‘Insane. Nobody’s doing any work; it’s all we can talk about. Was it really, honestly murder?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘God, I can’t believe it… I don’t suppose you can tell me anything, though?’ she asked, barely suppressing the interrogative note.
‘The police won’t want details getting out at this stage.’
‘It was to do with the book, wasn’t it?’ she said. ‘Bombyx Mori.’
‘I couldn’t say.’
‘And Daniel Chard’s broken his leg.’
‘Sorry?’ he said, thrown by the non sequitur.
‘Just so many odd things happening,’ she said. She sounded keyed up, overwrought. ‘Jerry’s all over the place. Daniel rang him up from Devon just now and was yelling at him again – half the office heard because Jerry put him on speakerphone by accident and then couldn’t find the button to turn him off. He can’t leave his weekend house because of his broken leg. Daniel, I mean.’
‘Why was he yelling at Waldegrave?’
‘Security on Bombyx,’ she said. ‘The police have got a full copy of the manuscript from somewhere and Daniel’s not happy about it.
‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I just thought I’d ring and say congrats – I suppose you congratulate a detective when they find a body, or don’t you? Call me when you’re not so busy.’
She rang off before he could say anything else.
‘Nina Lascelles,’ he said as the waiter reappeared with his apple crumble and a coffee for Robin. ‘The girl—’
‘Who stole the manuscript for you,’ said Robin.
‘Your memory would’ve been wasted in HR,’ said Strike, picking up his spoon.
‘Are you serious about Michael Fancourt?’ she asked quietly.
‘Course,’ said Strike. ‘Daniel Chard must’ve told him what Quine had done – he wouldn’t have wanted Fancourt to hear it from anyone else, would he? Fancourt’s a major acquisition for them. No, I think we’ve got to assume that Fancourt knew, early on, what was in—’
Now Robin’s mobile rang.
‘Hi,’ said Matthew.
‘Hi, how are you?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Not great.’
Somewhere in the background, someone turned up the music: ‘First day that I saw you, thought you were beautiful…’
‘Where are you?’ asked Matthew sharply.
‘Oh… in a pub,’ said Robin.
Suddenly the air seemed full of pub noises; clinking glasses, raucous laughter from the bar.
‘It’s Cormoran’s birthday,’ she said anxiously. (After all, Matthew and his colleagues went to the pub on each other’s birthdays…)
‘That’s nice,’ said Matthew, sounding furious. ‘I’ll call you later.’
‘Matt, no – wait—’
Mouth full of apple crumble, Strike watched out of the corner of his eye as she got up and moved away to the bar without explanation, evidently trying to redial Matthew. The accountant was unhappy that his fiancée had gone out to lunch, that she was not sitting shiva for his mother.
Robin redialled and redialled. She got through at last. Strike finished both his crumble and his third pint and realised that he needed the bathroom.
His knee, which had not troubled him much while he ate, drank and talked to Robin, complained violently when he stood. By the time he got back to his seat he was sweating a little with the pain. Judging by the expression on her face, Robin was still trying to placate Matthew. When at last she hung up and rejoined him, he returned a short answer to whether or not he was all right.
‘You know, I could follow the Brocklehurst girl for you,’ she offered again, ‘if your leg’s too—?’
‘No,’ snapped Strike.
He felt sore, angry with himself, irritated by Matthew and suddenly a bit nauseous. He ought not to have eaten the chocolate before having steak, chips, crumble and three pints.
‘I need you to go back to the office and type up Gunfrey’s last invoice. And text me if those bloody journalists are still around, because I’ll go straight from here to Anstis’s, if they are.
‘We really need to be thinking about taking someone else on,’ he added under his breath.
Robin’s expression hardened.
‘I’ll go and get typing, then,’ she said. She snatched up her coat and bag and left. Strike caught a glimpse of her angry expression, but an irrational vexation prevented him from calling her back.