,’saidStrike,closing

his eyes and grinning. ‘Lifeandliberty.’‘And no Christmas

shopping, boy, which suitsold Chum. Consider it done,andI’llgiveyouaringifI’ve

gotanything,allright?’‘Staysafe,mate.’‘Pissoff.’Strike dropped the mobile

beside him on the sofa andrubbed his face in his hands,still grinning. He might justhave told Polworth to dosomething even crazier andmore pointless than grabbingapassingshark,butPolworthwas a man who enjoyeddanger, and the time hadcomefordesperatemeasures.

The last thing Strike didbefore turning out the lightwastore-readthenotesofhisconversation with Fancourtand to underline, so heavilythat he sliced through thepage,theword‘Cutter’.

45

Didst thou notmark thejestofthesilkworm?JohnWebster,TheWhite

Devil

Both the family home andTalgarth Road continued tobe combed for forensic

evidence. Leonora remainedinHolloway.Ithadbecomeawaitinggame.Strikewasusedtostanding

for hours in the cold,watching darkened windows,following faceless strangers;to unanswered phones anddoors, blank faces, cluelessbystanders; to enforced,frustrating inaction. Whatwas different and distractingon this occasion was thesmall whine of anxiety that

formed a backdrop toeverythinghedid.You had to maintain a

distance, but there werealways people who got toyou, injustices that bit.Leonora in prison, white-faced and weeping, herdaughterconfused,vulnerableand bereft of both parents.Robin had pinned upOrlando’s picture over herdesk, so that a merry red-belliedbirdgazeddownupon

thedetectiveandhisassistantas they busied themselveswith other cases, remindingthem that a curly-haired girlin Ladbroke Grove was stillwaiting for her mother tocomehome.Robin, at least, had a

meaningful job to do,althoughshefeltthatshewasletting Strike down. She hadreturned to the office twodays runningwithnothing toshow for her efforts, her

evidence bag empty. Thedetective had warned her toerr on the side of caution, tobail at the least sign that shemight have been noticed orremembered.He did not liketo be explicit about howrecognisable he thought her,even with her red-gold hairpiledunderabeaniehat.Shewasverygood-looking.‘I’m not sure I need to be

quite so cautious,’ she said,having followed his

instructionstotheletter.‘Let’s remember what

we’re dealing with here,Robin,’ he snapped, anxietycontinuing to whine in hisgut. ‘Quinedidn’t ripouthisownguts.’Some of his fears were

strangely amorphous.Naturally heworried that thekiller would yet escape, thatthereweregreat,gapingholesin the fragile cobweb of acase he was building, a case

thatjustnowwasbuiltlargelyoutofhisownreconstructiveimaginings, that neededphysicalevidencetoanchoritdown lest the police anddefencecounselblewitcleanaway. But he had otherworries.Much as he had disliked

the Mystic Bob tag withwhich Anstis had saddledhim, Strike had a sense ofapproaching danger now,almostasstronglyaswhenhe

hadknown,withoutquestion,that the Vikingwas about toblow up around him.Intuition, they called it, butStrike knew it to be thereading of subtle signs, thesubconscious joining of dots.A clear picture of the killerwasemergingoutofthemassofdisconnectedevidence,andthe image was stark andterrifying: a case ofobsession, of violent rage, ofa calculating, brilliant but

profoundlydisturbedmind.Thelongerhehungaround,

refusing to let go, the closerhe circled, themore targetedhis questioning, the greaterthe chance that the killermight wake up to the threathe posed. Strike hadconfidence inhisownabilitytodetectandrepelattack,buthe could not contemplatewithequanimitythesolutionsthatmightoccurtoadiseasedmind that had shown itself

fondofByzantinecruelty.The days of Polworth’s

leavecameandwentwithouttangibleresults.‘Don’t give up now,

Diddy,’ he told Strike overthe phone. Characteristically,the fruitlessness of hisendeavours seemed to havestimulated rather thandiscouraged Polworth. ‘I’mgoing to pull a sickieMonday. I’ll have anotherbash.’

‘Ican’taskyoutodothat,’muttered Strike, frustrated.‘Thedrive—’‘I’m offering, you

ungrateful peg-leggedbastard.’‘Penny’ll kill you. What

about her Christmasshopping?’‘What aboutmy chance to

show up the Met?’ saidPolworth, who disliked thecapital and its inhabitants onlong-heldprinciple.

‘You’re a mate, Chum,’saidStrike.When he had hung up, he

sawRobin’sgrin.‘What’sfunny?’‘“Chum”,’ she said. It

sounded so public school, sounlikeStrike.‘It’s not what you think,’

said Strike. He was halfwaythrough the story of DavePolworthand thesharkwhenhis mobile rang again: anunknown number.He picked

up.‘Is that Cameron – er –

Strike?’‘Speaking.’‘It’s Jude Graham ’ere.

KathKent’sneighbour.She’sback,’ said the female voicehappily.‘That’s good news,’ said

Strike, with a thumbs-up toRobin.‘Yeah, she got back this

morning.Gotafriendstayingwith ’er. I asked ’er where

she’d been, but shewouldn’tsay,’saidtheneighbour.Strike remembered that

Jude Graham thought him ajournalist.‘Is the friend male or

female?’‘Female,’ she answered

regretfully. ‘Tall skinny darkgirl, she’s always hangingaroundKath.’‘That’s very helpful, Ms

Graham,’ said Strike. ‘I’ll –er – put something through

your door later for yourtrouble.’‘Great,’said theneighbour

happily.‘Cheers.’Sherangoff.‘Kath Kent’s back at

home,’ Strike told Robin.‘Sounds like she’s got PippaMidgleystayingwithher.’‘Oh,’ said Robin, trying

not to smile. ‘I, er, supposeyou’re regretting you put herinaheadlocknow?’Strikegrinnedruefully.

‘They’re not going to talktome,’hesaid.‘No,’ Robin agreed. ‘I

don’tthinktheywill.’‘Suits them fine, Leonora

intheclink.’‘If you told them your

whole theory, they mightcooperate,’suggestedRobin.Strike stroked his chin,

looking at Robin withoutseeingher.‘Ican’t,’hesaidfinally.‘If

it leaks out that I’m sniffing

up that tree, I’llbe luckynottogetaknifeinthebackonedarknight.’‘Areyouserious?’‘Robin,’saidStrike,mildly

exasperated, ‘Quine was tiedupanddisembowelled.’Hesatdownonthearmof

thesofa,whichsqueakedlessthanthecushionsbutgroanedunderhisweight,andsaid:‘PippaMidgleylikedyou.’‘I’ll do it,’ said Robin at

once.

‘Not alone,’ he said, ‘butmaybe you could getme in?Howaboutthisevening?’‘Of course!’ she said,

elated.Hadn’t she and Matthew

established new rules? Thiswas the first time she hadtested him, but she went tothe telephone withconfidence. His reactionwhen she told him that shedidnotknowwhenshewouldbehome thatnight couldnot

havebeencalledenthusiastic,but he accepted the newswithoutdemur.So, at seven o’clock that

evening, having discussed atlength the tactics that theywere about to employ,Strikeand Robin proceededseparately through the icynight, tenminutes apartwithRobininthelead,toStaffordCrippsHouse.A gang of youths stood

again in the concrete

forecourt of the block andthey did not permitRobin topass with the wary respecttheyhadaccordedStrike twoweeks previously. One ofthem danced backwardsahead of her as sheapproached the inner stairs,inviting her to party, tellingher she was beautiful,laughing derisively at hersilence, while his matesjeered behind her in thedarkness, discussing her rear

view. As they entered theconcrete stairwell hertaunter’s jeers echoedstrangely. She thought hemightbeseventeenatmost.‘Ineedtogoupstairs,’she

said firmly as he slouchedacross the stairwell for hismates’amusement,butsweathad prickled on her scalp.He’s a kid, she told herself.AndStrike’srightbehindyou.The thought gave hercourage.‘Getoutoftheway,

please,’shesaid.He hesitated, dropped a

sneering comment about herfigure, and moved. She halfexpected him to grab her asshepassedbuthe lopedbackto his mates, all of themcalling filthy names after heras she climbed the stairs andemerged with relief, withoutbeing followed, on to thebalcony leading to KathKent’sflat.The lights inside were on.

Robin paused for a second,gathering herself, then rangthedoorbell.After some seconds the

door opened a cautious sixinches and there stood amiddle-aged woman with alongtangleofredhair.‘Kathryn?’‘Yeah?’ said the woman

suspiciously.‘I’ve got some very

important information foryou,’ said Robin. ‘You need

tohearthis.’(‘Don’t say“Ineed to talk

to you”,’ Strike had coachedher, ‘or “I’ve got somequestions”. You frame it sothat it sounds like it’s to heradvantage. Get as far as youcan without telling her whoyou are; make it soundurgent,makeherworryshe’sgoing to miss something ifshe letsyougo.Youwant tobeinsidebeforeshecanthinkit through. Use her name.

Make a personal connection.Keeptalking.’)‘What?’ demanded

KathrynKent.‘Can I come in?’ asked

Robin. ‘It’s very cold outhere.’‘Whoareyou?’‘You need to hear this,

Kathryn.’‘Who—?’‘Kath?’ said someone

behindher.‘Areyouajournalist?’

‘I’m a friend,’ Robinimprovised,her toesover thethreshold.‘Iwanttohelpyou,Kathryn.’‘Hey—’A familiar long pale face

and large brown eyesappearedbesideKath’s.‘It’sher I toldyouabout!’

said Pippa. ‘She works withhim—’‘Pippa,’ said Robin,

making eye contact with thetall girl, ‘you know I’m on

yourside–there’ssomethingI need to tell you both, it’surgent—’Her footwas two thirdsof

theway across the threshold.Robin put every ounce ofearnest persuasiveness thatshe could muster into herexpressionasshelookedintoPippa’spanickedeyes.‘Pippa, I wouldn’t have

come if I didn’t think it wasreallyimportant—’‘Let her in,’ Pippa told

Kathryn.Shesoundedscared.The hallwas cramped and

seemedfullofhangingcoats.Kathryn led Robin into asmall, lamp-lit sitting roomwith plain magnolia-paintedwalls.Browncurtainshungatthe windows, the fabric sothin that the lights ofbuildings opposite anddistant, passing cars shonethrough them. A slightlygrubbyorange throwcoveredthe old sofa, which sat on a

rug patterned with swirlingabstract shapes, and theremains of a Chinesetakeaway sat on the cheappine coffee table. In thecorner was a ricketycomputer table bearing alaptop. The two women,Robin saw, with a pang ofsomething like remorse, hadbeen decorating a small fakeChristmas tree together. Astring of lights lay on thefloorandtherewereanumber

of decorations on the onlyarmchair.Oneof themwasachina disc reading FutureFamousWriter!‘What d’you want?’

demandedKathrynKent, herarmsfolded.She was glaring at Robin

throughsmall,fierceeyes.‘May I sit down?’ said

RobinandshedidsowithoutwaitingforKathryn’sanswer.(‘Make yourself at home asmuch as you can without

beingrude,makeitharderforher to dislodge you,’ Strikehadsaid.)‘What d’you want?’

KathrynKentrepeated.Pippa stood in frontof the

windows, staring at Robin,whosawthatshewasfiddlingwithatreeornament:amousedressedasSanta.‘You know that Leonora

Quine’s been arrested formurder?’saidRobin.‘Of course I do. I’m the

one,’ Kathryn pointed at herownamplechest,‘whofoundthe Visa bill with the ropes,theburqaand theoverallsonit.’‘Yes,’saidRobin, ‘Iknow

that.’‘Ropes and a burqa!’

ejaculated Kathryn Kent.‘Gotmore than he bargainedfor,didn’the?Allthoseyearsthinking she was just somedowdy little… boring little –littlecow–andlookwhatshe

didtohim!’‘Yes,’saidRobin, ‘Iknow

itlooksthatway.’‘What d’youmean, “looks

that”—?’‘Kathryn, I’ve come here

towarnyou:theydon’tthinkshedidit.’(‘No specifics. Don’t

mention the police explicitlyif you can avoid it, don’tcommit to a checkable story,keepitvague,’Strikehadtoldher.)

