She opened her mouth to continue but seemed to think better of it and merely said:
‘Owen and I go back a very long way. We were good friends… once,’ she added, on a note of deep bitterness.
‘Which hotels has he stayed at before this?’
‘I can’t remember all of them. The Kensington Hilton once. The Danubius in St John’s Wood. Big faceless hotels with all the creature comforts he can’t get at home. Owen’s no citizen of Bohemia – except in his approach to hygiene.’
‘You know Quine well. You don’t think there’s any chance that he might have—?’
She finished the sentence for him with a faint sneer.
‘—“done something silly?” Of course not. He’d never dream of depriving the world of the genius of Owen Quine. No, he’s out there plotting his revenge on all of us, thoroughly aggrieved that there isn’t a national manhunt going on.’
‘He’d expect a manhunt, even when he makes such a practice of going missing?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Every time he puts in one of these little vanishing acts he expects it to make the front page. The trouble is that the very first time he did it, years and years ago, after an argument with his first editor, it worked. There was a little flurry of concern and a smattering of press. He’s lived in the hope of that ever since.’
‘His wife’s adamant that he’d be annoyed if she called the police.’
‘I don’t know where she gets that idea,’ said Elizabeth, helping herself to yet another cigarette. ‘Owen would think helicopters and sniffer dogs the least the nation could do for a man of his importance.’
‘Well, thanks for your time,’ said Strike, preparing to stand. ‘It was good of you to see me.’
Elizabeth Tassel held up a hand and said:
‘No, it wasn’t. I want to ask you something.’
He waited receptively. She was not used to asking favours, that much was clear. She smoked for a few seconds in silence, which brought on another bout of suppressed coughs.
‘This – this… Bombyx Mori business has done me a lot of harm,’ she croaked at last. ‘I’ve been disinvited from Roper Chard’s anniversary party this Friday. Two manuscripts I had on submission with them have been sent back without so much as a thank you. And I’m getting worried about poor Pinkelman’s latest.’ She pointed at the picture of the elderly children’s writer on the wall. ‘There’s a disgusting rumour flying around that I was in cahoots with Owen; that I egged him on to rehash an old scandal about Michael Fancourt, whip up some controversy and try to get a bidding war going for the book.
‘If you’re going to trawl around everyone who knows Owen,’ she said, coming to the point, ‘I’d be very grateful if you could tell them – especially Jerry Waldegrave, if you see him – that I had no idea what was in that novel. I’d never have sent it out, least of all to Christian Fisher, if I hadn’t been so ill. I was,’ she hesitated, ‘careless, but no more than that.’
This, then, was why she had been so anxious to meet him. It did not seem an unreasonable request in return for the addresses of two hotels and a mistress.
‘I’ll certainly mention that if it comes up,’ said Strike, getting to his feet.
‘Thank you,’ she said gruffly. ‘I’ll see you out.’
When they emerged from the office, it was to a volley of barks. Ralph and the old Dobermann had returned from their walk. Ralph’s wet hair was slicked back as he struggled to restrain the grey-muzzled dog, which was snarling at Strike.
‘He’s never liked strangers,’ said Elizabeth Tassel indifferently.
‘He bit Owen once,’ volunteered Ralph, as though this might make Strike feel better about the dog’s evident desire to maul him.
‘Yes,’ said Elizabeth Tassel, ‘pity it—’
But she was overtaken by another volley of rattling, wheezing coughs. The other three waited in silence for her to recover.
‘Pity it wasn’t fatal,’ she croaked at last. ‘It would have saved us all a lot of trouble.’
Her assistants looked shocked. Strike shook her hand and said a general goodbye. The door swung shut on the Dobermann’s growling and snarling.