Robert Galbraith - The Silkworm

There were black bin bags heaped around the front door of the basement flat. It looked as though Joanna Waldegrave had been having a comprehensive clear-out. Strike turned his back and contemplated the fifty windows, at a conservative estimate, that overlooked the Waldegrave family’s two front doors. Waldegrave would have had to have been very lucky not to be seen coming and going out of this heavily overlooked house.

But the trouble was, Strike reflected gloomily, that even if Jerry Waldegrave had been spotted sneaking into his house at two in the morning with a suspicious, bulging bag under his arm, a jury might take some persuading that Owen Quine had not been alive and well at the time. There was too much doubt about the time of death. The murderer had now had as long as nineteen days in which to dispose of evidence, a long and useful period.

Where could Owen Quine’s guts have gone? What, Strike asked himself, did you do with pounds and pounds of freshly severed human intestine and stomach? Bury them? Dump them in a river? Throw them in a communal bin? They would surely not burn well…

The front door of the Waldegraves’ house opened and a woman with black hair and heavy frown lines walked down the three front steps. She was wearing a short scarlet coat and looked angry.

“I’ve been watching you out of the window,” she called to Strike as she approached and he recognized Waldegrave’s wife, Fenella. “What do you think you’re doing? Why are you so interested in my house?”

“I’m waiting for the agent,” Strike lied at once, showing no sign of embarrassment. “This is the basement flat for rent, right?”

“Oh,” she said, taken aback. “No—that’s three down,” she said, pointing.

He could tell that she teetered on the verge of an apology but decided not to bother. Instead she clattered past him on patent stilettos ill suited to the snowy conditions towards a Volvo parked a short way away. Her black hair revealed gray roots and their brief proximity had brought with it a whiff of bad breath stained with alcohol. Mindful that she could see him in her rearview mirror, he hobbled in the direction she had indicated, waited until she had pulled away—very narrowly missing the Citroën in front of her—then walked carefully to the end of the road and down a side street, where he was able to peer over a wall into a long row of small private back gardens.

There was nothing of note in the Waldegraves’ except an old shed. The lawn was scuffed and scrubby and a set of rustic furniture sat sadly at its far end with a look of having been abandoned long ago. Staring at the untidy plot, Strike reflected gloomily on the possibility of lock-ups, allotments and garages he might not know about.

With an inward groan at the thought of the long, cold, wet walk ahead, he debated his options. He was nearest to Kensington Olympia, but it only opened the District line he needed at weekends. As an overground station, Hammersmith would be easier to navigate than Barons Court, so he decided on the longer journey.

He had just passed into Blythe Road, wincing with every step on his right leg, when his mobile rang: Anstis.

“What are you playing at, Bob?”

“Meaning?” asked Strike, limping along, a stabbing in his knee.

“You’ve been hanging around the crime scene.”

“Went back for a look. Public right of way. Nothing actionable.”

“You were trying to interview a neighbor—”

“He wasn’t supposed to open his front door,” said Strike. “I didn’t say a word about Quine.”

“Look, Strike—”

The detective noticed the reversion to his actual name without regret. He had never been fond of the nickname Anstis had given him.

“I told you, you’ve got to keep out of our way.”

“Can’t, Anstis,” said Strike matter-of-factly. “I’ve got a client—”

“Forget your client,” said Anstis. “She’s looking more and more like a killer with every bit of information we get. My advice is, cut your losses because you’re making yourself a lot of enemies. I warned you—”

“You did,” said Strike. “You couldn’t have been clearer. Nobody’s going to be able to blame you, Anstis.”

“I’m not warning you off because I’m trying to cover my arse,” snapped Anstis.

Strike kept walking in silence, the mobile pressed awkwardly to his ear. After a short pause Anstis said:

“We’ve got the pharmacological report back. Small amount of blood alcohol, nothing else.”

“OK.”

“And we’re sending dogs out to Mucking Marshes this afternoon. Trying to keep ahead of the weather. They say there’s heavy snow on the way.”

Mucking Marshes, Strike knew, was the UK’s biggest landfill site; it serviced London, the municipal and commercial waste of which was floated down the Thames in ugly barges.

“You think the guts were dumped in a dustbin, do you?”

“A skip. There’s a house renovation going on round the corner from Talgarth Road; they had two parked out front until the eighth. In this cold the guts might not have attracted flies. We’ve checked and that’s where everything the builders take away ends up: Mucking Marshes.”

“Well, good luck with that,” said Strike.

“I’m trying to save you time and energy, mate.”

“Yeah. Very grateful.”

And after insincere thanks for Anstis’s hospitality of the previous evening Strike rang off. He then paused, leaning against a wall, the better to dial a new number. A tiny Asian woman with a pushchair, whom he had not heard walking behind him, had to swerve to avoid him, but unlike the man on the West Brompton bridge she did not swear at him. The walking stick, like a burqa, conferred protective status; she gave him a small smile as she passed.

Leonora Quine answered within three rings.

“Bloody police are back,” was her greeting.

“What do they want?”

“They’re asking to look all over the house and garden now,” she said. “Do I have to let ’em?”

Strike hesitated.

“I think it’s sensible to let them do whatever they want. Listen, Leonora,” he felt no compunction about reverting to a military peremptoriness, “have you got a lawyer?”

“No, why? I ain’t under arrest. Not yet.”

“I think you need one.”

There was a pause.

“D’you know any good ones?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Strike. “Call Ilsa Herbert. I’ll send you her number now.”

“Orlando don’t like the police poking—”

“I’m going to text you this number, and I want you to call Ilsa immediately. All right? Immediately. ”

“All right,” she said grumpily.

He rang off, found his old school friend’s number on his mobile and sent it to Leonora. He then called Ilsa and explained, with apologies, what he had just done.

“I don’t know why you’re saying sorry,” she said cheerfully. “We love people who are in trouble with the police, it’s our bread and butter.”

“She might qualify for legal aid.”

“Hardly anyone does these days,” said Ilsa. “Let’s just hope she’s poor enough.”

Strike’s hands were numb and he was very hungry. He slid the mobile back into his coat pocket and limped on to Hammersmith Road. There on the opposite pavement was a snug-looking pub, black painted, the round metal sign depicting a galleon in full sail. He headed straight for it, noting how much more patient waiting drivers were when you were using a stick.

Two pubs in two days…but the weather was bad and his knee excruciating; Strike could not muster any guilt. The Albion’s interior was as cozy as its exterior suggested. Long and narrow, an open fire burned at the far end; there was an upper gallery with a balustrade and much polished wood. Beneath a black iron spiral staircase to the first floor were two amps and a microphone stand. Black-and-white photographs of celebrated musicians were hung along one cream wall.