Robert Galbraith - The Silkworm

He waited receptively. She was not used to asking favors, that much was clear. She smoked for a few seconds in silence, which brought on another bout of suppressed coughs.

“This—this… Bombyx Mori business has done me a lot of harm,” she croaked at last. “I’ve been disinvited from Roper Chard’s anniversary party this Friday. Two manuscripts I had on submission with them have been sent back without so much as a thank you. And I’m getting worried about poor Pinkelman’s latest.” She pointed at the picture of the elderly children’s writer on the wall. “There’s a disgusting rumor flying around that I was in cahoots with Owen; that I egged him on to rehash an old scandal about Michael Fancourt, whip up some controversy and try to get a bidding war going for the book.

“If you’re going to trawl around everyone who knows Owen,” she said, coming to the point, “I’d be very grateful if you could tell them—especially Jerry Waldegrave, if you see him—that I had no idea what was in that novel. I’d never have sent it out, least of all to Christian Fisher, if I hadn’t been so ill. I was,” she hesitated, “ careless , but no more than that.”

This, then, was why she had been so anxious to meet him. It did not seem an unreasonable request in return for the addresses of two hotels and a mistress.

“I’ll certainly mention that if it comes up,” said Strike, getting to his feet.

“Thank you,” she said gruffly. “I’ll see you out.”

When they emerged from the office, it was to a volley of barks. Ralph and the old Doberman had returned from their walk. Ralph’s wet hair was slicked back as he struggled to restrain the gray-muzzled dog, which was snarling at Strike.

“He’s never liked strangers,” said Elizabeth Tassel indifferently.

“He bit Owen once,” volunteered Ralph, as though this might make Strike feel better about the dog’s evident desire to maul him.

“Yes,” said Elizabeth Tassel, “pity it—”

But she was overtaken by another volley of rattling, wheezing coughs. The other three waited in silence for her to recover.

“Pity it wasn’t fatal,” she croaked at last. “It would have saved us all a lot of trouble.”

Her assistants looked shocked. Strike shook her hand and said a general good-bye. The door swung shut on the Doberman’s growling and snarling.

Is Master Petulant here, mistress?

William Congreve, The Way of the World

Strike paused at the end of the rain-sodden mews and called Robin, whose number was busy. Leaning against a wet wall with the collar of his overcoat turned up, hitting “redial” every few seconds, his gaze fell on a blue plaque fixed to a house opposite, commemorating the tenancy of Lady Ottoline Morrell, literary hostess. Doubtless scabrous romans à clef had once been discussed within those walls, too…

“Hi Robin,” said Strike when she picked up at last. “I’m running late. Can you ring Gunfrey for me and tell him I’ve got a firm appointment with the target tomorrow. And tell Caroline Ingles there hasn’t been any more activity, but I’ll call her tomorrow for an update.”

When he had finished tweaking his schedule, he gave her the name of the Danubius Hotel in St. John’s Wood and asked her to try to find out whether Owen Quine was staying there.

“How’re the Hiltons going?”

“Badly,” said Robin. “I’ve only got two left. Nothing. If he’s at any of them he’s either using a different name or a disguise—or the staff are very unobservant, I suppose. You wouldn’t think they could miss him, especially if he’s wearing that cloak.”

“Have you tried the Kensington one?”

“Yes. Nothing.”

“Ah well, I’ve got another lead: a self-published girlfriend called Kathryn Kent. I might visit her later. I won’t be able to pick up the phone this afternoon; I’m tailing Miss Brocklehurst. Text me if you need anything.”

“OK, happy tailing.”

But it was a dull and fruitless afternoon. Strike was running surveillance on a very well-paid PA who was believed by her paranoid boss and lover to be sharing not only sexual favors but also business secrets with a rival. However, Miss Brocklehurst’s claim that she wanted to take an afternoon off to be better waxed, manicured and fake-tanned for her lover’s delectation appeared to be genuine. Strike waited and watched the front of the spa through a rain-speckled window of the Caffè Nero opposite for nearly four hours, earning himself the ire of sundry women with pushchairs seeking a space to gossip. Finally Miss Brocklehurst emerged, Bisto-brown and presumably almost hairless from the neck down, and after following her for a short distance Strike saw her slide into a taxi. By a near miracle given the rain, Strike managed to secure a second cab before she had moved out of view, but the sedate pursuit through the clogged, rainwashed streets ended, as he had expected from the direction of travel, at the suspicious boss’s own flat. Strike, who had taken photographs covertly all the way, paid his cab fare and mentally clocked off.

It was barely four o’clock and the sun was setting, the endless rain becoming chillier. Christmas lights shone from the window of a trattoria as he passed and his thoughts slid to Cornwall, which he felt had intruded itself on his notice three times in quick succession, calling to him, whispering to him.

How long had it been since he had gone home to that beautiful little seaside town where he had spent the calmest parts of his childhood? Four years? Five? He met his aunt and uncle whenever they “came up to London,” as they self-consciously put it, staying at his sister Lucy’s house, enjoying the metropolis. Last time, Strike had taken his uncle to the Emirates to watch a match against Manchester City.

His phone vibrated in his pocket: Robin, following instructions to the letter as usual, had texted him instead of calling.

Mr. Gunfrey is asking for another meeting tomorrow at his office at 10, got more to tell you. Rx

Thanks, Strike texted back.

He never added kisses to texts unless to his sister or aunt.

At the Tube, he deliberated his next moves. The whereabouts of Owen Quine felt like an itch in his brain; he was half irritated, half intrigued that the writer was proving so elusive. He pulled the piece of paper that Elizabeth Tassel had given him out of his wallet. Beneath the name Kathryn Kent was the address of a tower block in Fulham and a mobile number. Printed along the bottom edge were two words: indie author .

Strike’s knowledge of certain patches of London was as detailed as any cabbie’s. While he had never penetrated truly upmarket areas as a child, he had lived in many other addresses around the capital with his late, eternally nomadic mother: usually squats or council accommodation, but occasionally, if her boyfriend of the moment could afford it, in more salubrious surroundings. He recognized Kathryn Kent’s address: Clement Attlee Court comprised old council blocks, many of which had now been sold off into private hands. Ugly square brick towers with balconies on every floor, they sat within a few hundred yards of million-pound houses in Fulham.

There was nobody waiting for him at home and he was full of coffee and pastries after his long afternoon in Caffè Nero. Instead of boarding the Northern line, he took the District line to West Kensington and set out in the dark along North End Road, past curry houses and a number of small shops with boarded windows, folding under the weight of the recession. By the time Strike had reached the tower blocks he sought, night had fallen.

Stafford Cripps House was the block nearest the road, set just behind a low, modern medical center. The optimistic architect of the council flats, perhaps giddy with socialist idealism, had given each one its own small balcony space. Had they imagined the happy inhabitants tending window boxes and leaning over the railings to call cheery greetings to their neighbors? Virtually all of these exterior areas had been used by the occupants for storage: old mattresses, prams, kitchen appliances, what looked like armfuls of dirty clothes sat exposed to the elements, as though cupboards full of junk had been cross-sectioned for public view.