‘What d’you mean?’repeated Kathryn sharply.‘Thepolicedon’t—?’‘Andyouhadaccesstohis

card, more opportunities tocopyit—’Kathryn looked wildly

from Robin to Pippa, whowas clutching the Santa-mouse,white-faced.‘But Strike doesn’t think

youdidit,’saidRobin.‘Who?’ said Kathryn. She

appeared too confused, too

panicked,tothinkstraight.‘Her boss,’ stage-

whisperedPippa.‘Him!’ said Kathryn,

rounding on Robin again.‘He’sworkingforLeonora!’‘He doesn’t think you did

it,’ repeated Robin, ‘evenwiththecreditcardbill– thefactyouevenhad it. Imean,itlooksodd,buthe’ssureyouhaditbyacci—’‘She gave it me!’ said

Kathryn Kent, flinging out

her arms, gesticulatingfuriously.‘Hisdaughter–shegave it me, I never evenlookedonthebackforweeks,neverthoughtto.Iwasbeingnice, taking her crappybloodypictureandactinglikeit was good – I was beingnice!’‘I understand that,’ said

Robin. ‘We believe you,Kathryn, I promise. Strikewants to find the real killer,he’s not like the police.’

(‘Insinuate, don’t state.’)‘He’s not interested in justgrabbing the next womanQuine might’ve – you know—’The words let tie him up

hungintheair,unspoken.Pippa was easier to read

than Kathryn. Credulous andeasilypanicked,shelookedatKathryn,whoseemedfurious.‘Maybe I don’t care who

killed him!’ Kathryn snarledthroughclenchedteeth.

‘Butyousurelydon’twanttobearrest—?’‘I’ve only got your word

foritthey’reinterestedinme!There’s been nothing on thenews!’‘Well…therewouldn’tbe,

would there?’ said Robingently.‘Thepolicedon’tholdpress conferences toannouncethattheythinktheymighthavethewrongpers—’‘Who had the credit card?

Her.’

‘Quine usually had ithimself,’saidRobin,‘andhiswife’s not the only personwhohadaccess.’‘Howd’youknowwhatthe

police are thinking anymorethanIdo?’‘Strike’sgotgoodcontacts

at the Met,’ said Robincalmly. ‘He was inAfghanistan with theinvestigating officer, RichardAnstis.’Thenameof themanwho

had interrogated her seemedtocarryweightwithKathryn.SheglancedatPippaagain.‘Why’re you telling me

this?’Kathryndemanded.‘Becausewedon’twant to

see another innocent womanarrested,’ said Robin,‘because we think the policeare wasting time sniffingaround thewrongpeopleandbecause,’ (‘throw in a bit ofself-interest once you’vebaited the hook, it keeps

thingsplausible’)‘obviously,’said Robin, with a show ofawkwardness, ‘it would doCormorana lotofgood ifhewas theonewhogot the realkiller.Again,’sheadded.‘Yeah,’ said Kathryn,

nodding vehemently, ‘that’sit, isn’t it? He wants thepublicity.’No woman who had been

with Owen Quine for twoyears was going to believethat publicity wasn’t an

unqualifiedboon.‘Look, we just wanted to

warn you how they’rethinking,’saidRobin,‘andtoask for your help. Butobviously, if you don’twant…’Robinmadetostand.(‘Once you’ve laid it out

forher,act likeyoucan takeit or leave it. You’re therewhenshestartschasingyou.’)‘I’ve told the police

everything I know,’ said

Kathryn, who appeareddisconcertednow thatRobin,whowas taller than her, hadstoodupagain.‘Ihaven’tgotanythingelsetosay.’‘Well, we’re not sure they

were asking the rightquestions,’ said Robin,sinking back onto the sofa.‘You’re a writer,’ she said,turningsuddenlyoffthepistethat Strike had prepared forher,hereyesonthelaptopinthe corner. ‘You notice

things. You understood himand his work better thananyoneelse.’The unexpected swerve

into flattery caused whateverwords of fury Kathryn hadbeen about to fling at Robin(her mouth had been open,ready to deliver them) to dieinherthroat.‘So?’ Kathryn said. Her

aggression felt a little fakenow. ‘What d’you want toknow?’

‘Will you let Strike comeand hear what you’ve got tosay? He won’t if you don’twant him to,’ Robin assuredher(anofferunsanctionedbyher boss). ‘He respects yourright to refuse.’ (Strike hadmade no such declaration.)‘But he’d like to hear it inyourownwords.’‘Idon’tknowthatI’vegot

anything useful to say,’ saidKathryn, folding her armsagain, but she could not

disguise a ring of gratifiedvanity.‘Iknowit’sabigask,’said

Robin,‘butifyouhelpusgettherealkiller,Kathryn,you’llbe in thepapers for the rightreasons.’The promise of it settled

gentlyoverthesittingroom–Kathryninterviewedbyeagerandnowadmiringjournalists,asking about her work,perhaps: Tell me aboutMelina’sSacrifice…

Kathryn glanced sidewaysatPippa,whosaid:‘That bastard kidnapped

me!’‘You tried to attack him,

Pip,’ said Kathryn. Sheturned a little anxiously toRobin.‘Inevertoldhertodothat.Shewas–afterwe sawwhathe’dwritteninthebook– we were both… and wethoughthe–yourboss–hadbeenhiredtofitusup.’‘I understand,’ lied Robin,

who found the reasoningtortuous and paranoid, butperhaps that was whatspending time with OwenQuinedidtoaperson.‘She got carried away and

didn’t think,’ said Kathryn,with a look of mingledaffection and reproof at herprotégée. ‘Pip’s got temperissues.’‘Understandable,’ said

Robin hypocritically. ‘May Icall Cormoran – Strike, I

mean? Ask him to meet ushere?’Shehadalreadyslippedher

mobileoutofherpocketandglanceddownatit.Strikehadtextedher:

Onbalcony.Bloodyfreezing.

Shetextedback:

Wait5.

In fact, she needed onlythree minutes. Softened byRobin’searnestnessandairofunderstanding, and by theencouragement of thealarmedPippatoletStrikeinand find out theworst,whenhe finally knocked Kathrynproceeded to the front doorwith something close toalacrity.The room seemed much

smallerwithhisarrival.Nextto Kathryn, Strike appeared

huge and almostunnecessarilymale;whenshehad swept it clear ofChristmas ornaments, hedwarfed the only armchair.Pippa retreated to the end ofthe sofa and perched on thearm, throwing Strike lookscomposed of defiance andterror.‘D’you want a drink of

something?’KathrynthrewatStrike in his heavy overcoat,with his size fourteen feet

planted squarely on herswirlyrug.‘Cup of tea would be

great,’hesaid.She left for the tiny

kitchen.FindingherselfalonewithStrike andRobin,Pippapanicked and scuttled afterher.‘You’ve done bloody

well,’ Strike murmured toRobin, ‘if they’re offeringtea.’‘She’sveryproudofbeing

a writer,’ Robin breathedback,‘whichmeansshecouldunderstand him in ways thatotherpeople…’But Pippa had returned

with a box of cheap biscuitsand Strike and Robin fellsilentatonce.Pipparesumedherseatattheendofthesofa,casting Strike frightenedsidelong glances that had, aswhen she had cowered intheir office, a whiff oftheatrical enjoyment about

them.‘This is very good of you,

Kathryn,’ said Strike, whenshe had set a tray of tea onthe table. One of the mugs,Robin saw, read Keep ClamandProofread.‘We’ll see,’ retorted Kent,

herarmsfoldedassheglaredathimfromaheight.‘Kath, sit,’ coaxed Pippa,

and Kathryn sat reluctantlydown between Pippa andRobinonthesofa.

Strike’sfirstprioritywastonurse the tenuous trust thatRobinhadmanagedtofoster;thedirectattackhadnoplacehere. He therefore embarkedonaspeechechoingRobin’s,implying that the authoritieswere having second thoughtsabout Leonora’s arrest andthat they were reviewing thecurrent evidence, avoidingdirect mention of the policeyetimplyingwitheverywordthattheMetwasnowturning

itsattention toKathrynKent.Ashespokeasirenechoedinthe distance. Strike addedassurances that he personallyfelt sure that Kent wascompletely in the clear, butthathesawherasa resourcethe police had failed tounderstandorutiliseproperly.‘Yeah, well, you could be

rightthere,’shesaid.Shehadnotsomuchblossomedunderhis soothing words asunclenched. Picking up the

KeepClammugshesaidwitha show of disdain, ‘All theywanted to know about wasoursexlife.’ThewayAnstishadtoldit,

Strike remembered, Kathrynhad volunteered a lot ofinformation on the subjectwithout being put underunduepressure.‘I’m not interested in your

sex life,’ said Strike. ‘It’sobvious he wasn’t – to beblunt – getting what he

wantedathome.’‘Hadn’t slept with her in

years,’ said Kathryn.Remembering thephotographs in Leonora’sbedroom of Quine tied up,Robindroppedhergazetothesurfaceofher tea. ‘Theyhadnothing in common. Hecouldn’t talk toherabouthiswork, she wasn’t interested,didn’t give a damn. He toldus–didn’the?’–shelookedup at Pippa, perched on the

arm of the sofa beside her –‘she never even read hisbooks properly. He wantedsomeonetoconnecttoonthatlevel.He could really talk tomeaboutliterature.’‘And me,’ said Pippa,

launching at once into aspeech:‘Hewasinterestedinidentity politics, you know,andhetalkedtomeforhoursaboutwhatitwaslikeformebeing born, basically, in thewrong—’

‘Yeah,he toldme itwasarelief to be able to talk tosomeone who actuallyunderstood his work,’ saidKathryn loudly, drowningPippaout.‘I thought so,’ said Strike,

nodding. ‘And the policedidn’t bother asking youaboutanyofthis,Itakeit?’‘Well, they asked where

we met and I told them: onhis creative writing course,’said Kathryn. ‘It was just

gradual, you know, he wasinterestedinmywriting…’‘… in our writing…’ said

Pippaquietly.Kathryn talked at length,

Strike nodding with everyappearance of interest at thegradual progression of theteacher–student relationshipto something much warmer,Pippa tagging along, itseemed, and leaving Quineand Kathryn only at thebedroomdoor.

‘I write fantasy with atwist,’ said Kathryn andStrike was surprised and alittle amused that she hadbeguntotalklikeFancourt:inrehearsed phrases, in sound-bites.Hewonderedfleetinglyhow many people who satalone for hours as theyscribbled their storiespractised talking about theirwork during their coffeebreaks and he rememberedwhat Waldegrave had told

himaboutQuine, thathehadfreely admitted to role-playing interviews with abiro. ‘It’s fantasy slasherotica really, but quiteliterary. And that’s the thingabout traditional publishing,youknow,theydon’twanttotake a chance on somethingthat hasn’t been seen before,it’s all about what fits theirsalescategories,andifyou’reblending several genres, ifyou’re creating something

entirelynew,they’reafraidtotake a chance… I know thatLiz Tassel,’ Kathryn spokethenameas though itwereamedical complaint, ‘toldOwen my work was tooniche. But that’s the greatthing about indie publishing,thefreedom—’‘Yeah,’ said Pippa, clearly

desperate to put in her twopennys’ worth, ‘that’s true,forgenrefictionI thinkindiecanbethewaytogo—’

‘Except I’m not reallygenre,’ said Kathryn, with aslightfrown,‘that’smypoint—’‘—but Owen felt that for

my memoir I’d do bettergoing the traditional route,’said Pippa. ‘You know, hehad a real interest in genderidentityandhewasfascinatedwithwhatI’dbeenthrough.Iintroducedhimtoacoupleofother transgendered peopleandhepromisedtotalktohis

editor about me, because hethought, with the rightpromotion, you know, andwith a story that’s neverreallybeentold—’‘Owen loved Melina’s

Sacrifice, he couldn’twait toread on. He was practicallyripping it out of my handevery time I finished achapter,’saidKathrynloudly,‘andhetoldme—’She stopped abruptly in

mid-flow. Pippa’s evident

irritation at being interruptedfaded ludicrously from herface. Both of them, Robincould tell, had suddenlyremembered that all the timeQuine had been showeringthem with effusiveencouragement, interest andpraise, the characters ofHarpyandEpicoenehadbeentaking obscene shape on anoldelectric typewriterhiddenfromtheireagergazes.‘Sohe talked toyouabout

hisownwork?’Strikeasked.‘A bit,’ saidKathrynKent

inaflatvoice.‘Howlongwasheworking

on Bombyx Mori, do youknow?’‘Most of the time I knew

him,’shesaid.‘Whatdidhesayaboutit?’There was a pause.

