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.’