Sure enough, at five to nine Miss Brocklehurst’s front door opened and the lover emerged; he resembled her boss in nothing except age and a moneyed appearance. A sleek leather messenger bag was slung diagonally across his chest, large enough for a clean shirt and a toothbrush. Strike had seen these so frequently of late that he had come to think of them as Adulterer’s Overnight Bags. The couple enjoyed a French kiss on the doorstep curtailed by the icy cold and the fact that Miss Brocklehurst was wearing less than two ounces of fabric. Then she retreated indoors and Paunchy set off towards Clapham Junction, already speaking on his mobile phone, doubtless explaining that he would be late due to the snow. Strike allowed him twenty yards’ head start then emerged from his hiding place, leaning on the stick that Robin had kindly retrieved from Denmark Place the preceding afternoon.
It was easy surveillance, as Paunchy was oblivious to anything but his telephone conversation. They walked down the gentle incline of Lavender Hill together, twenty yards apart, the snow falling steadily again. Paunchy slipped several times in his handmade shoes. When they reached the station it was easy for Strike to follow him, still gabbling, into the same carriage and, under pretext of reading texts, to take pictures of him on his own mobile.
As he did so, a genuine text arrived from Robin.
Michael Fancourt’s agent just called me back – MF says he’d be delighted to meet you! He’s in Germany but will be back on 6th. Suggests Groucho Club whatever time suits? Rx
It was quite extraordinary, Strike thought, as the train rattled into Waterloo, how much the people who had read Bombyx Mori wanted to talk to him. When before had suspects jumped so eagerly at the chance to sit face to face with a detective? And what did famous Michael Fancourt hope to gain from an interview with the private detective who had found Owen Quine’s body?
Strike got out of the train behind Paunchy, following him through the crowds across the wet, slippery tiles of Waterloo station, beneath the ceiling of cream girders and glass that reminded Strike of Tithebarn House. Out again into the cold, with Paunchy still oblivious and gabbling into his mobile, Strike followed him along slushy, treacherous pavements edged with clods of mucky snow, between square office blocks comprised of glass and concrete, in and out of the swarm of financial workers bustling along, ant-like, in their drab coats, until at last Paunchy turned into the car park of one of the biggest office blocks and headed for what was obviously his own car. Apparently he had felt it wiser to leave the BMW at the office than to park outside Miss Brocklehurst’s flat. As Strike watched, lurking behind a convenient Range Rover, he felt the mobile in his pocket vibrate but ignored it, unwilling to draw attention to himself. Paunchy had a named parking space. After collecting a few items from his boot he headed into the building, leaving Strike free to amble over to the wall where the directors’ names were written and take a photograph of Paunchy’s full name and title for his client’s better information.
Strike then headed back to the office. Once on the Tube he examined his phone and saw that his missed call was from his oldest friend, the shark-mangled Dave Polworth.
Polworth had the ancient habit of calling Strike ‘Diddy’. Most people assumed this was an ironic reference to his size (all through primary school, Strike had been the biggest boy of the year and usually of the year above), but in fact it derived from the endless comings and goings from school that were due to his mother’s peripatetic lifestyle. These had once, long ago, resulted in a small, shrill Dave Polworth telling Strike he was like a didicoy, the Cornish word for gypsy.
Strike returned the call as soon as he got off the Tube and they were still talking twenty minutes later when he entered his office. Robin looked up and began to speak, but seeing that Strike was on the phone merely smiled and turned back to her monitor.
‘Coming home for Christmas?’ Polworth asked Strike as he moved through to the inner office and closed his door.
‘Maybe,’ said Strike.
‘Few pints in the Victory?’ Polworth urged him. ‘Shag Gwenifer Arscott again?’
‘I never,’ said Strike (it was a joke of long standing), ‘shagged Gwenifer Arscott.’
‘Well, have another bash, Diddy, you might strike gold this time. Time someone took her cherry. And speaking of girls neither of us ever shagged…’
The conversation degenerated into a series of salacious and very funny vignettes from Polworth about the antics of the mutual friends they had both left behind in St Mawes. Strike was laughing so much he ignored the ‘call waiting’ signal and did not bother to check who it was.
