He took a drink of tea, reassuringly hot and clean, and read on. Bombyx was on the point of leaving Harpy’s house in disgust when another character burst in through her door: Epicoene, whom the sobbing Harpy introduced as her adopted daughter. A young girl, whose open robes revealed a penis, Epicoene insisted that she and Bombyx were twin souls, understanding, as they did, both the male and the female. She invited him to sample her hermaphrodite’s body, but first to hear her sing. Apparently under the impression that she had a beautiful voice, she emitted barks like a seal until Bombyx ran from her with his ears covered.
Now Bombyx saw for the first time, high on a hill in the middle of the city, a castle of light. He climbed the steep streets towards it until hailed from a dark doorway by a male dwarf, who introduced himself as the writer Vainglorious. He had Fancourt’s eyebrows, Fancourt’s surly expression and sneering manner, and offered Bombyx a bed for the night, ‘having heard of your great talent’.
To Bombyx’s horror, a young woman was chained up inside the house, writing at a roll-top desk. Burning brands lay white hot in the fire, to which were attached phrases in twisted metal such as pertinacious gudgeon and chrysostomatic intercourse. Evidently expecting Bombyx to be amused, Vainglorious explained that he had set his young wife Effigy to write her own book, so that she would not bother him while he created his next masterpiece. Unfortunately, Vainglorious explained, Effigy had no talent, for which she must be punished. He removed one of the brands from the fire, at which Bombyx fled the house, pursued by Effigy’s shrieks of pain.
Bombyx sped on towards the castle of light where he imagined he would find his refuge. Over the door was the name Phallus Impudicus, but nobody answered Bombyx’s knock. He therefore skirted the castle, peering in through windows until he saw a naked bald man standing over the corpse of a golden boy whose body was covered in stab wounds, each of which emitted the same dazzling light that issued from Bombyx’s own nipples. Phallus’s erect penis appeared to be rotting.
‘Hi.’
Strike started and looked up. Robin was standing there in her trench coat, her face pink, long red-gold hair loose, tousled and gilded in the early sunlight streaming through the window. Just then, Strike found her beautiful.
‘Why are you so early?’ he heard himself ask.
‘Wanted to know what’s going on.’
She stripped off her coat and Strike looked away, mentally castigating himself. Naturally she looked good, appearing unexpectedly when his mind had been full of the image of a naked bald man, displaying a diseased penis…
‘D’you want another tea?’
‘That’d be great, thanks,’ he said without lifting his eyes from the manuscript. ‘Give me five, I want to finish this…’
And with a feeling that he was diving again into contaminated water, he re-immersed himself in the grotesque world of Bombyx Mori.
As Bombyx stared through the window of the castle, transfixed by the horrible sight of Phallus Impudicus and the corpse, he found himself roughly seized by a crowd of hooded minions, dragged inside the castle and stripped naked in front of Phallus Impudicus. By this time, Bombyx’s belly was enormous and he appeared ready to give birth. Phallus Impudicus gave ominous directions to his minions, which left the naive Bombyx convinced that he was to be the guest of honour at a feast.
Six of the characters that Strike had recognised – Succuba, the Tick, the Cutter, Harpy, Vainglorious and Impudicus – were now joined by Epicoene. The seven guests sat down at a large table on which stood a large jug, the contents of which were smoking, and a man-sized empty platter.
When Bombyx arrived in the hall, he found that there was no seat for him. The other guests rose, moved towards him with ropes and overpowered him. He was trussed up, placed on the platter and slit open. The mass that had been growing inside him was revealed to be a ball of supernatural light, which was ripped out and locked in a casket by Phallus Impudicus.
The contents of the smoking jug were revealed to be vitriol, which the seven attackers poured gleefully over the still-living, shrieking Bombyx. When at last he fell silent, they began to eat him.
The book ended with the guests filing out of the castle, discussing their memories of Bombyx without guilt, leaving behind them an empty hall, the still-smoking remains of the corpse on the table and the locked casket of light hanging, lamp-like, above him.