Kathryn and Pippa looked ateachother.‘I’ve already told him,’

Pippa told Kathryn, with a

significant glance at Strike,‘that he told us it was goingtobedifferent.’‘Yeah,’ said Kathryn

heavily.Shefoldedherarms.‘Hedidn’ttellusitwasgoingtobelikethat.’Like that… Strike

remembered the brown,glutinous substance that hadleaked from Harpy’s breasts.It had been, for him, one ofthe most revolting images inthebook.Kathryn’ssister,he

remembered, had died ofbreastcancer.‘Did he say what it was

going to be like?’ Strikeasked.‘He lied,’ said Kathryn

simply.‘Hesaiditwasgoingto be the writer’s journey orsomethingbuthemadeout…he told us we were going tobe…’‘“Beautiful lost souls,”’

said Pippa, on whom thephrase seemed to have

impresseditself.‘Yeah,’ said Kathryn

heavily.‘Didheeverreadanyof it

toyou,Kathryn?’‘No,’shesaid.‘Hesaidhe

wantedittobea–a—’‘Oh, Kath,’ said Pippa

tragically.Kathrynhadburiedherfaceinherhands.‘Here,’ said Robin kindly,

delving into her handbag fortissues.‘No,’ said Kathryn

roughly, pushing herself offthesofaanddisappearingintothe kitchen. She came backwithahandfulofkitchenroll.‘Hesaid,’sherepeated,‘he

wanted it to be a surprise.Thatbastard,’shesaid,sittingbackdown.‘Bastard.’Shedabbedathereyesand

shook her head, the longmane of red hair swaying,whilePipparubbedherback.‘Pippa told me,’ said

Strike,‘thatQuineputacopy

of the manuscript throughyourdoor.’‘Yeah,’saidKathryn.Itwasclear thatPippahad

already confessed to thisindiscretion.‘Jude next door saw him

doing it. She’s a nosy bitch,alwayskeepingtabsonme.’Strike,whohadjustputan

additional twenty through thenosyneighbour’sletterboxasa thank-you for keeping himinformed of Kathryn’s

movements,asked:‘When?’‘Early hours of the sixth,’

saidKathryn.Strike could almost feel

Robin’s tension andexcitement.‘Were the lights outside

your front door workingthen?’‘Them? They’ve been out

formonths.’‘DidshespeaktoQuine?’‘No, just peered out the

window. It was two in themorning or something, shewasn’tgoingtogooutsideinher nightie. But she’d seenhim come and go loads oftimes. She knew what he l-looked like,’saidKathrynona sob, ‘in his s-stupid cloakandhat.’‘Pippa said there was a

note,’saidStrike.‘Yeah–“Payback time for

bothofus”,’saidKathryn.‘Haveyoustillgotit?’

‘Iburnedit,’saidKathryn.‘Was it addressed to you?

“DearKathryn”?’‘No,’ she said, ‘just the

message and a bloody kiss.Bastard!’shesobbed.‘ShallIgoandgetussome

real drink?’ volunteeredRobinsurprisingly.‘There’s some in the

kitchen,’ said Kathryn, herreply muffled by applicationof the kitchen roll to hermouth and cheeks. ‘Pip, you

getit.’‘You were sure the note

was from him?’ asked StrikeasPippaspedoffinpursuitofalcohol.‘Yeah, it was his

handwriting, I’d know itanywhere,’saidKathryn.‘What did you understand

byit?’‘I dunno,’ said Kathryn

weakly, wiping heroverflowing eyes. ‘Paybackformebecausehehadagoat

his wife? And payback forhimon everyone…evenme.Gutless bastard,’ she said,unconsciously echoingMichael Fancourt. ‘Hecould’ve told me he didn’twant… if he wanted to endit…whydo that?Why?Andit wasn’t just me… Pip…making out he cared, talkingto her about her life… she’shad an awful time… Imean,her memoir’s not greatliteratureoranything,but—’

Pippa returned carryingclinking glasses and a bottleof brandy, and Kathryn fellsilent.‘We were saving this for

the Christmas pudding,’ saidPippa, deftly uncorking thecognac.‘Thereyougo,Kath.’Kathryn took a large

brandy and swigged it downinone. It seemed tohave thedesired effect. With a sniff,she straightened her back.Robin accepted a small

measure.Strikedeclined.‘When did you read the

manuscript?’ he askedKathryn, who was alreadyhelping herself to morebrandy.‘Same day I found it, on

theninth,whenIgothometograb some more clothes. I’dbeen staying with Angela atthe hospice, see… he hadn’tpicked up any of my callssince bonfire night, not one,and I’d told himAngelawas

really bad, I’d leftmessages.ThenIcamehomeandfoundthe manuscript all over thefloor. I thought, Is that whyhe’snotpickingup,hewantsmetoreadthisfirst?Itookitback to the hospice with meandreadit there,whileIwassittingbyAngela.’Robin could only imagine

howitwouldhavefelttoreadher lover’s depiction of herwhileshesatbesideherdyingsister’sbed.

‘I called Pip – didn’t I?’said Kathryn; Pippa nodded,‘—and told her what he’ddone. I kept calling him, buthe still wouldn’t pick up.Well,afterAngelahaddiedIthought,Screwit.I’mcomingto findyou.’ The brandy hadgiven colour to Kathryn’swan cheeks. ‘I went to theirhouse but when I saw her –hiswife–Icouldtellshewastelling the truth. He wasn’tthere.SoItoldhertotellhim

Angela was dead. He’d metAngela,’ said Kathryn, herface crumpling again. Pippaset down her own glass andput her arms aroundKathryn’s shaking shoulders,‘Ithoughthe’drealiseatleastwhathe’ddonetomewhenIwas losing… when I’dlost…’For over a minute there

were no sounds in the roombut Kathryn’s sobs and thedistant yells of the youths in

thecourtyardbelow.‘I’m sorry,’ said Strike

formally.‘It must have been awful

foryou,’saidRobin.A fragile sense of

comradeship bound the fourof them now. They couldagree on one thing, at least;that Owen Quine hadbehavedverybadly.‘It’syourpowersoftextual

analysis I’m really here for,’StriketoldKathrynwhenshe

hadagaindriedhereyes,nowswollentoslitsinherface.‘What d’you mean?’ she

asked, but Robin heardgratified pride behind thecurtness.‘I don’t understand some

of what Quine wrote inBombyxMori.’‘Itisn’thard,’shesaid,and

again she unknowinglyechoed Fancourt: ‘It won’twin prizes for subtlety, willit?’

‘Idon’tknow,’saidStrike.‘There’s one very intriguingcharacter.’‘Vainglorious?’shesaid.Naturally, he thought, she

would jump to thatconclusion. Fancourt wasfamous.‘I was thinking of the

Cutter.’‘I don’twant to talk about

that,’ she said, with asharpness that took Robinaback. Kathryn glanced at

Pippa and Robin recognisedthe mutual glow, poorlydisguised,ofasharedsecret.‘He pretended to be better

than that,’ said Kathryn. ‘Hepretended there were somethingsthatweresacred.Thenhewentand…’‘Nobody seems towant to

interpret the Cutter for me,’saidStrike.‘That’sbecausesomeofus

have some decency,’ saidKathryn.

Strike caught Robin’s eye.He was urging her to takeover.‘Jerry Waldegrave’s

already told Cormoran thathe’s the Cutter,’ she saidtentatively.‘I like Jerry Waldegrave,’

saidKathryndefiantly.‘You met him?’ asked

Robin.‘Owen tookme to aparty,

Christmas before last,’ shesaid. ‘Waldegrave was there.

Sweetman.He’dhadafew,’shesaid.‘Drinking even then, was

he?’interjectedStrike.It was a mistake; he had

encouraged Robin to takeover because he guessed thatshe seemed less frightening.His interruption madeKathrynclamup.‘Anyoneelse interestingat

the party?’ Robin asked,sippingherbrandy.‘Michael Fancourt was

there,’ said Kathryn at once.‘Peoplesayhe’sarrogant,butIthoughthewascharming.’‘Oh – did you speak to

him?’‘Owen wanted me to stay

well away,’ she said, ‘but IwenttotheLadiesandonthewaybackIjusttoldhimhowmuch I’d loved House ofHollow.Owenwouldn’thaveliked that,’ she said withpatheticsatisfaction. ‘Alwaysgoing on about Fancourt

being overrated, but I thinkhe’smarvellous.Anyway,wetalked for a while and thensomeone pulled him away,but yes,’ she repeateddefiantly,asthoughtheshadeof Owen Quine were in theroom and could hear herpraising his rival, ‘he wascharming tome. Wished meluck with my writing,’ shesaid,sippingherbrandy.‘Didyoutellhimyouwere

Owen’s girlfriend?’ asked

Robin.‘Yes,’saidKathryn,witha

twist to her smile, ‘and helaughed and said, “You havemycommiserations.”Itdidn’tbother him. He didn’t careabout Owen any more, Icould tell.No, I think he’s anice man and a marvellouswriter. People are envious,aren’t they, when you’resuccessful?’She poured herself more

brandy. She was holding it

remarkably well. Other thantheflushithadbroughttoherface, there was no sign oftipsinessatall.‘And you liked Jerry

Waldegrave,’ said Robin,almostabsent-mindedly.‘Oh, he’s lovely,’ said

Kathryn, on a roll now,praising anyone that Quinemighthaveattacked. ‘Lovelyman. He was very, verydrunk, though. He was in aside room and people were

steering clear, you know.That bitch Tassel told us toleave him to it, that he wastalkinggibberish.’‘Why do you call her a

bitch?’askedRobin.‘Snobby old cow,’ said

Kathryn. ‘Way she spoke tome, to everyone.But I knowwhat it was: she was upsetbecause Michael Fancourtwas there. I said to her –Owen had gone off to see ifJerrywasall right,hewasn’t

goingtoleavehimpassedoutin a chair, whatever that oldbitch said – I told her: “I’vejustbeen talking toFancourt,hewascharming.”Shedidn’tlike that,’ said Kathryn withsatisfaction. ‘Didn’t like theideaofhimbeingcharmingtomewhenhehatesher.Owentoldmesheusedtobeinlovewith Fancourt and hewouldn’tgiveherthetimeofday.’She relished the gossip,

however old. For that night,at least, she had been aninsider.‘She left soon after I told

her that,’ said Kathryn withsatisfaction. ‘Horriblewoman.’‘Michael Fancourt told

me,’saidStrike,andtheeyesof Kathryn and Pippa wereinstantly riveted on him,eagertohearwhatthefamouswriter might have said, ‘thatOwen Quine and Elizabeth

Tasseloncehadanaffair.’One moment of stupefied

silence and then KathrynKent burst out laughing. Itwas unquestionably genuine:raucous, almost joyful,shrieksfilledtheroom.‘Owen and Elizabeth

Tassel?’‘That’swhathesaid.’Pippa beamed at the sight

andsoundofKathrynKent’sexuberant, unexpected mirth.Sherolledagainstthebackof

the sofa, trying to catch herbreath; brandy slopped ontohertrousersassheshookwithwhatseemedentirelygenuineamusement.Pippacaught thehysteria from her and begantolaughtoo.‘Never,’ panted Kathryn,

‘in…a…million…years…’‘This would have been a

long time ago,’ said Strike,but her long redmane shookas shecontinued to roarwithunfeignedlaughter.

