The Silkworm by Robert Galbraith Read Free Book Online Page B

Joan gabbled.
    ‘William and Kate are engaged,’ said Robin.
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Prince William,’ said Robin, amused, ‘and Kate Middleton.’
    ‘Oh,’ said Strike coldly. ‘Good for them.’
    He had been among the ranks of the engaged himself until a few months ago. He did not know how his ex-fiancée’s new engagement was proceeding, nor did he enjoy wondering when it was going to end. (Not as theirs had ended, of course, with her clawing her betrothed’s face and revealing her betrayal, but with the kind of wedding he could never have given her; more like the one William and Kate would no doubt soon enjoy.)
    Robin judged it safe to break the moody silence only once Strike had had half a mug of tea.
    ‘Lucy called just before you came down, to remind you about your birthday dinner on Saturday night, and to ask whether you want to bring anyone.’
    Strike’s spirits slipped several more notches. He had forgotten all about the dinner at his sister’s house.
    ‘Right,’ he said heavily.
    ‘Is it your birthday on Saturday?’ Robin asked.
    ‘No,’ said Strike.
    ‘When is it?’
    He sighed. He did not want a cake, a card or presents, but her expression was expectant.
    ‘Tuesday,’ he said.
    ‘The twenty-third?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    After a short pause, it occurred to him that he ought to reciprocate.
    ‘And when’s yours?’ Something in her hesitation unnerved him. ‘Christ, it’s not today, is it?’
    She laughed.
    ‘No, it’s gone. October the ninth. It’s all right, it was a Saturday,’ she said, still smiling at his pained expression. ‘I wasn’t sitting here all day expecting flowers.’
    He grinned back. Feeling he ought to make a little extra effort, because he had missed her birthday and never considered finding out when it was, he added:
    ‘Good thing you and Matthew haven’t set a date yet. At least you won’t clash with the Royal Wedding.’
    ‘Oh,’ said Robin, blushing, ‘we have set a date.’
    ‘You have?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Robin. ‘It’s the – the eighth of January. I’ve got your invitation here,’ she said, stooping hurriedly over her bag (she had not even asked Matthew about inviting Strike, but too late for that). ‘Here.’
    ‘The eighth of January?’ Strike said, taking the silver envelope. ‘That’s only – what? – seven weeks away.’
    ‘Yes,’ said Robin.
    There was a strange little pause. Strike could not remember immediately what else he wanted her to do; then it came back to him, and as he spoke he tapped the silver envelope against his palm, businesslike.
    ‘How’s it going with the Hiltons?’
    ‘I’ve done a few. Quine isn’t there under his own name and nobody’s recognised the description. There are loads of them, though, so I’m just working my way through the list. What are you up to after you see Elizabeth Tassel?’ she asked casually.
    ‘Pretending I want to buy a flat in Mayfair. Looks like somebody’s husband’s trying to realise some capital and take it offshore before his wife’s lawyers can stop him.
    ‘Well,’ he said, pushing the unopened wedding invitation deep into his overcoat pocket, ‘better be off. Got a bad author to find.’

8
     
    I took the book and so the old man vanished.
John Lyly,
Endymion: or, the Man in the Moon
     
    It occurred to Strike as he travelled, standing, the one Tube stop to Elizabeth Tassel’s office (he was never fully relaxed on these short journeys, but braced to take the strain on his false leg, wary of falls) that Robin had not reproached him for taking on the Quine case. Not, of course, that it was her place to reproach her employer, but she had turned down a much higher salary to throw her lot in with his and it would not have been unreasonable for her to expect that once the debts were paid, a raise might be the least he could do for her. She was unusual in her lack of criticism, or critical silence; the only female in Strike’s life who seemed to have no desire to improve or correct