‘Shit,’ said Strike quietly.
He looked up. Robin had placed a fresh tea beside him without his noticing. She was perched on the sofa, waiting quietly for him to finish.
‘It’s all in here,’ said Strike. ‘What happened to Quine. It’s here.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘The hero of Quine’s book dies exactly the way Quine died. Tied up, guts torn out, something acidic poured over him. In the book they eat him.’
Robin stared at him.
‘The plates. Knives and forks…’
‘Exactly,’ said Strike.
Without thinking, he pulled his mobile out of his pocket and brought up the photos he had taken, then caught sight of her frightened expression.
‘No,’ he said, ‘sorry, forgot you’re not—’
‘Give it to me,’ she said.
What had he forgotten? That she was not trained or experienced, not a policewoman or a soldier? She wanted to live up to his momentary forgetfulness. She wanted to step up, to be more than she was.
‘I want to see,’ she lied.
He handed over the telephone with obvious misgivings.
Robin did not flinch, but as she stared at the open hole in the cadaver’s chest and stomach her own insides seemed to shrink in horror. Raising her mug to her lips, she found that she did not want to drink. The worst was the angled close-up of the face, eaten away by whatever had been poured on it, blackened and with that burned-out eye socket…
The plates struck her as an obscenity. Strike had zoomed in on one of them; the place setting had been meticulously arranged.
‘My God,’ she said numbly, handing the phone back.
‘Now read this,’ said Strike, handing her the relevant pages.
She did so in silence. When she had finished, she looked up at him with eyes that seemed to have doubled in size.
‘My God,’ she said again.
Her mobile rang. She pulled it out of the handbag on the sofa beside her and looked at it. Matthew. Still furious at him, she pressed ‘ignore’.
‘How many people,’ she asked Strike, ‘d’you think have read this book?’
‘Could be a lot of them by now. Fisher emailed bits of it all over town; between him and the lawyers’ letters, it’s become hot property.’
And a strange, random thought crossed Strike’s mind as he spoke: that Quine could not have arranged better publicity if he had tried… but he could not have poured acid over himself while tied up, or cut out his own guts…
‘It’s been kept in a safe at Roper Chard that half the company seems to know the code for,’ he went on. ‘That’s how I got hold of it.’
‘But don’t you think the killer’s likely to be someone who’s in the—?’
Robin’s mobile rang again. She glanced down at it: Matthew. Again, she pressed ‘ignore’.
‘Not necessarily,’ said Strike, answering her unfinished question. ‘But the people he’s written about are going to be high on the list when the police start interviewing. Of the characters I recognise, Leonora claims not to have read it, so does Kathryn Kent—’
‘Do you believe them?’ asked Robin.
‘I believe Leonora. Not sure about Kathryn Kent. How did the line go? “To see thee tortur’d would give me pleasure”?’
‘I can’t believe a woman would have done that,’ said Robin at once, glancing at Strike’s mobile now lying on the desk between them.
‘Did you never hear about the Australian woman who skinned her lover, decapitated him, cooked his head and buttocks and tried to serve him up to his kids?’
‘You’re
not serious.’
‘I’m totally serious. Look it up on the net. When women turn, they really turn,’ said Strike.
‘He was a big man…’
‘If it was a woman he trusted? A woman he met for sex?’
‘Who do we know for sure has read it?’
‘Christian Fisher, Elizabeth Tassel’s assistant Ralph, Tassel herself, Jerry Waldegrave, Daniel Chard – they’re all characters, except Ralph and Fisher. Nina Lascelles—’
‘Who are Waldegrave and Chard? Who’s Nina Lascelles?’
‘Quine’s editor, the head of his publisher and the girl who helped me nick this,’ said Strike, giving the manuscript a slap.
Robin’s mobile rang for the third time.