‘Owen and Liz… never.Never, ever… you don’tunderstand,’ she said, nowdabbing at eyes wet withmirth. ‘He thought she wasawful. He would’ve toldme… Owen talked abouteveryone he’d slept with, hewasn’t agentleman like that,washe,Pip? I’dhaveknownifthey’dever…Idon’tknowwhere Michael Fancourt gotthat from. Never,’ saidKathryn Kent, with unforced

merriment and totalconviction.The laughter had loosened

herup.‘But youdon’t knowwhat

the Cutter really meant?’Robin asked her, setting herempty brandy glass down onthepinecoffeetablewiththefinality of a guest about totaketheirleave.‘I never said I didn’t

know,’saidKathryn,stilloutofbreath fromherprotracted

laughter. ‘I do know. It wasjust awful, to do it to Jerry.Such a bloody hypocrite…Owentellsmenottomentionittoanyoneandthenhegoesand puts it in BombyxMori…’RobindidnotneedStrike’s

look to tell her to remainsilent and let Kathryn’sbrandy-fuelled good humour,her enjoyment of theirundivided attention and thereflected glory of knowing

sensitivesecretsaboutliteraryfiguresdotheirwork.‘All right,’ she said. ‘All

right,hereitis…‘Owentoldmeaswewere

leaving.Jerrywasverydrunkthat night and you know hismarriage is on the rocks, hasbeen for years… he andFenella had had a reallyterrible row the night beforethe party and she’d told himthat their daughtermight notbehis.Thatshemightbe…’

Strike knew what wascoming.‘… Fancourt’s,’ said

Kathryn, after a suitablydramatic pause. ‘The dwarfwith the big head, the babyshe thought of abortingbecause she didn’t knowwhoseitwas,d’yousee?TheCutter with his cuckold’shorns…‘And Owen told me to

keepmymouthshut.“It’snotfunny,” he said, “Jerry loves

hisdaughter,onlygoodthinghe’s got in his life.” But hetalked about it all the wayhome. On and on aboutFancourtandhowmuchhe’dhate finding out he had adaughter, because Fancourtneverwanted kids…All thatbullshit about protectingJerry! Anything to get atMichaelFancourt.Anything.’

46

Leander strived; thewavesabouthimwound,And pulled him to thebottom, where thegroundWas strewed withpearl…

ChristopherMarlowe,HeroandLeander

Grateful for the effect ofcheap brandy and to Robin’sparticular combination ofclear-headednessandwarmth,Strike parted from her withmany thanks half an hourlater.RobintravelledhometoMatthew in a glow ofgratification and excitement,looking more kindly onStrike’stheoryastothekillerofOwenQuine than she had

done before. This was partlybecausenothing thatKathrynKent had said hadcontradicted it, but mainlybecause she felt particularlywarm towards her boss afterthesharedinterrogation.Strike returned to his attic

rooms in a less elevatedframeofmind.Hehaddrunknothing but tea and believedmorestronglythaneverinhistheory, but all the proof hecould offer was a single

typewriter cassette: it wouldnotbeenoughtooverturnthepolicecaseagainstLeonora.There were hard frosts

overnight on Saturday andSunday, but during thedaytimeglimmersofsunshinepierced the cloud blanket.Rain turned some of theaccumulated snow in thegutterstoslidingslush.Strikebrooded alone between hisroomsandhisoffice,ignoringa call from Nina Lascelles

and turning down aninvitation to dinner at Nickand Ilsa’s, pleadingpaperwork but actuallypreferring solitude withoutpressure todiscuss theQuinecase.Heknewthathewasacting

as though he were held to aprofessionalstandardthathadceased to applywhenhehadleft the Special InvestigationBranch. Though legally freeto gossip to whomever he

pleased about his suspicions,hecontinued to treat themasconfidential. This was partlylongstanding habit, butmainly because (much asothers might jeer) he tookextremely seriously thepossibility that the killermight hear what he wasthinking and doing. InStrike’s opinion, the safestway of ensuring that secretinformation did not leakwasnottotellanybodyaboutit.

OnMondayhewasvisitedagain by the boss andboyfriend of the faithlessMiss Brocklehurst, whosemasochismnowextendedtoawish to know whether shehad,ashestronglysuspected,a third lover hidden awaysomewhere. Strike listenedwith half his mind on theactivities of Dave Polworth,whowas starting to feel likehis last hope. Robin’sendeavours remained

fruitless,inspiteofthehoursshe was spending pursuingtheevidencehehadaskedhertofind.At half past six that

evening, as he sat in his flatwatching the forecast, whichpredicted a return of arcticweather by the end of theweek,hisphonerang.‘Guesswhat,Diddy?’ said

Polworth down a cracklingline.‘You’re kidding me,’ said

Strike, his chest suddenlytightwithanticipation.‘Gotthelot,mate.’‘Holy shit,’ breathed

Strike.Ithadbeenhisowntheory,

buthefeltasastonishedas ifPolworth had done it allunaided.‘Bagged up here, waiting

foryou.’‘I’ll send someone for it

firstthingtomorrow—’‘And I’m gonna go home

and have a nice hot bath,’saidPolworth.‘Chum,you’reabloody—’‘I know I am. We’ll talk

about my credit later. I’mfucking freezing, Diddy, I’mgoinghome.’Strike called Robin with

the news. Her elationmatchedhisown.‘Right, tomorrow!’ she

said, full of determination.‘Tomorrow I’m going to getit,I’mgoingtomakesure—’

‘Don’tgogettingcareless,’Strike talked over her. ‘It’snotacompetition.’Hebarelysleptthatnight.Robinmadenoappearance

at the office until one in theafternoon, but the instant heheardtheglassdoorbangandheard her calling him, heknew.‘Youhaven’t—?’‘Yes,’ she said

breathlessly.She thought he was going

to hug her, which would becrossing a line he had nevereven approached before, butthe lunge she had thoughtmight be meant for her wasreally for the mobile on hisdesk.‘I’mcallingAnstis.We’ve

doneit,Robin.’‘Cormoran, I think—’

Robin started to say, but hedid not hear her. He hadhurried back into his officeand closed the door behind

him.Robin lowered herself into

her computer chair, feelinguneasy. Strike’s muffledvoiceroseandfellbeyondthedoor.Shegotuprestlesslytovisitthebathroom,whereshewashed her hands and staredinto the cracked and spottedmirror over the sink,observing the inconvenientlybright gold of her hair.Returning to the office, shesat down, could not settle to

anything,noticedthatshehadnotswitchedonhertinytinselChristmas tree, did so, andwaited, absent-mindedlybiting her thumbnail,something she had not doneforyears.Twenty minutes later, his

jaw set and his expressionugly,Strikeemergedfromtheoffice.‘Stupid fucking dickhead!’

werehisfirstwords.‘No!’gaspedRobin.

‘He’s having none of it,’said Strike, toowound up tosit, but limpingup anddowntheenclosedspace.‘He’shadthatbloodyraginthelock-upanalysedand it’sgotQuine’sbloodon it–bigeffingdeal,could’ve cut himself monthsago.He’s so in lovewithhisowneffingtheory—’‘Didyou say to him, if he

justgetsawarrant—?’‘DICKHEAD!’ roared

Strike, punching the metal

filing cabinet so that itreverberated and Robinjumped.‘But he can’t deny – once

forensicsaredone—’‘That’s the bleeding point,

Robin!’ he said, rounding onher. ‘Unless he searchesbeforehegetsforensicsdone,there might be nothing theretofind!’‘Butdidyoutellhimabout

thetypewriter?’‘If the simple fact that it’s

there doesn’t hit the prickbetweentheeyes—’She ventured no more

suggestions but watched himwalk up and down, browfurrowed, too intimidated totell him, now, what wasworryingher.‘Fuck it,’ growled Strike

onhissixthwalkback toherdesk. ‘Shock and awe. Nochoice. Al,’ he muttered,pulling out hismobile again,‘andNick.’

‘Who’s Nick?’ askedRobin, desperately trying tokeepup.‘He’smarriedtoLeonora’s

lawyer,’saidStrike,punchingbuttons on his phone. ‘Oldmate… he’s agastroenterologist…’He retreated again to his

officeandslammedthedoor.For want of anything else

todo,Robin filled thekettle,her heart hammering, andmade them both tea. The

mugs cooled, untouched,whileshewaited.When Strike emerged

fifteen minutes later, heseemedcalmer.‘Allright,’hesaid,seizing

his tea and taking a gulp.‘I’vegotaplanandI’mgoingto need you. Are you up forit?’‘Ofcourse!’saidRobin.He gave her a concise

outline ofwhat hewanted todo. It was ambitious and

would require a healthy doseofluck.‘Well?’ Strike asked her

finally.‘Noproblem,’saidRobin.‘Wemightnotneedyou.’‘No,’saidRobin.‘On the other hand, you

couldbekey.’‘Yes,’saidRobin.‘Sure that’s all right?’

Strike asked, watching herclosely.‘No problem at all,’ said

Robin. ‘I want to do it, Ireally do – it’s just,’ shehesitated,‘Ithinkhe—’‘What?’ said Strike

sharply.‘I think I’d better have a

practice,’saidRobin.‘Oh,’ said Strike, eyeing

her. ‘Yeah, fair enough. Gotuntil Thursday, I think. I’llcheckthedatenow…’He disappeared for the

third time into his inneroffice. Robin returned to her

computerchair.She desperately wanted to

playherpartinthecaptureofOwen Quine’s killer, butwhat she had been about tosay, before Strike’s sharpresponse panicked her out ofit,was:‘Ithinkhemighthaveseenme.’

47

Ha, ha, ha, thouentanglest thyself inthine own work like asilkworm.JohnWebster,TheWhite

Devil

By the light of the old-

fashioned street lamp thecartoonish murals coveringthe front of theChelseaArtsClub were strangely eerie.Circus freaks had beenpainted on the rainbow-stippled walls of a long lowline of ordinarily whitehouses knocked into one: afour-legged blonde girl, anelephanteating itskeeper, anetiolated contortionist inprison stripes whose headappeared to be disappearing

up his own anus. The clubstood in a leafy, sleepy andgenteel street, quiet with thesnowthathadreturnedwithavengeance, falling fast andmounting over roofs andpavementsasthoughthebriefrespite in the arctic winterhad never been. All throughThursday the blizzard hadgrown thicker and now,viewed through a ripplinglamp-lit curtainof icy flakes,theoldclubinitsfreshpastel

colours appeared strangelyinsubstantial, pasteboardscenery, a trompe l’œilmarquee.Strike was standing in a

shadowy alley off OldChurch Street, watching asone by one they arrived fortheir small party.He saw theaged Pinkelman helped fromhistaxibyastone-facedJerryWaldegrave, while DanielChard stood in a fur hat onhis crutches, nodding and

smiling an awkwardwelcome. Elizabeth Tasseldrew up alone in a cab,fumbling for her fare andshivering in the cold. Lastly,in a car with a driver, cameMichael Fancourt. He tookhistimegettingoutofthecar,straightening his coat beforeproceedingupthestepstothefrontdoor.The detective, on whose

densecurlyhairthesnowwasfalling thickly, pulledout his

mobile and rang his half-brother.‘Hey,’ said Al, who

soundedexcited. ‘They’re allinthediningroom.’‘Howmany?’‘’Boutadozenofthem.’‘Cominginnow.’Strike limped across the

streetwiththeaidofhisstick.Theylethiminatoncewhenhe gave his name andexplainedthathewashereasDuncanGilfedder’sguest.

