‘Fulham Palace Road,’ said the harsh, deep voice, breaking with sobs.
They pulled slowly away from the kerb. The cab was old, the glass partition scratched and a little stained by years of its owner’s smoking. Elizabeth Tassel was visible in the rear-view mirror as the street light slid over her, sobbing silently into her large hands, shaking all over.
The driver did not ask what was the matter but looked beyond the fare to the street behind, where the shrinking figures of two men could be seen, hurrying across the snowy road to a red sports car in the distance.
The taxi turned left at the end of the road and still Elizabeth Tassel cried into her hands. The driver’s thick woollen hat was itchy, grateful though she had been for it during the long hours of waiting. On up the King’s Road the taxi sped, over thick powdery snow that resisted tyres’ attempts to squash it to slush, the blizzard swirling remorselessly, rendering the roads increasingly lethal.
‘You’re going the wrong way.’
‘There’s a diversion,’ lied Robin. ‘Because of the snow.’
She met Elizabeth’s eyes briefly in the mirror. The agent looked over her shoulder. The red Alfa Romeo was too far behind to see. She stared wildly around at the passing buildings. Robin could hear the eerie whistling from her chest.
‘We’re going in the opposite direction.’
‘I’m going to turn in a minute,’ said Robin.
She did not see Elizabeth Tassel try the door, but heard it. They were all locked.
‘You can let me out here,’ she said loudly. ‘Let me out, I say!’
‘You won’t get another cab in this weather,’ said Robin.
They had counted on Tassel being too distraught to notice where they were going for a little while longer. The cab was barely at Sloane Square. There was over a mile to go to New Scotland Yard. Robin’s eyes flickered again to her rear-view mirror. The Alfa Romeo was a tiny red dot in the distance.
Elizabeth had undone her seatbelt.
‘Stop this cab!’ she shouted. ‘Stop it and let me out!’
‘I can’t stop here,’ said Robin, much more calmly than she felt, because the agent had left her seat and her large hands were scrabbling at the partition. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to sit down, madam—’
The screen slid open. Elizabeth’s hand seized Robin’s hat and a handful of hair, her head almost side by side with Robin’s, her expression venomous. Robin’s hair fell into her eyes in sweaty strands.
‘Get off me!’
‘Who are you?’ screeched Tassel, shaking Robin’s head with the fistful of hair in her hand. ‘Ralph said he saw a blonde going through the bin – who are you?’
‘Let go!’ shouted Robin, as Tassel’s other hand grabbed her neck.
Two hundred yards behind them, Strike roared at Al:
‘Put your fucking foot down, there’s something wrong, look at it—’
The taxi ahead was careering all over the road.
‘It’s always been shit in ice,’ moaned Al as the Alfa skidded a little and the taxi took the corner into Sloane Square at speed and disappeared from view.
Tassel was halfway into the front of the taxi, screaming from her ripped throat – Robin was trying to beat her back one-handed while maintaining a grip on the wheel – she could not see where she was going for hair and snow and now both Tassel’s hands were at her throat, squeezing – Robin tried to find the brake, but as the taxi leapt forwards realised she had hit the accelerator – she could not breathe – taking both hands off the wheel she tried to prise away the agent’s tightening grip – screams from pedestrians, a huge jolt and then the ear-splitting crunch of glass, of metal on concrete and the searing pain of the seatbelt against her as the taxi crashed, but she was sinking, everything going black—
‘Fuck the car, leave it, we’ve got to get in there!’ Strike bellowed at Al over the wail of a shop alarm and the screams of the scattered bystanders. Al brought the Alfa to an untidy skidding halt in the middle of the road a hundred yards from where the taxi had smashed its way into a plate glass window. Al jumped out as Strike struggled to stand. A group of passers-by, some of them Christmas party-goers in black tie who had sprinted out of the way as the taxi mounted the kerb, watched, stunned, as Al ran, slipping and almost falling, over the snow towards the crash.
The rear door of the cab opened. Elizabeth Tassel flung herself from the back seat and began to run.
‘Al, get her!’ Strike bellowed, still struggling through the snow. ‘Get her, Al!’
Le Rosey had a superb rugby team. Al was used to taking orders. A short sprint and he had taken her down in a perfect tackle. She hit the snowy street with a hard bang over the screamed protests of many women watching and he pinned her there, struggling and swearing, repelling every attempt of chivalrous men to help his victim.
Strike was immune to all of it: he seemed to be running in slow motion, trying not to fall, staggering towards the ominously silent and still cab. Distracted by Al and his struggling, swearing captive, nobody had a thought to spare for the driver of the taxi.
‘Robin…’
She was slumped sideways, still held to her seat by the belt. There was blood on her face, but when he said her name she responded with a muddled groan.
‘Thank fuck… thank fuck…’
Police sirens were already filling the square. They wailed over the shop alarm, the mounting protests of the shocked Londoners, and Strike, undoing Robin’s seatbelt, pushing her gently back into the cab as she attempted to get out, said:
‘Stay there.’