‘Haven’t got back with Milady Berserko, have you, boy?’ Dave asked, this being the name he usually used for Charlotte.
‘Nope,’ said Strike. ‘She’s getting married in… four days,’ he calculated.
‘Yeah, well, you be on the watch, Diddy, for signs of her galloping back over the horizon. Wouldn’t be surprised if she bolts. Breathe a sigh of relief if it comes off, mate.’
‘Yeah,’ said Strike. ‘Right.’
‘That’s a deal then, yeah?’ said Polworth. ‘Home for Christmas? Beers in the Victory?’
‘Yeah, why not,’ said Strike.
After a few more ribald exchanges Dave returned to his work and Strike, still grinning, checked his phone and saw that he had missed a call from Leonora Quine.
He wandered back into the outer office while dialling his voicemail.
‘I’ve watched Michael Fancourt’s documentary again,’ said Robin excitedly, ‘and I’ve realised what you—’
Strike raised a hand to quiet her as Leonora’s ordinarily deadpan voice spoke in his ear, sounding agitated and disorientated.
‘Cormoran, I’ve been bloody arrested. I don’t know why – nobody’s telling me nothing – they’ve got me at the station. They’re waiting for a lawyer or something. I dunno what to do – Orlando’s with Edna, I don’t – anyway, that’s where I am…’
A few seconds of silence and the message ended.
‘Shit!’ said Strike, so loudly that Robin jumped. ‘SHIT!’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘They’ve arrested Leonora – why’s she calling me, not Ilsa? Shit…’
He punched in Ilsa Herbert’s number and waited.
‘Hi Corm—’
‘They’ve arrested Leonora Quine.’
‘What?’ cried Ilsa. ‘Why? Not that bloody old rag in the lock-up?’
‘They might have something else.’
(Kath’s got proof…)
‘Where is she, Corm?’
‘Police station… it’ll be Kilburn, that’s nearest.’
‘Christ almighty, why didn’t she call me?’
‘Fuck knows. She said something about them finding her a lawyer—’
‘Nobody’s contacted me – God above, doesn’t she think? Why didn’t she give them my name? I’m going now, Corm, I’ll dump this lot on someone else. I’m owed a favour…’
He could hear a series of thunks, distant voices, Ilsa’s rapid footsteps.
‘Call me when you know what’s going on,’ he said.
‘It might be a while.’
‘I don’t care. Call me.’
She hung up. Strike turned to face Robin, who looked appalled.
‘Oh no,’ she breathed.
‘I’m calling Anstis,’ said Strike, jabbing again at his phone.
But his old friend was in no mood to dispense favours.
‘I warned you, Bob, I warned you this was coming. She did it, mate.’
‘What’ve you got?’ Strike demanded.
‘Can’t tell you that, Bob, sorry.’
‘Did you get it from Kathryn Kent?’
‘Can’t say, mate.’
Barely deigning to return Anstis’s conventional good wishes, Strike hung up.
‘Dickhead!’ he said. ‘Bloody dickhead!’
Leonora was now in a place where he could not reach her. Strike was worried about how her grudging manner and the animosity to the police wou
ld appear to interlocutors. He could almost hear her complaining that Orlando was alone, demanding to know when she would be able to return to her daughter, indignant that the police had meddled with the daily grind of her miserable existence. He was afraid of her lack of self-preservation; he wanted Ilsa there, fast, before Leonora uttered innocently self-incriminating comments about her husband’s general neglect and his girlfriends, before she could state again her almost incredible and suspicious claim that she knew nothing about her husband’s books before they had proper covers on, before she attempted to explain why she had temporarily forgotten that they owned a second house where her husband’s remains had lain decaying for weeks.
Five o’clock in the afternoon came and went without news from Ilsa. Looking out at the darkening sky and the snow, Strike insisted Robin go home.
‘But you’ll ring me when you hear?’ she begged him, pulling on her coat and wrapping a thick woollen scarf around her neck.
‘Yeah, of course,’ said Strike.
But not until six thirty did Ilsa call him back.
‘Couldn’t be worse,’ were her first words. She sounded tired and stressed. ‘They’ve got proof of purchase, on the Quines’ joint credit card, of protective overalls, wellington boots, gloves and ropes. They were bought online and paid for with their Visa. Oh – and a burqa.’