‘Sorry,’ she said impatiently, and picked it up. ‘Yes?’
‘Robin.’
Matthew’s voice sounded strangely congested. He never cried and he had never before shown himself particularly overcome by remorse at an argument.
‘Yes?’ she said, a little less sharply.
‘Mum’s had another stroke. She’s – she’s—’
An elevator drop in the pit of her stomach.
‘Matt?’
He was crying.
‘Matt?’ she repeated urgently.
‘’S dead,’ he said, like a little boy.
‘I’m coming,’ said Robin. ‘Where are you? I’ll come now.’
Strike was watching her face. He saw tidings of death there and hoped it was nobody she loved, neither of her parents, none of her brothers…
‘All right,’ she was saying, already on her feet. ‘Stay there. I’m coming.
‘It’s Matt’s mother,’ she told Strike. ‘She’s died.’
It felt utterly unreal. She could not believe it.
‘They were only talking on the phone last night,’ she said. Remembering Matt’s rolling eyes and the muffled voice she had just heard, she was overwhelmed with tenderness and sympathy. ‘I’m so sorry but—’
‘Go,’ said Strike. ‘Tell him I’m sorry, will you?’
‘Yes,’ said Robin, trying to fasten her handbag, her fingers grown clumsy in her agitation. She had known Mrs Cunliffe since primary school. She slung her raincoat over her arm. The glass door flashed and closed behind her.
Strike’s eyes remained fixed for a few seconds on the place where Robin had vanished. Then he looked down at his watch. It was barely nine o’clock. The brunette divorcée whose emeralds lay in his safe was due at the office in just over half an hour.
He cleared and washed the mugs, then took out the necklace he had recovered, locked up the manuscript of Bombyx Mori in the safe instead, refilled the kettle and checked his emails.
They’ll postpone the wedding.
He did not want to feel glad about it. Pulling out his mobile, he called Anstis, who answered almost at once.
‘Bob?’
‘Anstis, I don’t know whether you’ve already got this, but there’s something you should know. Quine’s last novel describes his murder.’
‘Say that again?’
Strike explained. It was clear from the brief silence after he had finished speaking that Anstis had not yet had the information.
‘Bob, I need a copy of that manuscript. If I send someone over—?’
‘Give me three quarters of an hour,’ said Strike.
He was still photocopying when his brunette client arrived.
‘Where’s your secretary?’ were her first words, turning to him with a coquettish show of surprise, as though she was sure he had arranged for them to be alone.
‘Off sick. Diarrhoea and vomiting,’ said Strike repressively. ‘Shall we go through?’
20
Is Conscience a comrade for an old Soldier?
Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher, The False One
Late that evening Strike sat alone at his desk while the traffic rumbled through the rain outside, eating Singapore noodles with one hand and scribbling a list for himself with the other. The rest of the day’s work over, he was free to turn his attention fully to the murder of Owen Quine and in his spiky, hard-to-read handwriting was jotting down those things that must be done next. Beside some of them he had jotted the letter A for Anstis, and if it had crossed Strike’s mind that it might be considered arrogant or deluded of a private detective with no authority in the investigation to imagine he had the power to delegate tasks to the police officer in charge of the case, the thought did not trouble him.
Having worked with Anstis in Afghanistan, Strike did not have a particularly high opinion of the police officer’s abilities. He thought Anstis competent but unimaginative, an efficient recogniser of patterns, a reliable pursuer of the obvious. Strike did not despise these traits – the obvious was usually the answer and the methodical ticking of boxes the way to prove it – but this murder was elaborate, strange, sadistic and grotesque, literary in inspiration and ruthless in execution. Was Anstis capable of comprehending the mind that had nurtured a plan of murder in the fetid soil of Quine’s own imagination?
Strike’s mobile rang, piercing in the silence. Only when he had put it to his ear and heard Leonora Quine did he realise that he had been hoping it would be Robin.
‘How are you?’ he asked.