‘She knew we weren’t going to her house,’ mumbled Robin. ‘Knew straight away I was going the wrong way.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ panted Strike. ‘You’ve brought Scotland Yard to us.’
Diamond-bright lights were twinkling from the bare trees around the square. Snow poured down upon the gathering crowd, the taxi protruding from the broken window and the sports car parked untidily in the middle of the road as the police cars came to a halt, their flashing blue lights sparkling on the glittering glass-strewn ground, their sirens lost in the wail of the shop alarm.
As his half-brother tried to shout an explanation as to why he was lying on top of a sixty-year-old woman, the relieved, exhausted detective slumped down beside his partner in the cab and found himself – against his will and against the dictates of good taste – laughing.
ONE WEEK LATER
50
CYNTHIA: How say you, Endymion, all this was for love?
ENDYMION: I say, madam, then the gods send me a woman’s hate.
John Lyly, Endymion: or, the Man in the Moon
Strike had never visited Robin and Matthew’s flat in Ealing before. His insistence that Robin take time off work to recover from mild concussion and attempted strangulation had not gone down well.
‘Robin,’ he had told her patiently over the phone, ‘I’ve had to shut up the office anyway. Press crawling all over Denmark Street… I’m staying at Nick and Ilsa’s.’
But he could not disappear to Cornwall without seeing her. When she opened her front door he was glad to see that the bruising on her neck and forehead had already faded to a faint yellow and blue.
‘How’re you feeling?’ he asked, wiping his feet on the doormat.
‘Great!’ she said.
The place was small but cheerful and it smelled of her perfume, which he had never noticed much before. Perhaps a week without smelling it had made him more sensitive to it. She led him through to the sitting room, which was painted magnolia like Kathryn Kent’s and where he was interested to note the copy of Investigative Interviewing: Psychology and Practice lying cover upwards on a chair. A small Christmas tree stood in the corner, the decorations white and silver like the trees in Sloane Square that had formed the background of press photographs of the crashed taxi.
‘Matthew got over it yet?’ asked Strike, sinking down into the sofa.
‘I can’t say he’s the happiest I’
ve ever seen him,’ she replied, grinning. ‘Tea?’
She knew how he liked it: the colour of creosote.
‘Christmas present,’ he told her when she returned with the tray, and handed her a nondescript white envelope. Robin opened it curiously and pulled out a stapled sheaf of printed material.
‘Surveillance course in January,’ said Strike. ‘So next time you pull a bag of dog shit out of a bin no one notices you doing it.’
She laughed, delighted.
‘Thank you. Thank you!’
‘Most women would’ve expected flowers.’
‘I’m not most women.’
‘Yeah, I’ve noticed that,’ said Strike, taking a chocolate biscuit.
‘Have they analysed it yet?’ she asked. ‘The dog poo?’
‘Yep. Full of human guts. She’d been defrosting them bit by bit. They found traces in the Dobermann’s bowl and the rest in her freezer.’
‘Oh God,’ said Robin, the smile sliding off her face.
‘Criminal genius,’ said Strike. ‘Sneaking into Quine’s study and planting two of her own used typewriter ribbons behind the desk… Anstis has condescended to have them tested now; there’s none of Quine’s DNA on them. He never touched them – ergo, he never typed what’s on there.’
‘Anstis is still talking to you, is he?’
‘Just. Hard for him to cut me off. I saved his life.’
‘I can see how that would make things awkward,’ Robin agreed. ‘So they’re buying your whole theory now?’
‘Open and shut case now they know what they’re looking for. She bought the duplicate typewriter nearly two years ago. Ordered the burqa and the ropes on Quine’s card and got them sent to the house while the workmen were in. Loads of opportunity to get at his Visa over the years. Coat hanging up in the office while he went for a slash… sneak out his wallet while he was asleep, pissed, when she drove him home from parties.
‘She knew him well enough to know he was slapdash on checking things like bills. She’d had access to the key to Talgarth Road – easy to copy. She’d been all over the house, knew the hydrochloric acid was there.
‘Brilliant, but over-elaborate,’ said Strike, sipping his dark brown tea. ‘She’s on suicide watch, apparently. But you haven’t heard the most mental bit.’
‘There’s more?’ said Robin apprehensively.
Much as she had looked forward to seeing Strike, she still felt a little fragile after the events of a week ago. She straightened her back and faced him squarely, braced.
‘She kept the bloody book.’
Robin frowned at him.
‘What do you—?’
‘It was in the freezer with the guts. Bloodstained because she’d carried it away in the bag with the guts. The real manuscript. The Bombyx Mori that Quine wrote.’
‘But – why on earth—?’
‘God only knows. Fancourt says—’
‘You’ve seen him?’
‘Briefly. He’s decided he knew it was Elizabeth all along. I’ll lay you odds what his next novel’s going to be about. Anyway, he says she wouldn’t have been able to bring herself to destroy an original manuscript.’
‘For God’s sake – she had no problem destroying its author!’
