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Authors: Robert Galbraith
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screaming. After insulting me both personally and professionally, he told me that if I wasn’t brave enough to represent him any more, he’d self-publish the thing – put it out as an ebook. Then he stormed out, parking me with the bill. N-not,’ she snarled, ‘that that’s anything un-un-unus—’
Her emotion triggered an even worse coughing fit than before. Strike thought she might actually choke. He half-rose out of his chair, but she waved him away. Finally, purple in the face, her eyes streaming, she said in a voice like gravel:
‘I did everything I could to put it right. My whole weekend by the sea ruined; I was on the phone constantly, trying to get hold of Fisher and Waldegrave. Message after message, stuck out on the bloody cliffs at Gwithian trying to get reception—’
‘Is that where you’re from?’ Strike asked, mildly surprised, because he heard no echo of his Cornish childhood in her accent.
‘It’s where one of my authors lives. I told her I hadn’t been out of London in four years and she invited me for the weekend. Wanted to show me all the lovely places where she sets her books. Some of the m-most beautiful scenery I’ve ever seen but all I could think about was b-bloody
Bombyx Mori
and trying to stop anyone reading it. I couldn’t sleep. I felt dreadful…
‘I finally heard back from Jerry at Sunday lunchtime. He hadn’t gone on his anniversary weekend after all, and he claims he’d never got my messages, so he’d decided to read the bloody book.
‘He was disgusted and furious. I assured Jerry that I’d do everything in my power to stop the damn thing… but I had to admit that I’d also sent it to Christian, at which Jerry slammed the phone down on me.’
‘Did you tell him that Quine had threatened to put the book out over the internet?’
‘No, I did not,’ she said hoarsely. ‘I was praying that was an empty threat, because Owen really doesn’t know one end of a computer from the other. But I was worried…’
Her voice trailed away.
‘You were worried?’ Strike prompted her.
She did not answer.
‘This self-publishing explains something,’ said Strike casually. ‘Leonora says Quine took his own copy of the manuscript and all his notes with him when he disappeared into the night. I did wonder whether he was intending to burn it or throw it in a river, but presumably he took it with a view to turning it into an ebook.’
This information did nothing to improve Elizabeth Tassel’s temper. Through clenched teeth she said:
‘There’s a girlfriend. They met on a writing course he taught. She’s self-published. I know about her because Owen tried to interest me in her bloody awful erotic fantasy novels.’
‘Have you contacted her?’ Strike asked.
‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I have. I wanted to frighten her off, tell her that if Owen tried to rope her in to help him reformat the book or sell it online she’d probably be party to a lawsuit.’
‘What did she say?’
‘I couldn’t get hold of her. I tried several times. Maybe she’s not at that number any more, I don’t know.’
‘Could I take her details?’ Strike asked.
‘Ralph’s got her card. I asked him to keep ringing her for me.
Ralph!
’ she bellowed.
‘He’s still out with Beau!’ came the girl’s frightened squeak from beyond the door. Elizabeth Tassel rolled her eyes and got heavily to her feet.
‘There’s no point asking
her
to find it.’
When the door had swung shut behind the agent, Strike got at once to his feet, moved behind the desk and bent down to examine a photograph on the wall that had caught his eye, which necessitated the removal of a double portrait on the bookcase, featuring a pair of Dobermanns.
The picture in which he was interested was A4-sized, in colour but very faded. Judging by the fashions of the four people it featured, it had been taken at least twenty-five years previously, outside this very building.
Elizabeth herself was clearly
Her emotion triggered an even worse coughing fit than before. Strike thought she might actually choke. He half-rose out of his chair, but she waved him away. Finally, purple in the face, her eyes streaming, she said in a voice like gravel:
‘I did everything I could to put it right. My whole weekend by the sea ruined; I was on the phone constantly, trying to get hold of Fisher and Waldegrave. Message after message, stuck out on the bloody cliffs at Gwithian trying to get reception—’
‘Is that where you’re from?’ Strike asked, mildly surprised, because he heard no echo of his Cornish childhood in her accent.
‘It’s where one of my authors lives. I told her I hadn’t been out of London in four years and she invited me for the weekend. Wanted to show me all the lovely places where she sets her books. Some of the m-most beautiful scenery I’ve ever seen but all I could think about was b-bloody
Bombyx Mori
and trying to stop anyone reading it. I couldn’t sleep. I felt dreadful…
‘I finally heard back from Jerry at Sunday lunchtime. He hadn’t gone on his anniversary weekend after all, and he claims he’d never got my messages, so he’d decided to read the bloody book.
‘He was disgusted and furious. I assured Jerry that I’d do everything in my power to stop the damn thing… but I had to admit that I’d also sent it to Christian, at which Jerry slammed the phone down on me.’
‘Did you tell him that Quine had threatened to put the book out over the internet?’
‘No, I did not,’ she said hoarsely. ‘I was praying that was an empty threat, because Owen really doesn’t know one end of a computer from the other. But I was worried…’
Her voice trailed away.
‘You were worried?’ Strike prompted her.
She did not answer.
‘This self-publishing explains something,’ said Strike casually. ‘Leonora says Quine took his own copy of the manuscript and all his notes with him when he disappeared into the night. I did wonder whether he was intending to burn it or throw it in a river, but presumably he took it with a view to turning it into an ebook.’
This information did nothing to improve Elizabeth Tassel’s temper. Through clenched teeth she said:
‘There’s a girlfriend. They met on a writing course he taught. She’s self-published. I know about her because Owen tried to interest me in her bloody awful erotic fantasy novels.’
‘Have you contacted her?’ Strike asked.
‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I have. I wanted to frighten her off, tell her that if Owen tried to rope her in to help him reformat the book or sell it online she’d probably be party to a lawsuit.’
‘What did she say?’
‘I couldn’t get hold of her. I tried several times. Maybe she’s not at that number any more, I don’t know.’
‘Could I take her details?’ Strike asked.
‘Ralph’s got her card. I asked him to keep ringing her for me.
Ralph!
’ she bellowed.
‘He’s still out with Beau!’ came the girl’s frightened squeak from beyond the door. Elizabeth Tassel rolled her eyes and got heavily to her feet.
‘There’s no point asking
her
to find it.’
When the door had swung shut behind the agent, Strike got at once to his feet, moved behind the desk and bent down to examine a photograph on the wall that had caught his eye, which necessitated the removal of a double portrait on the bookcase, featuring a pair of Dobermanns.
The picture in which he was interested was A4-sized, in colour but very faded. Judging by the fashions of the four people it featured, it had been taken at least twenty-five years previously, outside this very building.
Elizabeth herself was clearly
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