Al and Gilfedder, acelebrity photographerwhomStrike was meeting for thefirst time, stood a short wayinsidetheentrance.Gilfedderseemed confused as to whoStrike was, or why he, amemberof thiseccentricandcharming club, had beenaskedbyhisacquaintanceAltoinviteaguestwhomhedidnotknow.‘My brother,’ said Al,

introducing them. He

soundedproud.‘Oh,’ said Gilfedder

blankly. He wore the sametype of glasses as ChristianFisher and his lank hair wascut in a straggly shoulder-length bob. ‘I thought yourbrotherwasyounger.’‘That’s Eddie,’ said Al.

‘This is Cormoran. Ex-army.He’sadetectivenow.’‘Oh,’ said Gilfedder,

lookingevenmorebemused.‘Thanks for this,’ Strike

said, addressing both menequally. ‘Get you anotherdrink?’Theclubwassonoisyand

packed it was hard to seemuchofitexceptglimpsesofsquashysofasandacracklinglogfire.Thewallsofthelow-ceilinged bar were liberallycovered in prints, paintingsand photographs; it had thefeeling of a country house,cosy and a little scruffy. Asthe tallest man in the room,

Strike could see over thecrowd’s heads towards thewindows at the rear of theclub. Beyond lay a largegardenlitbyexteriorlightssothat it was illuminated inpatches. A thick, pristinelayer of snow, pure andsmooth as royal icing, layover verdant shrubbery andthestonesculptureslurkingintheundergrowth.Strike reached the bar and

ordered wine for his

companions, glancing as hedidsointothediningroom.Those eating filled several

long wooden tables. Therewas the Roper Chard party,with a pair of Frenchwindows beside them, thegarden icywhite and ghostlybehind the glass. A dozenpeople,someofwhomStrikedid not recognise, hadgathered to honour theninety-year-old Pinkelman,whowassittingattheheadof

the table.Whoever had beenin charge of the placement,Strike saw, had sat ElizabethTassel andMichael Fancourtwell apart. Fancourt wastalking loudly intoPinkelman’s ear, Chardopposite him. ElizabethTassel was sitting next toJerry Waldegrave. Neitherwasspeakingtotheother.Strike passed glasses of

wine to Al and Gilfedder,then returned to the bar to

fetch a whisky for himself,deliberately maintaining aclearviewoftheRoperChardparty.‘Why,’ said a voice, clear

as a bell but somewherebelowhim,‘areyouhere?’Nina Lascelles was

standing at his elbow in thesame strappy black dress shehad worn to his birthdaydinner.Notraceofherformergiggly flirtatiousnessremained. She looked

accusatory.‘Hi,’saidStrike,surprised.

‘I didn’t expect to see youhere.’‘NorIyou,’shesaid.Hehadnotreturnedanyof

hercallsforoveraweek,notsince the night he had sleptwith her to rid himself ofthoughts of Charlotte on herweddingday.‘SoyouknowPinkelman,’

said Strike, trying for smalltalk in the face of what he

couldtellwasanimosity.‘I’m taking over some of

Jerry’s authors now he’sleaving. Pinks is one ofthem.’‘Congratulations,’ said

Strike. Still, she did notsmile.‘Waldegravestillcametotheparty,though?’‘Pinks is fond of Jerry.

Why,’ she repeated, ‘are youhere?’‘DoingwhatIwashiredto

do,’ said Strike. ‘Trying to

find out who killed OwenQuine.’Sherolledhereyes,clearly

feeling that he was pushinghispersistencepastajoke.‘Howdidyouget inhere?

It’smembersonly.’‘I’ve got a contact,’ said

Strike.‘You didn’t think of using

meagain,then?’sheasked.He did not much like the

reflection of himself he sawin her largemouse-like eyes.

Therewasnodenyingthathehad used her repeatedly. Ithadbecomecheap,shameful,andshedeservedbetter.‘I thought that might be

gettingold,’saidStrike.‘Yeah,’ said Nina. ‘You

thoughtright.’She turned from him and

walked back to the table,filling the last vacant seat,between two employeeswhomhedidnotknow.Strike was in Jerry

Waldegrave’s direct line ofvision. Waldegrave caughtsight of him and Strike sawthe editor’s eyes widenbehind his horn-rimmedglasses. Alerted byWaldegrave’s transfixedstare, Chard twisted in hisseat and he, too, clearlyrecognisedStrike.‘How’sitgoing?’askedAl

excitedlyatStrike’selbow.‘Great,’ said Strike.

‘Where’s that Gilsomething

gone?’‘Downedhisdrinkandleft.

Doesn’t know what the hellwe’reupto,’saidAl.Aldidnotknowwhy they

were here either. Strike hadtold him nothing except thathe needed entry to theChelsea Arts Club tonightand thathemightneeda lift.Al’s bright red Alfa RomeoSpider sat parked a littledown the road. It had beenagonyonStrike’skneetoget

in and out of the low-slungvehicle.As he had intended, half

the Roper Chard table nowseemed acutely aware of hispresence. Strike waspositioned so that he couldsee them reflected clearly inthe dark French windows.Two Elizabeth Tassels wereglaring at him over theirmenus, two Ninas weredeterminedly ignoring himand two shiny-pated Chards

summonedawaiter eachandmutteredintheirears.‘Is that the bald bloke we

sawintheRiverCafé?’askedAl.‘Yeah,’ said Strike,

grinning as the solid waiterseparated from his reflectedwraith and made his waytowards them. ‘I think we’reabout to be asked whetherwe’ve got the right to be inhere.’‘Verysorry,sir,’beganthe

waiter in a mutter as hereached Strike, ‘but could Iask—?’‘Al Rokeby – my brother

and I are here with DuncanGilfedder,’saidAlpleasantlybefore Strike could respond.Al’s tone expressed surprisethattheyhadbeenchallengedatall.Hewasacharmingandprivileged young man whowas welcome everywhere,whose credentials wereimpeccableandwhosecasual

roping of Strike into thefamily pen conferred uponhim that same sense of easyentitlement. Jonny Rokeby’seyes looked out of Al’snarrow face. The waitermuttered hasty apologies andretreated.‘Areyou just trying toput

thewindupthem?’askedAl,staringoveratthepublisher’stable.‘Can’t hurt,’ said Strike

with a smile, sipping his

whiskyashewatchedDanielChard deliver what wasclearly a stilted speech inPinkelman’s honour. A cardandpresentwerebroughtoutfrom under the table. Forevery look and smile theygavetheoldwriter,therewasanervousglance towards thelarge, dark man staring atthem from the bar. MichaelFancourt alone had notlooked around. Either heremained in ignorance of the

detective’s presence, or wasuntroubledbyit.Whenstartershadbeenput

in front of them all, JerryWaldegrave got to his feetandmovedoutfromthetabletowards the bar. Nina andElizabeth’s eyes followedhim.OnWaldegrave’swaytothe bathroom he merelynodded at Strike, but on thewayback,hepaused.‘Surprisedtoseeyouhere.’‘Yeah?’saidStrike.

‘Yeah,’ said Waldegrave.‘You’re, er…making peoplefeeluncomfortable.’‘Nothing I can do about

that,’saidStrike.‘You could try not staring

usout.’‘This is my brother, Al,’

said Strike, ignoring therequest.Al beamed and held out a

hand, which Waldegraveshook,seemingnonplussed.‘You’re annoying Daniel,’

Waldegrave told Strike,looking directly into thedetective’seyes.‘That’s a shame,’ said

Strike.The editor rumpled his

untidyhair.‘Well, if that’s your

attitude.’‘Surprised you care how

DanielChardfeels.’‘I don’t particularly,’ said

Waldegrave, ‘but he canmakelifeunpleasantforother

people when he’s in a badmood. I’d like tonight to gowell for Pinkelman. I can’tunderstandwhyyou’rehere.’‘Wanted to make a

delivery,’saidStrike.He pulled a blank white

envelope out from an insidepocket.‘Whatisthis?’‘It’sforyou,’saidStrike.Waldegrave took it,

lookingutterlyconfused.‘Something you should

think about,’ said Strike,movingclosertothebemusededitor in the noisy bar.‘Fancourt had mumps, youknow,beforehiswifedied.’‘What?’ said Waldegrave,

bewildered.‘Never had kids. Pretty

sure he’s infertile. Thoughtyoumightbeinterested.’Waldegrave stared at him,

opened his mouth, foundnothing to say, then walkedaway,stillclutchingthewhite

envelope.‘Whatwas that?’Alasked

Strike,agog.‘Plan A,’ said Strike.

‘We’llsee.’Waldegravesatbackdown

at the Roper Chard table.Mirroredintheblackwindowbeside him, he opened theenvelope Strike had givenhim.Puzzled,hepulledoutasecondenvelope.Therewasascribblednameonthisone.The editor looked up at

Strike, who raised hiseyebrows.Jerry Waldegrave

hesitated, then turned toElizabeth Tassel and passedher the envelope. She readwhat was written on it,frowning. Her eyes flew toStrike’s. He smiled andtoastedherwithhisglass.Sheseemeduncertainasto

what to do for a moment;then she nudged the girlbeside her and passed the

envelopeon.Ittravelledupthetableand

across it, into the hands ofMichaelFancourt.‘Thereweare,’saidStrike.

‘Al,I’mgoingintothegardenfora fag.Stayhereandkeepyourphoneon.’‘They don’t allowmobiles

—’But Al caught sight of

Strike’s expression andamendedhastily:‘Willdo.’

48

Does the silkwormexpend her yellowlaboursFor thee? For thee doessheundoherself?ThomasMiddleton,The

Revenger’sTragedy

Thegardenwasdesertedandbitterly cold. Strike sank uptohisankles insnow,unableto feel the cold seepingthrough his right trouser leg.All the smokers who wouldordinarily have congregatedon the smooth lawns hadchosen the street instead. Heploughed a solitary trenchthroughthefrozenwhiteness,surrounded by silent beauty,coming to a halt beside asmall round pond that had

become a disc of thick greyice.Aplumpbronzecupidsatinthemiddleonanoversizedclam shell. It wore a wig ofsnowandpointeditsbowandarrow, not anywhere that itmighthit ahumanbeing,butstraight up at the darkheavens.Strike lit a cigarette and

turned back to look at theblazingwindowsof the club.Thedinersandwaiterslookedlike paper cutouts moving

againstalitscreen.IfStrikeknewhisman,he

would come. Wasn’t this anirresistible situation to awriter, to the compulsivespinner of experience intowords, to a lover of themacabreandthestrange?And sure enough, after a

few minutes Strike heard adoor open, a snatch ofconversation and musichastily muffled, then thesoundofdeadenedfootsteps.

‘MrStrike?’Fancourt’s head looked

particularly large in thedarkness.‘Would it not be easier to

goontothestreet?’‘I’d rather do this in the

garden,’saidStrike.‘Isee.’Fancourt sounded vaguely

amused, as though heintended, at least in the shortterm, to humour Strike. Thedetective suspected that it

appealedtothewriter’ssenseof theatre that he should bethe one summoned from thetableofanxiouspeopletotalkto the man who was makingthemallsonervous.‘What’s this about?’ asked

Fancourt.‘Value your opinion,’ said

Strike. ‘Question of criticalanalysisofBombyxMori.’‘Again?’saidFancourt.His good humour was

cooling with his feet. He

pulled his coat more closelyaround him and said, thesnowfallingthickandfast:‘I’ve said everything I

wanttosayaboutthatbook.’‘One of the first things I

was told about BombyxMori,’saidStrike,‘wasthatitwasreminiscentofyourearlywork. Gore and arcanesymbolism, I think were thewordsused.’‘So?’ saidFancourt, hands

inhispockets.