‘Yeah, but this was literature, Robin,’ said Strike, grinning. ‘And get this: Roper Chard are very keen to publish the real thing. Fancourt’s going to write the introduction.’
‘You are kidding?’
‘Nope. Quine’s going to have a bestseller at last. Don’t look like that,’ said Strike bracingly as she shook her head in disbelief. ‘Plenty to celebrate. Leonora and Orlando will be rolling in money once Bombyx Mori hits the bookshelves.
‘That reminds me, got something else for you.’
He slid his hand into the inside pocket of the coat lying beside him on the sofa and handed her a rolled-up drawing that he had been keeping safe there. Robin unfurled it and smiled, her eyes filling with tears. Two curly haired angels danced together beneath the carefully pencilled legend To Robin love from Dodo.
‘How are they?’
‘Great,’ said Strike.
He had visited the house in Southern Row at Leonora’s invitation. She and Orlando had met him hand in hand at the door, Cheeky Monkey dangling around Orlando’s neck as usual.
‘Where’s Robin?’ Orlando demanded. ‘I wanted Robin to be here. I drew her a picture.’
‘The lady had an accident,’ Leonora reminded her daughter, backing away into the hall to let Strike in, keeping a tight hold on Orlando’s hand as though frightened that someone might separate them again. ‘I told you, Dodo, the lady did a very brave thing and she had a crash in a car.’
‘Auntie Liz was bad,’ Orlando told Strike, walking backwards down the hall, still hand in hand with her mother but staring at Strike all the way with those limpid green eyes. ‘She was the one who made my daddy die.’
‘Yes, I – er – I know,’ Strike replied, with that familiar feeling of inadequacy that Orlando always seemed to induce in him.
He had found Edna from next door sitting at the kitchen table.
‘Oh, you were clever,’ she told him over and again. ‘Wasn’t it dreadful, though? How’s your poor partner? Wasn’t it terrible, though?’
‘Bless them,’ said Robin after he had described this scene in some detail. She spread Orlando’s picture out on the coffee table between them, beside the details of the surveillance course, where she could admire them both. ‘And how’s Al?’
‘Beside himself with bloody excitement,’ said Strike gloomily. ‘We’ve given him a false impression of the thrill of working life.’
‘I liked him,’ said Robin, smiling.
‘Yeah, well, you were concussed,’ said Strike. ‘And Polworth’s bloody ecstatic to have shown up the Met.’
‘You’ve got some very interesting friends,’ said Robin. ‘How much are you going to have to pay to repair Nick’s dad’s taxi?’
‘Haven’t got the bill in yet,’ he sighed. ‘I suppose,’ he added, several biscuits later, with his eyes on his present to Robin, ‘I’m going to have to get another temp in while you’re off learning surveillance.’
‘Yeah, I suppose you will,’ agreed Robin, and after a slight hesitation she added, ‘I hope she’s rubbish.’
Strike laughed as he got to his feet, picking up his coat.
‘I wouldn’t worry. Lightning doesn’t strike twice.’
‘Doesn’t anyone ever call you that, among all your many nicknames?’ she wondered as they walked back through to the hall.
‘Call me what?’
‘“Lightning” Strike?’
‘Is that likely?’ he asked, indicating his leg. ‘Well, merry Christmas, partner.’
The idea of a hug hovered briefly in the air, but she held out her hand with mock blokeyness, and he shook it.
‘Have a great time in Cornwall.’
‘And you in Masham.’
On the point of relinquishing her hand, he gave it a quick twist. He had kissed the back of it before she knew what had happened. Then, with a grin and a wave, he was gone.
Acknowledgements
Writing as Robert Galbraith has been pure joy and the following people have all helped make it so. My heartfelt thanks go to:
SOBE, Deeby and the Back Door Man, because I’d never have got as far without you. Let’s plan a heist next.
David Shelley, my incomparable editor, stalwart support and fellow INFJ. Thank you for being brilliant at your job, for taking seriously all the things that matter and for finding everything else as funny as I do.
My agent, Neil Blair, who cheerfully agreed to help me achieve my ambition of becoming a first-time author. You are truly one in a million.
Everyone at Little, Brown who worked so hard and enthusiastically on Robert’s first novel without having a clue who he was. My special gratitude to the audiobook team, who took Robert to number one before he was unmasked.
Lorna and Steve Barnes,
who enabled me to drink in The Bay Horse, examine the tomb of Sir Marmaduke Wyvill and find out that Robin’s hometown is pronounced ‘Mass-um’ not ‘Mash-em’, saving me much future embarrassment.
Fiddy Henderson, Christine Collingwood, Fiona Shapcott, Angela Milne, Alison Kelly and Simon Brown, without whose hard work I would not have had time to write The Silkworm, or indeed anything else.
Mark Hutchinson, Nicky Stonehill and Rebecca Salt, who can take a great deal of credit for the fact that I still have some marbles left.
My family, especially Neil, for much more than I can express in a few lines, but in this case for being so supportive of bloody murder.
Robert Galbraith, The Silkworm
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends