Read Online The Silkworm by Robert Galbraith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Galbraith
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recognisable, the only woman in the group, big and plain with long, windswept dark hair and wearing an unflattering drop-waisted dress of dark pink and turquoise. On one side of her stood a slim, fair-haired young man of extreme beauty; on the other was a short, sallow-skinned, sour-looking man whose head was too large for his body. He looked faintly familiar. Strike thought he might have seen him in the papers or on TV.
Beside the unidentified but possibly well-known man stood a much younger Owen Quine. The tallest of the four, he was wearing a crumpled white suit and a hairstyle best described as a spiky mullet. He reminded Strike irresistibly of a fat David Bowie.
The door swished open on its well-oiled hinges. Strike did not attempt to cover up what he was doing, but turned to face the agent, who was holding a sheet of paper.
‘That’s Fletcher,’ she said, her eyes on the picture of the dogs in his hand. ‘He died last year.’
He replaced the portrait of her dogs on the bookcase.
‘Oh,’ she said, catching on. ‘You were looking at the other one.’
She approached the faded picture; shoulder to shoulder with Strike, he noted that she was nearly six feet tall. She smelled of John Player Specials and Arpège.
‘That’s the day I started my agency. Those are my first three clients.’
‘Who’s he?’ asked Strike of the beautiful blond youth.
‘Joseph North. The most talented of them, by far. Unfortunately, he died young.’
‘And who’s—?’
‘Michael Fancourt, of course,’ she said, sounding surprised.
‘I thought he looked familiar. D’you still represent him?’
‘No! I thought…’
He heard the rest of the sentence, even though she did not say it:
I thought everyone knew that
. Worlds within worlds: perhaps all of literary London
did
know why the famous Fancourt was no longer her client, but he did not.
‘Why don’t you represent him any more?’ he asked, resuming his seat.
She passed the paper in her hand across the desk to him; it was a photocopy of what looked like a flimsy and grubby business card.
‘I had to choose between Michael and Owen, years ago,’ she said. ‘And like a b-bloody fool’ – she had begun to cough again; her voice was disintegrating into a guttural croak – ‘I chose Owen.
‘Those are the only contact details I’ve got for Kathryn Kent,’ she added firmly, closing down further discussion of Fancourt.
‘Thank you,’ he said, folding the paper and tucking it inside his wallet. ‘How long has Quine been seeing her, do you know?’
‘A while. He brings her to parties while Leonora’s stuck at home with Orlando. Utterly shameless.’
‘No idea where he might be hiding? Leonora says you’ve found him, the other times he’s—’
‘I don’t “find” Owen,’ she snapped. ‘He rings me up after a week or so in a hotel and asks for an advance – which is what he calls a gift of money – to pay the minibar bill.’
‘And you pay, do you?’ asked Strike. She seemed very far from a pushover.
Her grimace seemed to acknowledge a weakness of which she was ashamed, but her response was unexpected.
‘Have you met Orlando?’
‘No.’
She opened her mouth to continue but seemed to think better of it and merely said:
‘Owen and I go back a very long way. We were good friends… once,’ she added, on a note of deep bitterness.
‘Which hotels has he stayed at before this?’
‘I can’t remember all of them. The Kensington Hilton once. The Danubius in St John’s Wood. Big faceless hotels with all the creature comforts he can’t get at home. Owen’s no citizen of Bohemia – except in his approach to hygiene.’
‘You know Quine well. You don’t think there’s any chance that he might have—?’
She finished the sentence for him with a faint sneer.
‘—“done something silly?” Of course not. He’d never dream of depriving the world of the genius of Owen Quine. No, he’s out there plotting his revenge on all of
Beside the unidentified but possibly well-known man stood a much younger Owen Quine. The tallest of the four, he was wearing a crumpled white suit and a hairstyle best described as a spiky mullet. He reminded Strike irresistibly of a fat David Bowie.
The door swished open on its well-oiled hinges. Strike did not attempt to cover up what he was doing, but turned to face the agent, who was holding a sheet of paper.
‘That’s Fletcher,’ she said, her eyes on the picture of the dogs in his hand. ‘He died last year.’
He replaced the portrait of her dogs on the bookcase.
‘Oh,’ she said, catching on. ‘You were looking at the other one.’
She approached the faded picture; shoulder to shoulder with Strike, he noted that she was nearly six feet tall. She smelled of John Player Specials and Arpège.
‘That’s the day I started my agency. Those are my first three clients.’
‘Who’s he?’ asked Strike of the beautiful blond youth.
‘Joseph North. The most talented of them, by far. Unfortunately, he died young.’
‘And who’s—?’
‘Michael Fancourt, of course,’ she said, sounding surprised.
‘I thought he looked familiar. D’you still represent him?’
‘No! I thought…’
He heard the rest of the sentence, even though she did not say it:
I thought everyone knew that
. Worlds within worlds: perhaps all of literary London
did
know why the famous Fancourt was no longer her client, but he did not.
‘Why don’t you represent him any more?’ he asked, resuming his seat.
She passed the paper in her hand across the desk to him; it was a photocopy of what looked like a flimsy and grubby business card.
‘I had to choose between Michael and Owen, years ago,’ she said. ‘And like a b-bloody fool’ – she had begun to cough again; her voice was disintegrating into a guttural croak – ‘I chose Owen.
‘Those are the only contact details I’ve got for Kathryn Kent,’ she added firmly, closing down further discussion of Fancourt.
‘Thank you,’ he said, folding the paper and tucking it inside his wallet. ‘How long has Quine been seeing her, do you know?’
‘A while. He brings her to parties while Leonora’s stuck at home with Orlando. Utterly shameless.’
‘No idea where he might be hiding? Leonora says you’ve found him, the other times he’s—’
‘I don’t “find” Owen,’ she snapped. ‘He rings me up after a week or so in a hotel and asks for an advance – which is what he calls a gift of money – to pay the minibar bill.’
‘And you pay, do you?’ asked Strike. She seemed very far from a pushover.
Her grimace seemed to acknowledge a weakness of which she was ashamed, but her response was unexpected.
‘Have you met Orlando?’
‘No.’
She opened her mouth to continue but seemed to think better of it and merely said:
‘Owen and I go back a very long way. We were good friends… once,’ she added, on a note of deep bitterness.
‘Which hotels has he stayed at before this?’
‘I can’t remember all of them. The Kensington Hilton once. The Danubius in St John’s Wood. Big faceless hotels with all the creature comforts he can’t get at home. Owen’s no citizen of Bohemia – except in his approach to hygiene.’
‘You know Quine well. You don’t think there’s any chance that he might have—?’
She finished the sentence for him with a faint sneer.
‘—“done something silly?” Of course not. He’d never dream of depriving the world of the genius of Owen Quine. No, he’s out there plotting his revenge on all of
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