‘So,themoreI’vetalkedtopeoplewho knewQuine, theclearer it’s become that thebook that everyone’s readbears only a vagueresemblance to the one heclaimedtobewriting.’Fancourt’sbreathrose ina

cloud before him, obscuringthelittlethatStrikecouldseeofhisheavyfeatures.‘I’ve even met a girl who

says she heard part of thebook that doesn’t appear in

thefinalmanuscript.’‘Writers cut,’ said

Fancourt, shuffling his feet,his shoulders hunched uparoundhisears.‘Owenwouldhavedonewell tocutagreatdealmore.Severalnovels, infact.’‘There are also all the

duplications from his earlierwork,’ said Strike. ‘Twohermaphrodites. Two bloodybags.Allthatgratuitoussex.’‘He was a man of limited

imagination,MrStrike.’‘He leftbehindascribbled

note with what looks like abunch of possible characternames on it. One of thosenames appears on a usedtypewriter cassette that cameout of his study before thepolice sealed it off, but it’snowhere in the finishedmanuscript.’‘So he changed hismind,’

saidFancourtirritably.‘It’saneverydayname,not

symbolic or archetypal likethe names in the finishedmanuscript,’saidStrike.His eyes becoming

accustomed to the darkness,Strike saw a look of faintcuriosity on Fancourt’sheavy-featuredface.‘Arestaurantfullofpeople

witnessed what I think isgoing to turn out to beQuine’s last meal and hisfinal public performance,’Strike went on. ‘A credible

witness says that Quineshouted for the wholerestaurant tohear that oneofthe reasons Tassel was toocowardly to represent thebook was “Fancourt’s limpdick”.’He doubted that he and

Fancourtwere clearly visibleto the jittery people at thepublisher’s table. Theirfigureswould blendwith thetrees and statuary, but thedetermined or desperate

might still be able to makeout their location by the tinyluminous eye of Strike’sglowing cigarette: amarksman’sbead.‘Thing is, there’s nothing

in Bombyx Mori about yourdick,’ continued Strike.‘There’s nothing in thereabout Quine’s mistress andhis young transgenderedfriend being “beautiful lostsouls”,which is how he toldthem he was going to

describethem.Andyoudon’tpour acid on silkworms; youboil them to get theircocoons.’‘So?’repeatedFancourt.‘SoI’vebeenforcedtothe

conclusion,’ saidStrike, ‘thattheBombyxMori everyone’sreadisadifferentbooktotheBombyx Mori Owen Quinewrote.’Fancourt stopped shuffling

his feet.Momentarily frozen,he appeared to give Strike’s

wordsseriousconsideration.‘I–no,’hesaid,almost, it

seemed, to himself. ‘Quinewrote that book. It’s hisstyle.’‘It’s funny you should say

that, because everyone elsewho had a decent ear forQuine’sparticularstyleseemsto detect a foreign voice inthe book. Daniel Chardthought it was Waldegrave.Waldegrave thought it wasElizabeth Tassel. And

ChristianFisherheardyou.’Fancourtshruggedwithhis

usualeasyarrogance.‘Quine was trying to

imitateabetterwriter.’‘Don’t you think the way

he treats his livingmodels isstrangelyuneven?’Fancourt, accepting the

cigarette Strike offered himand a light, now listened insilenceandwithinterest.‘Hesayshiswifeandagent

wereparasitesonhim,’Strike

said.‘Unpleasant,butthesortof accusation anyone couldthrow at the people whomight be said to live off hisearnings. He implies hismistressisn’tfondofanimalsand throws in something thatcould either be a veiledreference to her producingcrap books or a pretty sickallusion to breast cancer.Histransgendered friend gets offwith a jibe about vocalexercises – and that’s after

she claimed she showed himthe lifestoryshewaswritingand shared all her deepestsecrets.He accuses Chard ofeffectively killing Joe North,andmakesacrasssuggestionof what Chard really wantedtodotohim.Andthere’s theaccusation that you wereresponsible for your firstwife’sdeath.‘All of which is either in

the public domain, publicgossip or an easy accusation

tosling.’‘Which isn’t to say it

wasn’thurtful,’saidFancourtquietly.‘Agreed,’ said Strike. ‘It

gave plenty of people reasonto be pissed off at him. Buttheonlyrealrevelationinthebook is the insinuation thatyou fathered JoannaWaldegrave.’‘I told you – as good as

toldyou– last timewemet,’said Fancourt, sounding

tense, ‘that that accusation isnotonlyfalsebutimpossible.Iaminfertile,asQuine—’‘—as Quine should have

known,’ agreed Strike,‘becauseyouandhewerestillostensibly on good termswhen you had mumps andhe’d already made a jibeabout it in The BalzacBrothers.Andthatmakestheaccusation contained in theCutter even stranger, doesn’tit? As though it was written

bysomeonewhodidn’tknowthatyouwereinfertile.Didn’tanyofthisoccurtoyouwhenyoureadthebook?’The snow fell thickly on

the two men’s hair, on theirshoulders.‘Ididn’t thinkOwencared

whetheranyof itwas trueornot,’ said Fancourt slowly,exhalingsmoke.‘Mudsticks.He was just flinging a lotaround. I thought he waslooking to cause as much

troubleaspossible.’‘D’youthinkthat’swhyhe

sentyouanearlycopyof themanuscript?’ When Fancourtdid not respond, Strike wenton:‘It’seasilycheckable,youknow. Courier – postalservice–there’llbearecord.Youmightaswelltellme.’Alengthypause.‘All right,’ said Fancourt,

atlast.‘Whendidyougetit?’‘Themorningofthesixth.’

‘Whatdidyoudowithit?’‘Burned it,’ said Fancourt

shortly, exactly like KathrynKent. ‘I could see what hewasdoing: trying to provokea public row, maximisepublicity.The last resortofafailure – I was not going tohumourhim.’Another snatch of the

interior revelry reached themas the door to the gardenopened and closed again.Uncertain footsteps, winding

through thesnow,and thenalarge shadow looming out ofthedarkness.‘What,’ croaked Elizabeth

Tassel,whowaswrappedinaheavy coat with a fur collar,‘isgoingonouthere?’The moment he heard her

voiceFancourtmadetomoveback inside. Strikewonderedwhen was the last time theyhad come face to face inanythinglessthanacrowdofhundreds.

‘Wait aminute,will you?’Strikeaskedthewriter.Fancourt hesitated. Tassel

addressed Strike in her deep,croakyvoice.‘PinksismissingMichael.’‘Somethingyou’dknowall

about,’saidStrike.The snowwhispereddown

upon leaves and onto thefrozen pondwhere the cupidsat, pointing his arrowskywards.‘You thought Elizabeth’s

writing “lamentablyderivative”, isn’t that right?’Strike asked Fancourt. ‘Youboth studied Jacobeanrevenge tragedies, whichaccounts for the similaritiesin your styles. But you’re avery good imitator of otherpeople’s writing, I think,’StriketoldTassel.He had known that she

would come if he tookFancourt away, known thatshe would be frightened of

whathewastellingthewriterout in the dark. She stoodperfectlystillassnowlandedinher furcollar,onher iron-grey hair. Strike could justmakeout the contoursofherface by the faint light of theclub’s distant windows. Theintensityandemptinessofhergaze were remarkable. Shehadthedead,blankeyesofashark.‘You took off Elspeth

Fancourt’sstyletoperfection,

forinstance.’Fancourt’s mouth fell

quietly open. For a fewseconds theonly soundotherthanthewhisperingsnowwasthe barely audible whistleemanating from ElizabethTassel’slungs.‘I thought from the start

thatQuinemust’vehadsomehold on you,’ said Strike.‘You never seemed like thekind of woman who’d letherself be turned into a

private bank and skivvy,who’d choose to keep Quineand let Fancourt go. All thatbull about freedom ofexpression… you wrote theparody of Elspeth Fancourt’sbook that made her killherself. All these years,there’s only been your wordfor it thatOwen showedyouthepiecehe’dwritten.Itwastheotherwayround.’There was silence except

for the rustle of snow on

snow and that faint, eeriesound emanating fromElizabeth Tassel’s chest.Fancourt was looking fromthe agent to the detective,open-mouthed.‘The police suspected that

Quinewasblackmailingyou,’Strike said, ‘but you fobbedthem off with a touchingstory about lending himmoney for Orlando. You’vebeen paying Owen off formore than a quarter of a

century,haven’tyou?’Hewas trying to goad her

into speech, but she saidnothing,continuingtostareathim out of the dark emptyeyes like holes in her plain,paleface.‘How did you describe

yourself tomewhenwe hadlunch?’ Strike asked her.‘“The very definition of ablameless spinster”? Foundanoutletforyourfrustrations,though, didn’t you,

Elizabeth?’The mad, blank eyes

swivelled suddenly towardsFancourt, who had shiftedwherehestood.‘Did it feel good, raping

andkillingyourway througheveryone you knew,Elizabeth?Onebigexplosionof malice and obscenity,revenging yourself oneveryone,paintingyourselfasthe unacclaimed genius,takingsideswipesateveryone

with a more successful lovelife,amoresatisfying—’A soft voice spoke in the

darkness, and for a secondStrike did not knowwhere itwas coming from. It wasstrange, unfamiliar, high-pitched and sickly: the voicea madwoman might imagineto express innocence,kindliness.‘No, Mr Strike,’ she

whispered, like a mothertellingasleepychildnottosit

up,nottostruggle.‘Youpoorsillyman.Youpoorthing.’Sheforcedalaughthatleft

her chest heaving, her lungswhistling.‘He was badly hurt in

Afghanistan,’ she said toFancourt in that eerie,crooning voice. ‘I think he’sshell-shocked. Braindamaged, just like littleOrlando.Heneedshelp,poorMrStrike.’Her lungs whistled as she

breathedfaster.‘Should’veboughtamask,

Elizabeth, shouldn’t you?’Strikeasked.Hethoughthesawtheeyes

darkenandenlarge,herpupilsdilating with the adrenalincoursing through her. Thelarge, mannish hands hadcurledintoclaws.‘Thought you had it all

worked out, didn’t you?Ropes, disguise, protectiveclothing to protect yourself

against the acid – but youdidn’trealiseyou’dgettissuedamagejustfrominhalingthefumes.’The cold air was

exacerbating herbreathlessness. In her panic,shesoundedsexuallyexcited.‘I think,’ said Strike, with

calculatedcruelty,‘it’sdrivenyou literally mad, Elizabeth,hasn’tit?Betterhopethejurybuysthatanyway,eh?Whatawasteofalife.Yourbusiness

down the toilet, no man, nochildren…Tellme,wasthereever an abortive couplingbetween the two of you?’asked Strike bluntly,watching their profiles. ‘This“limp dick” business…sounds to me like Quinemight’ve fictionalised it intherealBombyxMori.’With their backs to the

light he could not see theirexpressions, but their bodylanguage had given him his

answer: the instantaneousswing away from each othertofacehimhadexpressedtheghostofaunitedfront.‘When was this?’ Strike

asked, watching the darkoutline that was Elizabeth.‘AfterElspethdied?Butthenyou moved on to FenellaWaldegrave,eh,Michael?Notrouble keeping it up there, Itakeit?’Elizabeth emitted a small

gasp.Itwasasthoughhehad

hither.‘For Christ’s sake,’

growled Fancourt. He wasangrywithStrikenow.Strikeignoredtheimplicitreproach.He was still working onElizabeth,goadingher,whileherwhistling lungs struggledfor oxygen in the fallingsnow.‘Must’ve really pissed you

off when Quine got carriedaway and started shoutingabout thecontentsof thereal

Bombyx Mori in the RiverCafé, did it, Elizabeth?Afteryou’d warned him not tobreathe a word about thecontents?’‘Insane. You’re insane,’

shewhispered,with a forcedsmilebeneath thesharkeyes,her bigyellow teethglinting.‘The war didn’t just crippleyou—’‘Nice,’ said Strike

appreciatively. ‘There’s thebullyingbitcheveryone’stold

meyouare—’‘You hobble around

London trying to get in thepapers,’ she panted. ‘You’rejust likepoorOwen, just likehim… how he loved thepapers, didn’t he, Michael?’She turned to appeal toFancourt. ‘Didn’t Owenadore publicity? Running offlikea littleboyplayinghide-and-seek…’‘You encouragedQuine to

