The Silkworm (A Cormoran Strike Novel)
Private investigator Cormoran Strike returns in a new mystery from Robert Galbraith, author of the #1 international bestseller The Cuckoo's Calling.
London to Harrogate rather than miss Mrs. Cunliffe’s funeral. Strike had been with Charlotte sixteen years, on and off, and the job had broken them. She did not want to lose Matthew. Why had she done this; why had she offered to drive Strike? The traffic was dense and slow. By five o’clock they were traveling in thick rush-hour traffic outside Reading and crawled to a halt again. Strike turned up the news when it came on the radio. Robin tried to care what they would say about Quine’s murder,
you.” And she had gone, sprinting over the snow with her weekend bag dangling from her hand. Strike watched her vanish into the darkness, imagined her skidding a little on the slippery floor of the station, not falling, looking wildly around for the platform…She had left the car, on his instructions, at the curb on a double line. If she made the train he was stranded in a hire car he couldn’t drive and which would certainly be towed. The golden hands on the St. Pancras clock moved inexorably
his nose to the sitting room, where Nina had laid a table for two. The room was lamplit; she had tidied, put fresh flowers around the place. A strong smell of burnt garlic hung in the air. “Sorry,” he repeated as she returned carrying a dish. “Wish I had a nine-to-five job sometimes.” “Help yourself to wine,” she said coolly. The situation was deeply familiar. How often had he sat opposite a woman who was irritated by his lateness, his divided attention, his casualness? But here, at least, it
the story anyway. Rock star’s estranged son is a war hero, never knew his father, working as a private—” “Instructing people to hack phones is illegal as well, I’ve heard.” At the top of Long Lane they slowed and turned to face each other. Culpepper’s laugh was uneasy. “I’ll wait for your invoice, then.” “Suits me.” They set off in different directions, Strike heading towards the Tube station. “Strike!” Culpepper’s voice echoed through the darkness behind him. “Did you fuck her?” “Looking
though he had spent the night puzzling it out, how Helly Anstis knew Charlotte’s wedding plans. He had been stupid not to think of it before. His subconscious had known. Once clean, dressed and breakfasted he headed downstairs. Glancing out of the window behind his desk, he noted that the knifelike cold was keeping away the little cluster of journalists who had waited in vain for his return the previous day. Sleet pattered on the windows as he moved back to the outer office and Robin’s computer.