‘… in our writing…’ said Pippa quietly.
Kathryn talked at length, Strike nodding with every appearance of interest at the gradual progression of the teacher–student relationship to something much warmer, Pippa tagging along, it seemed, and leaving Quine and Kathryn only at the bedroom door.
‘I write fantasy with a twist,’ said Kathryn and Strike was surprised and a little amused that she had begun to talk like Fancourt: in rehearsed phrases, in sound-bites. He wondered fleetingly how many people who sat alone for hours as they scribbled their stories practised talking about their work during their coffee breaks and he remembered what Waldegrave had told him about Quine, that he had freely admitted to role-playing interviews with a biro. ‘It’s fantasy slash erotica really, but quite literary. And that’s the thing about traditional publishing, you know, they don’t want to take a chance on something that hasn’t been seen before, it’s all about what fits their sales categories, and if you’re blending several genres, if you’re creating something entirely new, they’re afraid to take a chance… I know that Liz Tassel,’ Kathryn spoke the name as though it were a medical complaint, ‘told Owen my work was too niche. But that’s the great thing about indie publishing, the freedom—’
‘Yeah,’ said Pippa, clearly desperate to put in her two pennys’ worth, ‘that’s true, for genre fiction I think indie can be the way to go—’
‘Except I’m not really genre,’ said Kathryn, with a slight frown, ‘that’s my point—’
‘—but Owen felt that for my memoir I’d do better going the traditional route,’ said Pippa. ‘You know, he had a real interest in gender identity and he was fascinated with what I’d been through. I introduced him to a couple of other transgendered people and he promised to talk to his editor about me, because he thought, with the right promotion, you know, and with a story that’s never really been told—’
‘Owen loved Melina’s Sacrifice, he couldn’t wait to read on. He was practically ripping it out of my hand every time I finished a chapter,’ said Kathryn loudly, ‘and he told me—’
She stopped abruptly in mid-flow. Pippa’s evident irritation at being interrupted faded ludicrously from her face. Both of them, Robin could tell, had suddenly remembered that all the time Quine had been showering them with effusive encouragement, interest and praise, the characters of Harpy and Epicoene had been taking obscene shape on an old electric typewriter hidden from their eager gazes.
‘So he talked to you about his own work?’ Strike asked.
‘A bit,’ said Kathryn Kent in a flat voice.
‘How long was he working on Bombyx Mori, do you know?’
‘Most of the time I knew him,’ she said.
‘What did he say about it?’
There was a pause. Kathryn and Pippa looked at each other.
‘I’ve already told him,’ Pippa told Kathryn, with a significant glance at Strike, ‘that he told us it was going to be different.’
‘Yeah,’ said Kathryn heavily. She folded her arms. ‘He didn’t tell us it was going to be like that.’
Like that… Strike remembered the brown, glutinous substance that had leaked from Harpy’s breasts. It had been, for him, one of the most revolting images in the book. Kathryn’s sister, he remembered, had died of breast cancer.
‘Did he say what it was going to be like?’ Strike asked.
‘He lied,’ said Kathryn simply. ‘He said it was going to be the writer’s journey or something but he made out… he told us we were going to be…’
‘“Beautiful lost souls,”’ said Pippa, on whom the phrase seemed to have impressed itself.
‘Yeah,’ said Kathryn heavily.
‘Did he ever read any of it to you, Kathryn?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘He said he wanted it to be a – a—’
‘Oh, Kath,’ said Pippa tragically. Kathryn had buried her face in her hands.
‘Here,’ said Robin kindly, delving into her handbag for tissues.
‘No,’ said Kathryn roughly, pushing herself off the sofa and disappearing into the kitchen. She came back with a handful of kitchen roll.
‘He said,’ she repeated, ‘he wanted it to be a surprise. That bastard,’ she said, sitting back down. ‘Bastard.’
She dabbed at her eyes and shook her head, the long mane of red hair swaying, while Pippa rubbed her back.
‘Pippa told me,’ said Strike, ‘that Quine put a copy of the manuscript through your door.’
‘Yeah,’ said Kathryn.
It was clear that Pippa had already confessed to this indiscretion.
‘Jude next door saw him doing it. She’s a nosy bitch, always keeping tabs on me.’
Strike, who had just put an additional twenty through the nosy neighbour’s letter box as a thank-you for keeping him informed of Kathryn’s movements, asked:
‘When?’
‘Early hours of the sixth,’ said Kathryn.
Strike could almost feel Robin’s tension and excitement.
‘Were the lights outside your front door working then?’
‘Them? They’ve been out for months.’
‘Did she speak to Quine?’
‘No, just peered out the window. It was two in the morning or something, she wasn’t going to go outside in her nightie. But she’d seen him come and go loads of times. She knew what he l-looked like,’ said Kathryn on a sob, ‘in his s-stupid cloak and hat.’
‘Pippa said there was a note,’ said Strike.
‘Yeah – “Payback time for both of us”,’ said Kathryn.
‘Have you still got it?’
‘I burned it,’ said Kathryn.
‘Was it addressed to you? “Dear Kathryn”?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘just the message and a bloody kiss. Bastard!’ she sobbed.
‘Shall I go and get us some real drink?’ volunteered Robin surprisingly.
‘There’s some in the kitchen,’ said Kathryn, her reply muffled by application of the kitchen roll to her mouth and cheeks. ‘Pip, you get it.’
‘You were sure the note was from him?’ asked Strike as Pippa sped off in pursuit of alcohol.
‘Yeah, it was his handwriting, I’d know it anywhere,’ said Kathryn.
‘What did you understand by it?’
‘I dunno,’ said Kathryn weakly, wiping her overflowing eyes. ‘Payback for me because he had a go at his wife? And payback for him on everyone… even me. Gutless bastard,’ she said, unconsciously echoing Michael Fancourt. ‘He could’ve told me he didn’t want… if he wanted to end it… why do that? Why? And it wasn’t just me… Pip… making out he cared, talking to her about her life… she’s had an awful time… I mean, her memoir’s not great literature or anything, but—’
Pippa returned carrying clinking glasses and a bottle of brandy, and Kathryn fell silent.
‘We were saving this for the Christmas pudding,’ said Pippa, deftly uncorking the cognac. ‘There you go, Kath.’
Kathryn took a large brandy and swigged it down in one. It seemed to have the desired effect. With a sniff, she straightened her back. Robin accepted a small measure. Strike declined.
‘When did you read the manuscript?’ he asked Kathryn, who was already helping herself to more brandy.