go and hide in Talgarth

Road,’saidStrike. ‘Thatwasallyouridea.’‘I won’t listen to any

more,’shewhisperedandherlungs were whistling as shegaspedthewinterairandsheraised her voice: ‘I’m notlistening, Mr Strike, I’m notlistening. Nobody’s listeningtoyou,youpoorsillyman…’‘You toldmeQuinewasa

glutton for praise,’ saidStrike, raising his voice overthe high-pitched chant with

which she was trying todrownouthiswords.‘Ithinkhe told you his wholeprospective plot for BombyxMorimonths agoand I thinkMichael herewas in there insomeform–nothingascrudeas Vainglorious, but mockedfornotgettingitup,perhaps?“Payback time for both ofyou”,eh?’And as he had expected,

she gave a little gasp at thatand stopped her frantic

chanting.‘You told Quine that

Bombyx Mori soundedbrilliant, that itwould be thebest thing he’d ever done,that it was going to be amassive success, but that heought to keep the contentsvery, very quiet in case oflegal action, and to make abigger splash when it wasunveiled. And all the timeyou were writing your ownversion. You had plenty of

time on your hands to get itright, didn’t you, Elizabeth?Twenty-six years of emptyevenings, you could havewritten plenty of books bynow, with your first fromOxford… but what wouldyouwriteabout?Youhaven’texactly lived a full life, haveyou?’Naked rage flickered

across her face. Her fingersflexed, but she controlledherself. Strike wanted her to

crack,wanted her to give in,but the shark’s eyes seemedtobewaitingforhimtoshowweakness,foranopening.‘Youcraftedanoveloutof

a murder plan. The removalof the guts and the coveringof the corpse in acidweren’tsymbolic,theyweredesignedto screw forensics – buteveryone bought it asliterature.‘And you got that stupid,

egotistical bastard to collude

in planning his own death.Youtoldhimyouhadagreatidea for maximising hispublicity and his profits: thepair of you would stage averypublicrow–yousayingthebookwas toocontentiousto put out there – and he’ddisappear. You’d circulaterumours about the book’scontents and finally, whenQuine allowed himself to befound,you’dsecurehimabigfatdeal.’

Shewas shakingher head,her lungs audibly labouring,but her dead eyes did notleavehisface.‘He delivered the book.

Youdelayedafewdays,untilbonfire night, to make sureyou had lots of nicediversionary noise, then yousent out copies of the fakeBombyxtoFisher–thebettertogetthebooktalkedabout–to Waldegrave and toMichaelhere.Youfakedyour

publicrow,thenyoufollowedQuinetoTalgarthRoad—’‘No,’ said Fancourt,

apparently unable to helphimself.‘Yes,’ said Strike, pitiless.

‘Quine didn’t realise he hadanything to fear fromElizabeth – not from his co-conspirator in the comebackof the century. I think he’dalmost forgotten by then thatwhat he’d been doing to youfor years was blackmail,

hadn’t he?’ he asked Tassel.‘He’d just developed thehabitofaskingyouformoneyand being given it. I doubtyou ever even talked aboutthe parody any more, thethingthatruinedyourlife…‘And you know what I

think happened once he letyouin,Elizabeth?’Against his will, Strike

remembered the scene: thegreat vaulted window, thebody centred there as though

foragrislystilllife.‘I think you got that poor

naive,narcissisticsodtoposefor a publicity photograph.Was he kneeling down? Didthe hero in the real bookplead,orpray?Ordidhegettied up like your Bombyx?He’d have liked that,wouldn’the,Quine,posinginropes? It would’ve made itniceandeasytomovebehindhim and smash his head inwith the metal doorstop,

wouldn’t it? Under cover oftheneighbourhoodfireworks,you knocked Quine out, tiedhim up, sliced him open and—’Fancourtletoutastrangled

moan of horror, but Tasselspoke again, crooning at himinatravestyofconsolation:‘You ought to see

someone,MrStrike.PoorMrStrike,’ and to his surpriseshereachedout to layoneofher big hands on his snow-

covered shoulder.Remembering what thosehands had done, Strikesteppedbackinstinctivelyandher arm fell heavily back toher side, hanging there, thefingersclenchingreflexively.‘You filled a holdall with

Owen’s guts and the realmanuscript,’ said thedetective. She hadmoved soclose that he could againsmell the combination ofperfume and stale cigarettes.

‘Then you put on Quine’sown cloak and hat and left.Offyouwent,tofeedafourthcopy of the fake BombyxMori throughKathrynKent’sletter box, to maximisesuspects and incriminateanother woman who wasgettingwhatyounevergot–sex.Companionship.At leastonefriend.’She feigned laughter again

but this time the sound wasmanic. Her fingers were still

flexingandunflexing.‘You and Owen would

have got on so well,’ shewhispered. ‘Wouldn’t he,Michael? Wouldn’t he havegot on marvellously withOwen? Sick fantasists…peoplewill laugh at you,MrStrike.’ She was pantingharder than ever, those dead,blank eyes staring out of herfixed white face. ‘A poorcripple trying to recreate thesensation of success, chasing

yourfamousfath—’‘Haveyougotproofofany

of this?’ Fancourt demandedin the swirling snow, hisvoice harsh with the desirenot to believe. This was noink-and-paper tragedy, nogreasepaintdeathscene.Herebeside him stood the livingfriendofhisstudentyearsandwhatever life hadsubsequently done to them,the idea that the big,ungainly,besottedgirlwhom

he had known at Oxfordcould have turned into awoman capable of grotesquemurder was almostunbearable.‘Yeah,I’vegotproof,’said

Strike quietly. ‘I’ve got asecondelectrictypewriter,theexact model of Quine’s,wrapped up in a black burqaand hydrochloric-stainedoveralls and weighted withstones. An amateur diver Ihappen toknowpulled it out

oftheseajustafewdaysago.It was lying beneath somenotorious cliffs at Gwithian:Hell’s Mouth, a placefeatured on DorcusPengelly’s book cover. Iexpect she showed it to youwhenyouvisited, didn’t she,Elizabeth?Didyouwalkbacktherealonewithyourmobile,tellingheryouneededtofindbetterreception?’She let out a ghastly low

moan,likethesoundofaman

whohasbeenpunched in thestomach. For a secondnobody moved, then Tasselturned clumsily and beganrunning and stumbling awayfrom them, back towards theclub. A bright yellowrectangle of light shiveredthen disappeared as the dooropenedandclosed.‘But,’saidFancourt,taking

afewstepsand lookingbackat Strike a little wildly, ‘youcan’t – you’ve got to stop

her!’‘Couldn’t catch her if I

wanted to,’ said Strike,throwing the butt of hiscigarettedownintothesnow.‘Dodgyknee.’‘Shecoulddoanything—’‘Off to kill herself,

probably,’ agreed Strike,pullingouthismobile.Thewriterstaredathim.‘You – you cold-blooded

bastard!’‘You’renot thefirst tosay

it,’ said Strike, pressing keyson his phone. ‘Ready?’ hesaidintoit.‘We’reoff.’

49

Dangers, like stars, indarkattemptsbestshine.

ThomasDekker,TheNobleSpanishSoldier

Out past the smokers at thefront of the club the largewoman came, blindly,

slipping a little in the snow.Shebegan to runup thedarkstreet, her fur-collared coatflappingbehindher.A taxi, its ‘ForHire’ light

on,slidoutofasideroadandshe hailed it, flapping herarmsmadly.Thecabslidtoahalt, its headlamps makingtwo cones of light whosetrajectory was cut by thethicklyfallingsnow.‘FulhamPalaceRoad,’said

the harsh, deep voice,

breakingwithsobs.They pulled slowly away

from the kerb. The cab wasold, the glass partitionscratched and a little stainedby years of its owner’ssmoking. Elizabeth Tasselwas visible in the rear-viewmirror as the street light slidoverher,sobbingsilentlyintoher large hands, shaking allover.Thedriverdidnotaskwhat

was the matter but looked

beyond the fare to the streetbehind, where the shrinkingfigures of twomen could beseen, hurrying across thesnowyroadtoaredsportscarinthedistance.The taxi turned left at the

end of the road and stillElizabeth Tassel cried intoher hands. The driver’s thickwoollen hat was itchy,grateful though she had beenforitduringthelonghoursofwaiting. On up the King’s

Roadthetaxisped,overthickpowdery snow that resistedtyres’attemptstosquashittoslush, the blizzard swirlingremorselessly, rendering theroadsincreasinglylethal.‘You’re going the wrong

way.’‘There’s a diversion,’ lied

Robin. ‘Because of thesnow.’She met Elizabeth’s eyes

briefly in the mirror. Theagent looked over her

shoulder. The red AlfaRomeowas toofarbehind tosee.Shestaredwildlyaroundat the passing buildings.Robin could hear the eeriewhistlingfromherchest.‘We’re going in the

oppositedirection.’‘I’m going to turn in a

minute,’saidRobin.She did not see Elizabeth

Tasseltrythedoor,butheardit.Theywerealllocked.‘Youcan letmeouthere,’

shesaidloudly.‘Letmeout,Isay!’‘Youwon’tgetanothercab

inthisweather,’saidRobin.They had counted on

Tasselbeingtoodistraughttonoticewheretheyweregoingfor a little while longer. Thecab was barely at SloaneSquare. There was over amile to go to New ScotlandYard. Robin’s eyes flickeredagaintoherrear-viewmirror.The Alfa Romeo was a tiny

reddotinthedistance.Elizabeth had undone her

seatbelt.‘Stop this cab!’ she

shouted. ‘Stop it and let meout!’‘I can’t stop here,’ said

Robin, much more calmlythan she felt, because theagenthadleftherseatandherlarge hands were scrabblingatthepartition.‘I’mgoingtohave to ask you to sit down,madam—’

The screen slid open.Elizabeth’s hand seizedRobin’s hat and a handful ofhair, herheadalmost sidebyside with Robin’s, herexpression venomous.Robin’shairfellintohereyesinsweatystrands.‘Getoffme!’‘Who are you?’ screeched

Tassel, shakingRobin’sheadwith the fistful of hair in herhand. ‘Ralph said he saw ablondegoing through thebin

–whoareyou?’‘Letgo!’shoutedRobin,as

Tassel’s other hand grabbedherneck.Twohundredyardsbehind

them,StrikeroaredatAl:‘Put your fucking foot

down, there’s somethingwrong,lookatit—’The taxi ahead was

careeringallovertheroad.‘It’s always been shit in

ice,’ moaned Al as the Alfaskidded a little and the taxi

took the corner into SloaneSquare at speed anddisappearedfromview.Tassel was halfway into

the front of the taxi,screaming from her rippedthroat – Robin was trying tobeat her back one-handedwhile maintaining a grip onthewheel–shecouldnotseewhereshewasgoingforhairand snow and now bothTassel’s hands were at herthroat, squeezing – Robin

triedtofindthebrake,butasthe taxi leapt forwardsrealised she had hit theaccelerator – she could notbreathe – taking both handsoff the wheel she tried toprise away the agent’stightening grip – screamsfrom pedestrians, a huge joltand then the ear-splittingcrunch of glass, of metal onconcreteand thesearingpainof the seatbelt against her asthe taxi crashed, but shewas

sinking, everything goingblack—‘Fuck the car, leave it,

we’ve got to get in there!’StrikebellowedatAloverthewail of a shop alarmand thescreams of the scatteredbystanders. Al brought theAlfa to an untidy skiddinghaltinthemiddleoftheroada hundred yards from wherethe taxihad smashed itswayintoaplateglasswindow.Aljumped out as Strike

struggledtostand.Agroupofpassers-by, some of themChristmas party-goers inblacktiewhohadsprintedoutof the way as the taximounted the kerb, watched,stunned, as Al ran, slippingand almost falling, over thesnowtowardsthecrash.The rear door of the cab

opened. Elizabeth Tasselflung herself from the backseatandbegantorun.‘Al, get her!’ Strike

bellowed, still strugglingthrough the snow. ‘Get her,Al!’Le Rosey had a superb

rugby team. Al was used totaking orders. A short sprintandhehadtakenherdownina perfect tackle. She hit thesnowystreetwithahardbangoverthescreamedprotestsofmany women watching andhe pinned her there,struggling and swearing,repelling every attempt of

chivalrous men to help hisvictim.Strikewasimmunetoallof

it:heseemedtoberunninginslow motion, trying not tofall, staggering towards theominouslysilentandstillcab.Distracted by Al and hisstruggling, swearing captive,nobodyhadathoughttospareforthedriverofthetaxi.‘Robin…’She was slumped

sideways,stillheldtoherseat

by the belt. Therewas bloodonherface,butwhenhesaidhernamesherespondedwithamuddledgroan.‘Thank fuck… thank

fuck…’Police sirens were already

filling the square. Theywailed over the shop alarm,the mounting protests of theshocked Londoners, andStrike, undoing Robin’sseatbelt, pushing her gentlyback into the cab as she

attemptedtogetout,said:‘Staythere.’‘She knew we weren’t

goingtoherhouse,’mumbledRobin.‘KnewstraightawayIwasgoingthewrongway.’‘Doesn’t matter,’ panted

