Robert Galbraith - The Silkworm

“Fuck the car, leave it, we’ve got to get in there!” Strike bellowed at Al over the wail of a shop alarm and the screams of the scattered bystanders. Al brought the Alfa to an untidy skidding halt in the middle of the road a hundred yards from where the taxi had smashed its way into a plate-glass window. Al jumped out as Strike struggled to stand. A group of passersby, some of them Christmas partygoers in black tie who had sprinted out of the way as the taxi mounted the curb, watched, stunned, as Al ran, slipping and almost falling, over the snow towards the crash.

The rear door of the cab opened. Elizabeth Tassel flung herself from the backseat and began to run.

“Al, get her!” Strike bellowed, still struggling through the snow. “Get her, Al!”

Le Rosey had a superb rugby team. Al was used to taking orders. A short sprint and he had taken her down in a perfect tackle. She hit the snowy street with a hard bang over the screamed protests of many women watching and he pinned her there, struggling and swearing, repelling every attempt of chivalrous men to help his victim.

Strike was immune to all of it: he seemed to be running in slow motion, trying not to fall, staggering towards the ominously silent and still cab. Distracted by Al and his struggling, swearing captive, nobody had a thought to spare for the driver of the taxi.

“Robin…”

She was slumped sideways, still held to her seat by the belt. There was blood on her face, but when he said her name she responded with a muddled groan.

“Thank fuck…thank fuck…”

Police sirens were already filling the square. They wailed over the shop alarm, the mounting protests of the shocked Londoners, and Strike, undoing Robin’s seatbelt, pushing her gently back into the cab as she attempted to get out, said:

“Stay there.”

“She knew we weren’t going to her house,” mumbled Robin. “Knew straightaway I was going the wrong way.”

“Doesn’t matter,” panted Strike. “You’ve brought Scotland Yard to us.”

Diamond-bright lights were twinkling from the bare trees around the square. Snow poured down upon the gathering crowd, the taxi protruding from the broken window and the sports car parked untidily in the middle of the road as the police cars came to a halt, their flashing blue lights sparkling on the glittering glass-strewn ground, their sirens lost in the wail of the shop alarm.

As his half-brother tried to shout an explanation as to why he was lying on top of a sixty-year-old woman, the relieved, exhausted detective slumped down beside his partner in the cab and found himself—against his will and against the dictates of good taste—laughing.

One week later

CYNTHIA: How say you, Endymion, all this was for love?

ENDYMION: I say, madam, then the gods send me a woman’s hate.

John Lyly, Endymion: or, the Man in the Moon

Strike had never visited Robin and Matthew’s flat in Ealing before. His insistence that Robin take time off work to recover from mild concussion and attempted strangulation had not gone down well.

“Robin,” he had told her patiently over the phone, “I’ve had to shut up the office anyway. Press crawling all over Denmark Street…I’m staying at Nick and Ilsa’s.”

But he could not disappear to Cornwall without seeing her. When she opened her front door he was glad to see that the bruising on her neck and forehead had already faded to a faint yellow and blue.

“How’re you feeling?” he asked, wiping his feet on the doormat.

“Great!” she said.

The place was small but cheerful and it smelled of her perfume, which he had never noticed much before. Perhaps a week without smelling it had made him more sensitive to it. She led him through to the sitting room, which was painted magnolia like Kathryn Kent’s and where he was interested to note the copy of Investigative Interviewing: Psychology and Practice lying cover upwards on a chair. A small Christmas tree stood in the corner, the decorations white and silver like the trees in Sloane Square that had formed the background of press photographs of the crashed taxi.

“Matthew got over it yet?” asked Strike, sinking down into the sofa.

“I can’t say he’s the happiest I’ve ever seen him,” she replied, grinning. “Tea?”

She knew how he liked it: the color of creosote.

“Christmas present,” he told her when she returned with the tray, and handed her a nondescript white envelope. Robin opened it curiously and pulled out a stapled sheaf of printed material.

“Surveillance course in January,” said Strike. “So next time you pull a bag of dog shit out of a bin no one notices you doing it.”

She laughed, delighted.

“Thank you. Thank you! ”

“Most women would’ve expected flowers.”

“I’m not most women.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed that,” said Strike, taking a chocolate biscuit.

“Have they analyzed it yet?” she asked. “The dog poo?”

“Yep. Full of human guts. She’d been defrosting them bit by bit. They found traces in the Doberman’s bowl and the rest in her freezer.”

“Oh God,” said Robin, the smile sliding off her face.

“Criminal genius,” said Strike. “Sneaking into Quine’s study and planting two of her own used typewriter ribbons behind the desk…Anstis has condescended to have them tested now; there’s none of Quine’s DNA on them. He never touched them—ergo, he never typed what’s on there.”

“Anstis is still talking to you, is he?”

“Just. Hard for him to cut me off. I saved his life.”

“I can see how that would make things awkward,” Robin agreed. “So they’re buying your whole theory now?”

“Open and shut case now they know what they’re looking for. She bought the duplicate typewriter nearly two years ago. Ordered the burqa and the ropes on Quine’s card and got them sent to the house while the workmen were in. Loads of opportunity to get at his Visa over the years. Coat hanging up in the office while he went for a slash…sneak out his wallet while he was asleep, pissed, when she drove him home from parties.

“She knew him well enough to know he was slapdash on checking things like bills. She’d had access to the key to Talgarth Road—easy to copy. She’d been all over the house, knew the hydrochloric acid was there.

“Brilliant, but over-elaborate,” said Strike, sipping his dark brown tea. “She’s on suicide watch, apparently. But you haven’t heard the most mental bit.”

“There’s more?” said Robin apprehensively.

Much as she had looked forward to seeing Strike, she still felt a little fragile after the events of a week ago. She straightened her back and faced him squarely, braced.

“She kept the bloody book.”

Robin frowned at him.

“What do you—?”

“It was in the freezer with the guts. Bloodstained because she’d carried it away in the bag with the guts. The real manuscript. The Bombyx Mori that Quine wrote.”

“But—why on earth—?”

“God only knows. Fancourt says—”

“You’ve seen him?”

“Briefly. He’s decided he knew it was Elizabeth all along. I’ll lay you odds what his next novel’s going to be about. Anyway, he says she wouldn’t have been able to bring herself to destroy an original manuscript.”

“For God’s sake—she had no problem destroying its author!”

“Yeah, but this was literature , Robin,” said Strike, grinning. “And get this: Roper Chard are very keen to publish the real thing. Fancourt’s going to write the introduction.”

“You are kidding?”

“Nope. Quine’s going to have a bestseller at last. Don’t look like that,” said Strike bracingly as she shook her head in disbelief. “Plenty to celebrate. Leonora and Orlando will be rolling in money once Bombyx Mori hits the bookshelves.