‘You’re fucking kidding me.’
‘I’m not. I know you think she’s innocent—’
‘Yeah, I do,’ said Strike, conveying a clear warning not to bother trying to persuade him otherwise.
‘All right,’ said Ilsa wearily, ‘have it your own way, but I’ll tell you this: she’s not helping herself. She’s being aggressive as hell, insisting Quine must have bought the stuff himself. A burqa, for God’s sake… The ropes bought on the card are identical to the ones that were found tying the corpse. They asked her why Quine would want a burqa or plastic overalls of a strength to resist chemical spills, and all she said was: “I don’t bloody know, do I?” Every other sentence, she kept asking when she could go home to her daughter; she just doesn’t get it. The stuff was bought six months ago and sent to Talgarth Road – it couldn’t look more premeditated unless they’d found a plan in her handwriting. She’s denying she knew how Quine was going to end his book, but your guy Anstis—’
‘There in person, was he?’
‘Yeah, doing the interrogation. He kept asking whether she really expected them to believe that Quine never talked about what he was writing. Then she says, “I don’t pay much attention.” “So he does talk about his plots?” On and on it went, trying to wear her down, and in the end she says, “Well, he said something about the silkworm being boiled.” That was all Anstis needed to be convinced she’s been lying all along and she knew the whole plot. Oh, and they’ve found disturbed earth in their back garden.’
‘And I’ll lay you odds they’ll find a dead cat called Mr Poop,’ snarled Strike.
‘That won’t stop Anstis,’ predicted Ilsa. ‘He’s absolutely sure it’s her, Corm. They’ve got the right to keep her until eleven a.m. tomorrow and I’m sure they’re going to charge her.’
‘They haven’t got enough,’ said Strike fiercely. ‘Where’s the DNA evidence? Where are the witnesses?’
‘That’s the problem, Corm, there aren’t any and that credit card bill’s pretty damning. Look, I’m on your side,’ said Ilsa patiently. ‘You want my honest opinion? Anstis is taking a punt, hoping it’s going to work out. I think he’s feeling the pressure from all the press interest. And to be frank, he’s feeling agitated about you slinking around the case and wants to take the initiative.’
Strike groaned.
‘Where did they get a six-month-old Visa bill? Has it taken them this long to go through the stuff they took out of his study?’
‘No,’ said Ilsa. ‘It’s on the back of one of his daughter’s pictures. Apparently the daughter gave it to a friend of his months ago, and this friend went to the police with it early this morning, claiming they’d only just looked at the back and realised what was on there. What did you just say?’
‘Nothing,’ Strike sighed.
‘It sounded like “Tashkent”.’
‘Not that far off. I’ll let you go, Ilsa… thanks for everything.’
Strike sat for a few seconds in frustrated silence.
‘Bollocks,’ he said softly to his dark office.
He knew how this had happened. Pippa Midgley, in her paranoia and her hysteria, convinced that Strike had been hired by Leonora to pin the murder on somebody else, had run from his office straight to Kathryn Kent. Pippa had confessed that she had blown Kathryn’s pretence never to have read Bombyx Mori and urged her to use the evidence she had against Leonora. And so Kathryn Kent had ripped down her lover’s daughter’s picture (Strike imagined it stuck, with a magnet, to the fridge) and hurried off to the police station.
‘Bollocks,’ he repeated, more loudly, and dialled Robin’s number.
39
I am so well acquainted with despair,
I know not how to hope…
Thomas Dekker and Thomas Middleton,
The Honest Whore
As her lawyer had predicted, Leonora Quine was charged with the murder of her husband at eleven o’clock the following morning. Alerted by phone, Strike and Robin watched the news spread online where, minute by minute, the story proliferated like multiplying bacteria. By half past eleven the Sun website had a full article on Leonora headed ROSE WEST LOOKALIKE WHO TRAINED AT THE BUTCHER’S.
The journalists had been busily collecting evidence of Quine’s poor record as a husband. His frequent disappearances were linked to liaisons with other women, the sexual themes of his work dissected and embellished. Kathryn Kent had been located, doorstepped, photographed and categorised as ‘Quine’s curvy red-headed mistress, a writer of erotic fiction’.
