The Silkworm Read Free Page B

Strike had had but a single client, his business had been moribund and his prospects desperate. Then he had proven, to the satisfaction of the Crown Prosecution Service, that a famous young woman had not committed suicide but had been pushed to her death from a fourth-floor balcony. The ensuing publicity had brought a tide of business; he had been, for a few weeks, the best-known private detective in the metropolis. Jonny Rokeby had become a mere footnote to his story; Strike had become a name in his own right, albeit a name most people got wrong…
    ‘I interrupted you,’ he said, trying hard to hold on to the thread of his thoughts.
    ‘Did you?’
    ‘Yeah,’ said Strike, squinting at his own crabbed writing on the notebook. ‘You said, “There’s Orlando, I’ve got things to do and there’s—”’
    ‘Oh yeah,’ she said, ‘there’s funny stuff happening since he left.’
    ‘What kind of funny stuff?’
    ‘Shit,’ said Leonora Quine matter-of-factly, ‘through our letter box.’
    ‘Someone’s put excrement through your letter box?’ Strike said.
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘Since your husband disappeared?’
    ‘Yeah. Dog,’ said Leonora, and it was a split-second before Strike deduced that this applied to the excrement, not her husband. ‘Three or four times now, at night. Nice thing to find in the morning, I don’t think. And there was a woman come to the door and all, who was weird.’
    She paused, waiting for Strike to prompt her. She seemed to enjoy being questioned. Many lonely people, Strike knew, found it pleasant to be the focus of somebody’s undivided attention and sought to prolong the novel experience.
    ‘When did this woman come to the door?’
    ‘Last week it was, and she asks for Owen and when I says, “He’s not here,” she says, “Tell him Angela died,” and walks off.’
    ‘And you didn’t know her?’
    ‘Never seen her before.’
    ‘Do you know an Angela?’
    ‘No. But he gets women fans going funny over him, sometimes,’ said Leonora, suddenly expansive. ‘Like, he had this woman once that wrote him letters and sent him photos of herself dressed up like one of his characters. Some of these women who write to him think he understands them or something because of his books. Silly, innit?’ she said. ‘It’s all made up.’
    ‘Do fans usually know where your husband lives?’
    ‘No,’ said Leonora. ‘But she could’ve bin a student or something. He teaches writing as well, sometimes.’
    The door opened and Robin entered with a tray. After putting black coffee in front of Strike and a tea in front of Leonora Quine, she withdrew again, closing the door behind her.
    ‘Is that everything strange that’s happened?’ Strike asked Leonora. ‘The excrement through the door, and this woman coming to the house?’
    ‘And I think I’ve been followed. Tall, dark girl with round shoulders,’ said Leonora.
    ‘This is a different woman to the one—?’
    ‘Yeah, the one that come to the house was dumpy. Long red hair. This one’s dark and bent over, like.’
    ‘You’re sure she was following you?’
    ‘Yeah, I think so. I seen her behind me two, three times now. She isn’t local, I’ve never seen her before and I’ve lived in Ladbroke Grove thirty-odd years.’
    ‘OK,’ said Strike slowly. ‘You said your husband’s upset? What happened to upset him?’
    ‘He had a massive row with his agent.’
    ‘What about, do you know?’
    ‘His book, his latest. Liz – that’s his agent – tells him it’s the best thing he’s ever done, and then, like, a day later, she takes him out to dinner and says it’s unpublishable.’
    ‘Why did she change her mind?’
    ‘Ask
her
,’ said Leonora, showing anger for the first time. ‘Course he was upset after that. Anyone would be. He’s worked on that book for two years. He comes home in a right state and he goes into his study and grabs it all—’
    ‘Grabs what?’
    ‘His book, the manuscript and his notes and