Strike. ‘You’ve broughtScotlandYardtous.’Diamond-bright lights

were twinklingfromthebaretreesaroundthesquare.Snowpoured down upon thegathering crowd, the taxi

protruding from the brokenwindow and the sports carparkeduntidily in themiddleof the roadas thepolicecarscame to a halt, their flashingblue lights sparkling on theglittering glass-strewnground,theirsirenslostinthewailoftheshopalarm.Ashishalf-brother tried to

shout an explanation as towhyhewaslyingontopofasixty-year-old woman, therelieved, exhausted detective

slumped down beside hispartner in the cab and foundhimself–againsthiswillandagainst the dictates of goodtaste–laughing.

ONEWEEKLATER

50

CYNTHIA: How say you,Endymion, all this wasforlove?ENDYMION: I say,madam, then thegodssend me a woman’shate.

JohnLyly,Endymion:or,theManintheMoon

Strike had never visitedRobin and Matthew’s flat inEaling before. His insistencethatRobintaketimeoffworkto recover from mildconcussion and attemptedstrangulation had not gonedownwell.‘Robin,’ he had told her

patiently over the phone,‘I’vehadtoshutuptheofficeanyway. Press crawling all

over Denmark Street… I’mstayingatNickandIlsa’s.’Buthecouldnotdisappear

to Cornwall without seeingher. When she opened herfrontdoorhewasgladtoseethat the bruising on her neckand forehead had alreadyfaded to a faint yellow andblue.‘How’re you feeling?’ he

asked,wiping his feet on thedoormat.‘Great!’shesaid.

The place was small butcheerfulanditsmelledofherperfume,whichhehadnevernoticedmuchbefore.Perhapsa week without smelling ithadmadehimmoresensitiveto it. She led him through tothe sitting room, which waspainted magnolia likeKathrynKent’sandwherehewas interested to note thecopy of InvestigativeInterviewing:PsychologyandPractice lyingcoverupwards

onachair.AsmallChristmastree stood in the corner, thedecorations white and silverlike the trees in SloaneSquare that had formed thebackground of pressphotographs of the crashedtaxi.‘Matthew got over it yet?’

asked Strike, sinking downintothesofa.‘I can’t say he’s the

happiest I’ve ever seenhim,’shereplied,grinning.‘Tea?’

Sheknewhowhe liked it:thecolourofcreosote.‘Christmas present,’ he

told her when she returnedwiththetray,andhandedheranondescriptwhiteenvelope.Robinopeneditcuriouslyandpulled out a stapled sheaf ofprintedmaterial.‘Surveillance course in

January,’saidStrike.‘Sonexttime you pull a bag of dogshit out of a bin no onenoticesyoudoingit.’

Shelaughed,delighted.‘Thankyou.Thankyou!’‘Most women would’ve

expectedflowers.’‘I’mnotmostwomen.’‘Yeah, I’ve noticed that,’

saidStrike,takingachocolatebiscuit.‘Have they analysed it

yet?’ she asked. ‘The dogpoo?’‘Yep. Full of human guts.

She’d been defrosting thembit by bit. They found traces

intheDobermann’sbowlandtherestinherfreezer.’‘Oh God,’ said Robin, the

smileslidingoffherface.‘Criminal genius,’ said

Strike. ‘Sneaking intoQuine’s study and plantingtwo of her own usedtypewriter ribbonsbehind thedesk… Anstis hascondescended to have themtested now; there’s none ofQuine’s DNA on them. Henever touched them – ergo,

he never typed what’s onthere.’‘Anstis is still talking to

you,ishe?’‘Just. Hard for him to cut

meoff.Isavedhislife.’‘I can see how that would

makethingsawkward,’Robinagreed. ‘So they’re buyingyourwholetheorynow?’‘Open and shut case now

they know what they’relooking for. She bought theduplicate typewriter nearly

two years ago. Ordered theburqa and the ropes onQuine’s card and got themsent to the house while theworkmen were in. Loads ofopportunitytogetathisVisaover the years. Coat hangingupintheofficewhilehewentfor a slash… sneak out hiswallet while he was asleep,pissed, when she drove himhomefromparties.‘She knew him well

enough to know he was

slapdash on checking thingslikebills.She’dhadaccesstothe key to Talgarth Road –easy to copy. She’d been allover the house, knew thehydrochloricacidwasthere.‘Brilliant, but over-

elaborate,’ said Strike,sipping his dark brown tea.‘She’s on suicide watch,apparently. But you haven’theardthemostmentalbit.’‘There’smore?’saidRobin

apprehensively.

Much as she had lookedforward to seeing Strike, shestill felt a little fragile aftertheeventsofaweekago.Shestraightened her back andfacedhimsquarely,braced.‘She kept the bloody

book.’Robinfrownedathim.‘Whatdoyou—?’‘It was in the freezer with

the guts. Bloodstainedbecauseshe’dcarrieditawayin thebagwith theguts.The

realmanuscript.TheBombyxMorithatQuinewrote.’‘But–whyonearth—?’‘Godonlyknows.Fancourt

says—’‘You’veseenhim?’‘Briefly. He’s decided he

knew it was Elizabeth allalong. I’ll layyouoddswhathis next novel’s going to beabout. Anyway, he says shewouldn’t have been able tobring herself to destroy anoriginalmanuscript.’

‘ForGod’s sake– shehadno problem destroying itsauthor!’‘Yeah, but this was

literature,Robin,’saidStrike,grinning.‘Andgetthis:RoperChard are very keen topublish the real thing.Fancourt’sgoing towrite theintroduction.’‘Youarekidding?’‘Nope. Quine’s going to

haveabestselleratlast.Don’tlook like that,’ said Strike

bracingly as she shook herhead in disbelief. ‘Plenty tocelebrate. Leonora andOrlando will be rolling inmoney once Bombyx Morihitsthebookshelves.‘That reminds me, got

somethingelseforyou.’He slid his hand into the

insidepocketofthecoatlyingbeside him on the sofa andhanded her a rolled-updrawing that he had beenkeeping safe there. Robin

unfurled it and smiled, hereyes filling with tears. Twocurly haired angels dancedtogetherbeneaththecarefullypencilled legend To RobinlovefromDodo.‘Howarethey?’‘Great,’saidStrike.Hehadvisitedthehousein

Southern Row at Leonora’sinvitation. She and Orlandohadmethimhand inhandatthe door, Cheeky Monkeydangling around Orlando’s

neckasusual.‘Where’s Robin?’ Orlando

demanded. ‘I wanted Robinto be here. I drew her apicture.’‘Theladyhadanaccident,’

Leonora reminded herdaughter, backing away intothe hall to let Strike in,keeping a tight hold onOrlando’s hand as thoughfrightened that someonemightseparate themagain. ‘Itoldyou,Dodo,theladydida

verybrave thingandshehadacrashinacar.’‘Auntie Liz was bad,’

Orlando told Strike, walkingbackwardsdownthehall,stillhandinhandwithhermotherbut staring at Strike all theway with those limpid greeneyes. ‘She was the one whomademydaddydie.’‘Yes, I – er – I know,’

Strike replied, with thatfamiliarfeelingofinadequacythat Orlando always seemed

toinduceinhim.He had found Edna from

next door sitting at thekitchentable.‘Oh,youwereclever,’ she

told him over and again.‘Wasn’t it dreadful, though?How’s your poor partner?Wasn’titterrible,though?’‘Bless them,’ said Robin

after he had described thisscene in some detail. Shespread Orlando’s picture outon the coffee table between

them,besidethedetailsofthesurveillance course, whereshe could admire them both.‘Andhow’sAl?’‘Beside himself with

bloody excitement,’ saidStrike gloomily. ‘We’vegiven him a false impressionofthethrillofworkinglife.’‘I liked him,’ said Robin,

smiling.‘Yeah, well, you were

concussed,’ saidStrike. ‘AndPolworth’s bloody ecstatic to

haveshownuptheMet.’‘You’ve got some very

interesting friends,’ saidRobin. ‘How much are yougoingtohavetopaytorepairNick’sdad’staxi?’‘Haven’t got the bill in

yet,’ he sighed. ‘I suppose,’he added, several biscuitslater, with his eyes on hispresent to Robin, ‘I’m goingtohavetogetanothertempinwhile you’re off learningsurveillance.’

‘Yeah,Isupposeyouwill,’agreed Robin, and after aslighthesitationsheadded,‘Ihopeshe’srubbish.’Strikelaughedashegot to

hisfeet,pickinguphiscoat.‘I wouldn’t worry.

Lightning doesn’t striketwice.’‘Doesn’t anyone ever call

you that, among all yourmany nicknames?’ shewondered as they walkedbackthroughtothehall.

‘Callmewhat?’‘“Lightning”Strike?’‘Is that likely?’ he asked,

indicating his leg. ‘Well,merryChristmas,partner.’The ideaof ahughovered

brieflyintheair,butsheheldout her hand with mockblokeyness,andheshookit.‘Have a great time in

Cornwall.’‘AndyouinMasham.’On the point of

relinquishing her hand, he

gave it aquick twist.Hehadkissed the back of it beforesheknewwhathadhappened.Then,withagrinandawave,hewasgone.

Acknowledgements

Writing as Robert Galbraithhas been pure joy and thefollowing people have allhelped make it so. Myheartfeltthanksgoto:

SOBE, Deeby and the BackDoorMan,becauseI’dneverhave got as far without you.Let’splanaheistnext.David Shelley, myincomparable editor, stalwartsupport and fellow INFJ.Thankyou forbeingbrilliantat your job, for takingseriously all the things thatmatter and for findingeverything else as funny as I

do.My agent, Neil Blair, whocheerfully agreed to helpmeachieve my ambition ofbecoming a first-time author.You are truly one in amillion.Everyone at Little, Brownwho worked so hard andenthusiastically on Robert’sfirst novel without having acluewhohewas.Myspecial

gratitude to the audiobookteam, who took Robert tonumber one before he wasunmasked.LornaandSteveBarnes,whoenabled me to drink in TheBayHorse,examinethetombofSirMarmadukeWyvillandfind out that Robin’shometown is pronounced‘Mass-um’ not ‘Mash-em’,saving me much futureembarrassment.

Fiddy Henderson, ChristineCollingwood,FionaShapcott,Angela Milne, Alison Kellyand Simon Brown, withoutwhosehardworkIwouldnothave had time to write TheSilkworm,or indeedanythingelse.Mark Hutchinson, NickyStonehill and Rebecca Salt,who can take a great deal ofcredit for the fact that I still

havesomemarblesleft.My family, especially Neil,for much more than I canexpress ina few lines,but inthis case for being sosupportiveofbloodymurder.