Shortly before midday, Ilsa called Strike again.
‘She’s going to be up in court tomorrow.’
‘Where?’
‘Wood Green, eleven o’clock. Straight from there to Holloway, I expect.’
Strike had once lived with his mother and Lucy in a house a mere three minutes away from the closed women’s prison that served north London.
‘I want to see her.’
‘You can try, but I can’t imagine the police will want you near her and I’ve got to tell you, Corm, as her lawyer, it might not look—’
‘Ilsa, I’m the only chance she’s got now.’
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ she said drily.
‘You know what I mean.’
He heard her sigh.
‘I’m thinking of you too. Do you really want to put the police’s backs—?’
‘How is she?’ interrupted Strike.
‘Not good,’ said Ilsa. ‘The separation from Orlando’s killing her.’
The afternoon was punctuated with calls from journalists and people who had known Quine, both groups equally desperate for inside information. Elizabeth Tassel’s voice was so deep and rough on the phone that Robin thought her a man.
‘Where’s Orlando?’ the agent demanded of Strike when he came to the phone, as though he had been delegated charge of all members of the Quine family. ‘Who’s got her?’
‘She’s with a neighbour, I think,’ he said, listening to her wheeze down the line.
‘My God, what a mess,’ rasped the agent. ‘Leonora… the worm turning after all these years… it’s incredible…’
Nina Lascelles’s reaction was, not altogether to Strike’s surprise, poorly disguised relief. Murder had receded to its rightful place on the hazy edge of the possible. Its shadow no longer touched her; the killer was nobody she knew.
‘His wife does look a bit like Rose West, doesn’t she?’ she asked Strike on the phone and he knew that she was staring at the Sun’s website. ‘Except with long hair.’
She seemed to be commiserating with him. He had not solved the case. The police had beaten him t
o it.
‘Listen, I’m having a few people over on Friday, fancy coming?’
‘Can’t, sorry,’ said Strike. ‘I’m having dinner with my brother.’
He could tell that she thought he was lying. There had been an almost imperceptible hesitation before he had said ‘my brother’, which might well have suggested a pause for rapid thought. Strike could not remember ever describing Al as his brother before. He rarely discussed his half-siblings on his father’s side.
Before she left the office that evening Robin set a mug of tea in front of him as he sat poring over the Quine file. She could almost feel the anger that Strike was doing his best to hide, and suspected that it was directed at himself quite as much as at Anstis.
‘It’s not over,’ she said, winding her scarf around her neck as she prepared to depart. ‘We’ll prove it wasn’t her.’
She had once before used the plural pronoun when Strike’s faith in himself had been at a low ebb. He appreciated the moral support, but a feeling of impotence was swamping his thought processes. Strike hated paddling on the periphery of the case, forced to watch as others dived for clues, leads and information.
He sat up late with the Quine file that night, reviewing the notes he had made of interviews, examining again the photographs he had printed off his phone. The mangled body of Owen Quine seemed to signal to him in the silence as corpses often did, exhaling mute appeals for justice and pity. Sometimes the murdered carried messages from their killers like signs forced into their stiff dead hands. Strike stared for a long time at the burned and gaping chest cavity, the ropes tight around ankles and wrists, the carcass trussed and gutted like a turkey, but try as he might, he could glean nothing from the pictures that he did not already know. Eventually he turned off all the lights and headed upstairs to bed.
It was a bittersweet relief to have to spend Thursday morning at the offices of his brunette client’s exorbitantly expensive divorce lawyers in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Strike was glad to have something to while away time that could not be spent investigating Quine’s murder, but he still felt that he had been lured to the meeting under false pretences. The flirtatious divorcée had given him to understand that her lawyer wanted to hear from Strike in person how he had collected the copious evidence of her husband’s duplicity. He sat beside her at a highly polished mahogany table with room for twelve while she referred constantly to ‘what Cormoran managed to find out’ and ‘as Cormoran witnessed, didn’t you?’, occasionally touching his wrist. It did not take Strike long to deduce from her suave lawyer’s barely concealed irritation that it had not been his idea to have Strike in attendance. Nevertheless, as might have been expected when the hourly fee ran to over five hundred pounds, he showed no disposition to hurry matters along.