Robert Galbraith - The Silkworm

Past the Royal Opera House with its classical portico, its columns and statues; in Endell Street she entered an old red telephone box, gathering her nerve, no doubt, double-checking that he was not aware of her. Strike walked on, his pace unchanging, his eyes on the street ahead. She took confidence and emerged again onto the crowded pavement, following him through harried passersby with carrier bags swinging from their hands, drawing closer to him as the street narrowed, flitting in and out of doorways.

As he drew nearer to the office he made his decision, turning left off Denmark Street into Flitcroft Street, which led to Denmark Place, where a dark passage, plastered with fliers for bands, led back to his office.

Would she dare?

As he entered the alleyway, his footsteps echoing a little off the dank walls, he slowed imperceptibly. Then he heard her coming—running at him.

Wheeling around on his sound left leg he flung out his walking stick—there was a shriek of pain as her arm met it—the Stanley knife was knocked out of her hand, hit the stone wall, rebounded and narrowly missed Strike’s eye—he had her now in a ferocious grip that made her scream.

He was afraid that some hero would come to her aid, but no one appeared, and now speed was essential—she was stronger than he had expected and struggling ferociously, trying to kick him in the balls and claw his face. With a further economical twist of his body he had her in a headlock, her feet skidding and scrambling on the damp alley floor.

As she writhed in his arms, trying to bite him, he stooped to pick up the knife, pulling her down with him so that she almost lost her footing, then, abandoning the walking stick, which he could not carry while managing her, he dragged her out onto Denmark Street.

He was fast, and she so winded by the struggle that she had no breath to yell. The short cold street was empty of shoppers and no passersby on Charing Cross Road noticed anything amiss as he forced her the short distance to the black street door.

“Need in, Robin! Quickly!” he shouted on the intercom, slamming his way through the outer door as soon as Robin had buzzed it open. Up the metal steps he dragged her, his right knee now protesting violently, and she started shrieking, the screams echoing around the stairwell. Strike saw movement behind the glass door of the dour and eccentric graphic designer who worked in the office beneath his.

“Just messing around!” he bellowed at the door, heaving his pursuer upstairs.

“Cormoran? What’s—oh my God ! ” said Robin, staring down from the landing. “You can’t—what are you playing at? Let her go!”

“She’s just—tried—to bloody—knife me again,” panted Strike, and with a gigantic final effort he forced his pursuer over the threshold. “Lock the door!” he shouted at Robin, who had hurried in behind them and obeyed.

Strike threw the woman onto the mock-leather sofa. The hood fell back to reveal a long pale face with large brown eyes and thick dark wavy hair that fell to her shoulders. Her fingers terminated in pointed crimson nails. She looked barely twenty.

“You bastard! You bastard! ”

She tried to get up, but Strike was standing over her looking murderous, so she thought better of it, slumping back onto the sofa and massaging her white neck, which bore dark pink scratch marks where he had seized her.

“Want to tell me why you’re trying to knife me?” Strike asked.

“Fuck you!”

“That’s original,” said Strike. “Robin, call the police—”

“Noooo!” howled the woman in black like a baying dog. “He hurt me,” she gasped to Robin, tugging down her top with abandoned wretchedness to reveal the marks on the strong white neck. “He dragged me, he pulled me—”

Robin looked to Strike, her hand on the receiver.

“Why have you been following me?” Strike said, panting as he stood over her, his tone threatening.

She cowered into the squeaking cushions yet Robin, whose fingers had not left the phone, detected a note of relish in the woman’s fear, a whisper of voluptuousness in the way she twisted away from him.

“Last chance,” growled Strike. “ Why—? ”

“What’s happening up there?” came a querulous inquiry from the landing below.

Robin’s eyes met Strike’s. She hurried to the door, unlocked it and slid out onto the landing while Strike stood guard over his captive, his jaw set and one fist clenched. He saw the idea of screaming for help pass behind the big dark eyes, purple-shadowed like pansies, and fade away. Shaking, she began to cry, but her teeth were bared and he thought there was more rage than misery in her tears.

“All OK, Mr. Crowdy,” Robin called. “Just messing around. Sorry we were so loud.”

Robin returned to the office and locked the door behind her again. The woman was rigid on the sofa, tears tumbling down her face, her talon-like nails gripping the edge of the seat.

“Fuck this,” Strike said. “You don’t want to talk—I’m calling the police.”

Apparently she believed him. He had taken barely two steps towards the phone when she sobbed:

“I wanted to stop you.”

“Stop me doing what?” said Strike.

“Like you don’t know!”

“Don’t play fucking games with me!” Strike shouted, bending towards her with two large fists clenched. He could feel his damaged knee only too acutely now. It was her fault he had taken the fall that had damaged the ligaments all over again.

“Cormoran,” said Robin firmly, sliding between them and forcing him to take a pace backwards. “Listen,” she told the girl. “Listen to me. Tell him why you’re doing this and maybe he won’t call—”

“You’ve gotta be fucking joking,” said Strike. “Twice she’s tried to stab—”

“—maybe he won’t call the police,” said Robin loudly, undeterred.

The woman jumped up and tried to make a break for it towards the door.

“No you don’t,” said Strike, hobbling fast around Robin, catching his assailant round the waist and throwing her none too gently back onto the sofa. “ Who are you? ”

“You’ve hurt me now!” she shouted. “You’ve really hurt me—my ribs—I’ll get you for assault, you bastard—”

“I’ll call you Pippa, then, shall I?” said Strike.

A shuddering gasp and a malevolent stare.

“You—you—fuck—”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck me,” said Strike irritably. “ Your name. ”

Her chest was heaving under the heavy overcoat.

“How will you know if I’m telling the truth, even if I tell you?” she panted, with a further show of defiance.

“I’ll keep you here till I’ve checked,” said Strike.

“Kidnap!” she shouted, her voice as rough and loud as a docker’s.

“Citizen’s arrest,” said Strike. “You tried to fucking knife me. Now, for the last bloody time—”

“Pippa Midgley,” she spat.

“Finally. Have you got ID?”

With another mutinous obscenity she slid a hand into her pocket and drew out a bus pass, which she threw to him.

“This says Phillip Midgley.”

“No shit.”

Watching the implication hit Strike, Robin felt a sudden urge, in spite of the tension in the room, to laugh.

“Epicoene,” said Pippa Midgley furiously. “Didn’t you get it? Too subtle for you, dickhead ? ”

Strike looked up at her. The Adam’s apple on her scratched, marked throat was still prominent. She had buried her hands in her pockets again.

“I’ll be Pippa on all my documents next year,” she said.

“Pippa,” Strike repeated. “You’re the author of ‘I’ll turn the handle on the fucking rack for you,’ are you?”