Robert Galbraith - The Silkworm

“What’re you having?” Al asked. “Beer? Fancy a Peroni?”

They sat side by side at the crammed bar, facing glass shelves of bottles, waiting for their table. Looking down the long, packed restaurant, with its industrial steel ceiling in stylized waves, its cerulean carpet and the wood-burning oven at the end like a giant beehive, Strike spotted a celebrated sculptor, a famous female architect and at least one well-known actor.

“Heard about you and Charlotte,” Al said. “Shame.”

Strike wondered whether Al knew somebody who knew her. He ran with a jet-set crowd that might well stretch to the future Viscount of Croy.

“Yeah, well,” said Strike with a shrug. “For the best.”

(He and Charlotte had sat here, in this wonderful restaurant by the river, and enjoyed their very last happy evening together. It had taken four months for the relationship to unravel and implode, four months of exhausting aggression and misery … it was yours .)

A good-looking young woman whom Al greeted by name showed them to their table; an equally attractive young man handed them menus. Strike waited for Al to order wine and for the staff to depart before explaining why they were there.

“Four weeks ago tonight,” he told Al, “a writer called Owen Quine had a row with his agent in here. By all accounts the whole restaurant saw it. He stormed out and shortly afterwards—probably within days and maybe even that night—”

“—he was murdered,” said Al, who had listened to Strike with his mouth open. “I saw it in the paper. You found the body.”

His tone conveyed a yearning for details that Strike chose to ignore.

“There might be nothing to find out here, but I—”

“His wife did it, though,” said Al, puzzled. “They’ve got her.”

“His wife didn’t do it,” said Strike, turning his attention to the paper menu. He had noticed before now that Al, who had grown up surrounded by innumerable inaccurate press stories about his father and his family, never seemed to extend his healthy mistrust of British journalism to any other topic.

(It had had two campuses, Al’s school: lessons by Lake Geneva in the summer months and then up to Gstaad for the winter; afternoons spent skiing and skating. Al had grown up breathing exorbitantly priced mountain air, cushioned by the companionship of other celebrity children. The distant snarling of the tabloids had been a mere background murmur in his life…this, at least, was how Strike interpreted the little that Al had told him of his youth.)

“The wife didn’t do it?” said Al when Strike looked up again.

“No.”

“Whoa. You gonna pull another Lula Landry?” asked Al, with a wide grin that added charm to his off-kilter stare.

“That’s the idea,” said Strike.

“You want me to sound out the staff?” asked Al.

“Exactly,” said Strike.

He was amused and touched by how delighted Al seemed to be at being given the chance to render him service.

“No problem. No problem. Try and get someone decent for you. Where’s Loulou gone? She’s a smart cookie.”

After they had ordered, Al strolled to the bathroom to see whether he could spot the smart Loulou. Strike sat alone, drinking Tignanello ordered by Al, watching the white-coated chefs working in the open kitchen. They were young, skilled and efficient. Flames darted, knives flickered, heavy iron pans moved hither and thither.

He’s not stupid , Strike thought of his brother, watching Al meander back towards the table, leading a dark girl in a white apron. He’s just …

“This is Loulou,” said Al, sitting back down. “She was here that night.”

“You remember the argument?” Strike asked her, focusing at once on the girl who was too busy to sit but stood smiling vaguely at him.

“Oh yeah,” she said. “It was really loud. Brought the place to a standstill.”

“Can you remember what the man looked like?” Strike said, keen to establish that she had witnessed the right row.

“Fat bloke wearing a hat, yeah,” she said. “Yelling at a woman with gray hair. Yeah, they had a real bust-up. Sorry, I’m going to have to—”

And she was gone, to take another table’s order.

“We’ll grab her on the way back,” Al reassured Strike. “Eddie sends his best, by the way. Wishes he could’ve been here.”

“How’s he doing?” asked Strike, feigning interest. Where Al had shown himself keen to forge a friendship, his younger brother, Eddie, seemed indifferent. He was twenty-four and the lead singer in his own band. Strike had never listened to any of their music.

“He’s great,” said Al.

Silence fell between them. Their starters arrived and they ate without talking. Strike knew that Al had achieved excellent grades in his International Baccalaureate. One evening in a military tent in Afghanistan, Strike had seen a photograph online of eighteen-year-old Al in a cream blazer with a crest on the pocket, long hair swept sideways and gleaming gold in the bright Geneva sun. Rokeby had had his arm around Al, beaming with paternal pride. The picture had been newsworthy because Rokeby had never been photographed in a suit and tie before.

“Hello, Al,” said a familiar voice.

And, to Strike’s astonishment, there stood Daniel Chard on crutches, his bald head reflecting the subtle spots shining from the industrial waves above them. Wearing a dark red open-necked shirt and a gray suit, the publisher looked stylish among this more bohemian crowd.

“Oh,” said Al, and Strike could tell that he was struggling to place Chard, “er—hi—”

“Dan Chard,” said the publisher. “We met when I was speaking to your father about his autobiography?”

“Oh—oh yeah!” said Al, standing up and shaking hands. “This is my brother Cormoran.”

If Strike had been surprised to see Chard approach Al, it was nothing to the shock that registered on Chard’s face at the sight of Strike.

“Your—your brother?”

“Half-brother,” said Strike, inwardly amused by Chard’s evident bewilderment. How could the hireling detective be related to the playboy prince?

The effort it had cost Chard to approach the son of a potentially lucrative subject seemed to have left him with nothing to spare for a three-way awkward silence.

“Leg feeling better?” Strike asked.

“Oh, yes,” said Chard. “Much. Well, I’ll…I’ll leave you to your dinner.”

He moved away, swinging deftly between tables, and resumed his seat where Strike could no longer watch him. Strike and Al sat back down, Strike reflecting on how very small London was once you reached a certain altitude; once you had left behind those who could not easily secure tables at the best restaurants and clubs.

“Couldn’t remember who he was,” said Al with a sheepish grin.

“He’s thinking of writing his autobiography, is he?” Strike asked.

He never referred to Rokeby as Dad, but tried to remember not to call him Rokeby in front of Al.

“Yeah,” said Al. “They’re offering him big money. I dunno whether he’s going to go with that bloke or one of the others. It’ll probably be ghosted.”

Strike wondered fleetingly how Rokeby might treat his eldest son’s accidental conception and disputed birth in such a book. Perhaps, he thought, Rokeby would skip any mention of it. That would certainly be Strike’s preference.

“He’d still like to meet you, you know,” said Al, with an air of having screwed himself up to say it. “He’s really proud…he read everything about the Landry case.”

“Yeah?” said Strike, looking around the restaurant for Loulou, the waitress who remembered Quine.

“Yeah,” said Al.

“So what did he do, interview publishers?” Strike asked. He thought of Kathryn Kent, of Quine himself, the one unable to find a publisher, the other dropped; and the aging rock star able to take his pick.