‘I’ve had the police here,’ she said, cutting through the social niceties. ‘They’ve been all through Owen’s study. I didn’t wanna, but Edna said I should let ’em. Can’t we be left in peace after what just happened?’
‘They’ve got grounds for a search,’ said Strike. ‘There might be something in Owen’s study that’ll give them a lead on his killer.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Strike patiently, ‘but I think Edna’s right. It was best to let them in.’
There was a silence.
‘Are you still there?’ he asked.
‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘and now they’ve left it locked up so I can’t get in it. And they wanna come back. I don’t like them being here. Orlando don’t like it. One of ’em,’ she sounded outraged, ‘asked if I wanted to move out of the house for a bit. I said, “No, I bloody don’t.” Orlando’s never stayed anywhere else, she couldn’t deal with it. I’m not going anywhere.’
‘The police haven’t said they want to question you, have they?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Only asked if they can go in the study.’
‘Good. If they want to ask you questions—’
‘I should get a lawyer, yeah. That’s what Edna said.’
‘Would it be all right if I come and see you tomorrow morning?’ he asked.
‘Yeah.’ She sounded glad. ‘Come round ten, I need to go shopping first thing. Couldn’t get out all day. I didn’t wanna leave them in the house without me here.’
Strike hung up, reflecting again that Leonora’s manner was unlikely to be standing her in good stead with the police. Would Anstis see, as Strike did, that Leonora’s slight obtuseness, her failure to produce what others felt was appropriate behaviour, her stubborn refusal to look at what she did not wish to look at – arguably the very qualities that had enabled her to endure the ordeal of living with Quine – would have made it impossible for her to kill him? Or would her oddities, her refusal to show normal grief reactions because of an innate though perhaps unwise honesty, cause the suspicion already lying in Anstis’s mundane mind to swell, obliterating other possibilities?
There was an intensity, almost a feverishness, about the way Strike returned to his scribbling, left hand still shovelling food into his mouth. Thoughts came fluently, cogently: jotting down the questions he wanted answered, locations he wanted cased, the trails he wanted followed. It was a plan of action for himself and a means of nudging Anstis in the right direction, of helping open his eyes to the fact that it was not always the wife when a husband was killed, even if the man had been feckless, unreliable and unfaithful.
At last Strike cast his pen down, finished the noodles in two large mouthfuls and cleared his desk. His notes h
e put into the cardboard folder with Owen Quine’s name on the spine, having first crossed out ‘Missing Person’ and substituted the word ‘Murder’. He turned off the lights and was on the point of locking the glass door when he thought of something and returned to Robin’s computer.
And there it was, on the BBC website. Not headline news, of course, because whatever Quine might have thought, he had not been a very famous man. It came three stories below the main news that the EU had agreed a bailout for the Irish Republic.
The body of a man believed to be writer Owen Quine, 58, has been found in a house in Talgarth Road, London. Police have launched a murder inquiry following the discovery, which was made yesterday by a family friend.
There was no photograph of Quine in his Tyrolean cloak, nor were there details of the horrors to which the body had been subjected. But it was early days; there was time.
Upstairs in his flat, some of Strike’s energy deserted him. He dropped onto his bed and rubbed his eyes wearily, then fell backwards and lay there, fully dressed, his prosthesis still attached. Thoughts he had managed to keep at bay now pressed in upon him…
Why had he not alerted the police to the fact that Quine had been missing for nearly two weeks? Why had he not suspected that Quine might be dead? He had had answers to these questions when DI Rawlins had put them to him, reasonable answers, sane answers, but he found it much more difficult to satisfy himself.
He did not need to take out his phone to see Quine’s body. The vision of that bound, decaying corpse seemed imprinted on his retinas. How much cunning, how much hatred, how much perversity had it taken to turn Quine’s literary excrescence into reality? What kind of human being could bring themselves to slit a man open and pour acid over him, to gut him and lay plates around his empty corpse?