Robert Galbraith - The Silkworm

He lifted the typewriter tape and the crumpled cover illustration gingerly out of the evidence bag and set the cassette, still resting on the paper, on the rickety Formica-topped table. Barely breathing, he pulled out the toothpick attachment from his knife and inserted it delicately behind the two inches of fragile tape that were exposed. By dint of careful manipulation he managed to pull out a little more. Reversed words were revealed, the letters back to front.

YOB EIDDE WENK I THGUOHT DAH I DN

His sudden rush of adrenaline was expressed only in Strike’s quiet sigh of satisfaction. He deftly tightened the tape again, using the knife’s screwdriver attachment in the cog at the top of the cassette, the whole untouched by his hands, then, still wearing the latex gloves, slipped it back into the evidence bag. He checked his watch again. Unable to wait any longer, he picked up his mobile and called Dave Polworth.

“Bad time?” he asked when his old friend answered.

“No,” said Polworth, sounding curious. “What’s up, Diddy?”

“Need a favor, Chum. A big one.”

The engineer, over a hundred miles away in his sitting room in Bristol, listened without interrupting while the detective explained what it was he wanted done. When finally he had finished, there was a pause.

“I know it’s a big ask,” Strike said, listening anxiously to the line crackling. “Dunno if it’ll even be possible in this weather.”

“Course it will,” said Polworth. “I’d have to see when I could do it, though, Diddy. Got two days off coming up…not sure Penny’s going to be keen…”

“Yeah, I thought that might be a problem,” said Strike, “I know it’d be dangerous.”

“Don’t insult me, I’ve done worse than this,” said Polworth. “Nah, she wanted me to take her and her mother Christmas shopping…but fuck it, Diddy, did you say this is life or death?”

“Close,” said Strike, closing his eyes and grinning. “Life and liberty.”

“And no Christmas shopping, boy, which suits old Chum. Consider it done, and I’ll give you a ring if I’ve got anything, all right?”

“Stay safe, mate.”

“Piss off.”

Strike dropped the mobile beside him on the sofa and rubbed his face in his hands, still grinning. He might just have told Polworth to do something even crazier and more pointless than grabbing a passing shark, but Polworth was a man who enjoyed danger, and the time had come for desperate measures.

The last thing Strike did before turning out the light was to reread the notes of his conversation with Fancourt and to underline, so heavily that he sliced through the page, the word “Cutter.”

Didst thou not mark the jest of the silkworm?

John Webster, The White Devil

Both the family home and Talgarth Road continued to be combed for forensic evidence. Leonora remained in Holloway. It had become a waiting game.

Strike was used to standing for hours in the cold, watching darkened windows, following faceless strangers; to unanswered phones and doors, blank faces, clueless bystanders; to enforced, frustrating inaction. What was different and distracting on this occasion was the small whine of anxiety that formed a backdrop to everything he did.

You had to maintain a distance, but there were always people who got to you, injustices that bit. Leonora in prison, white-faced and weeping, her daughter confused, vulnerable and bereft of both parents. Robin had pinned up Orlando’s picture over her desk, so that a merry red-bellied bird gazed down upon the detective and his assistant as they busied themselves with other cases, reminding them that a curly-haired girl in Ladbroke Grove was still waiting for her mother to come home.

Robin, at least, had a meaningful job to do, although she felt that she was letting Strike down. She had returned to the office two days running with nothing to show for her efforts, her evidence bag empty. The detective had warned her to err on the side of caution, to bail at the least sign that she might have been noticed or remembered. He did not like to be explicit about how recognizable he thought her, even with her red-gold hair piled under a beanie hat. She was very good-looking.

“I’m not sure I need to be quite so cautious,” she said, having followed his instructions to the letter.

“Let’s remember what we’re dealing with here, Robin,” he snapped, anxiety continuing to whine in his gut. “Quine didn’t rip out his own guts.”

Some of his fears were strangely amorphous. Naturally he worried that the killer would yet escape, that there were great, gaping holes in the fragile cobweb of a case he was building, a case that just now was built largely out of his own reconstructive imaginings, that needed physical evidence to anchor it down lest the police and defense counsel blew it clean away. But he had other worries.

Much as he had disliked the Mystic Bob tag with which Anstis had saddled him, Strike had a sense of approaching danger now, almost as strongly as when he had known, without question, that the Viking was about to blow up around him. Intuition, they called it, but Strike knew it to be the reading of subtle signs, the subconscious joining of dots. A clear picture of the killer was emerging out of the mass of disconnected evidence, and the image was stark and terrifying: a case of obsession, of violent rage, of a calculating, brilliant but profoundly disturbed mind.

The longer he hung around, refusing to let go, the closer he circled, the more targeted his questioning, the greater the chance that the killer might wake up to the threat he posed. Strike had confidence in his own ability to detect and repel attack, but he could not contemplate with equanimity the solutions that might occur to a diseased mind that had shown itself fond of Byzantine cruelty.

The days of Polworth’s leave came and went without tangible results.

“Don’t give up now, Diddy,” he told Strike over the phone. Characteristically, the fruitlessness of his endeavors seemed to have stimulated rather than discouraged Polworth. “I’m going to pull a sickie Monday. I’ll have another bash.”

“I can’t ask you to do that,” muttered Strike, frustrated. “The drive—”

“I’m offering, you ungrateful peg-legged bastard.”

“Penny’ll kill you. What about her Christmas shopping?”

“What about my chance to show up the Met?” said Polworth, who disliked the capital and its inhabitants on long-held principle.

“You’re a mate, Chum,” said Strike.

When he had hung up, he saw Robin’s grin.

“What’s funny?”

“‘Chum,’” she said. It sounded so public school, so unlike Strike.

“It’s not what you think,” said Strike. He was halfway through the story of Dave Polworth and the shark when his mobile rang again: an unknown number. He picked up.

“Is that Cameron—er—Strike?”

“Speaking.”

“It’s Jude Graham ’ere. Kath Kent’s neighbor. She’s back,” said the female voice happily.

“That’s good news,” said Strike, with a thumbs-up to Robin.

“Yeah, she got back this morning. Got a friend staying with ’er. I asked ’er where she’d been, but she wouldn’t say,” said the neighbor.

Strike remembered that Jude Graham thought him a journalist.

“Is the friend male or female?”

“Female,” she answered regretfully. “Tall skinny dark girl, she’s always hanging around Kath.”

“That’s very helpful, Ms. Graham,” said Strike. “I’ll—er—put something through your door later for your trouble.”

“Great,” said the neighbor happily. “Cheers.”

She rang off.

“Kath Kent’s back at home,” Strike told Robin. “Sounds like she’s got Pippa Midgley staying with her.”