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Cormoran?’
    ‘Yeah,’ said Strike. ‘And Jack’s supposed to have killed him. Of beanstalk fame.’
    ‘It’s here somewhere,’ said Fisher, still searching the shelves. ‘
Folk Tales of the British Isles
. Have you got kids?’
    ‘No,’ said Strike.
    ‘Oh,’ said Fisher. ‘Well, I won’t bother, then.’
    And with a grin he took the chair opposite Strike.
    ‘So, am I allowed to ask who’s hired you? Am I allowed to guess?’
    ‘Feel free,’ said Strike, who on principle never forbade speculation.
    ‘It’s either Daniel Chard or Michael Fancourt,’ said Fisher. ‘Am I right?’
    The lenses on his glasses gave his eyes a concentrated, beady look. Though giving no outward sign, Strike was taken aback. Michael Fancourt was a very famous writer who had recently won a major literary prize. Why exactly would he be interested in the missing Quine?
    ‘Afraid not,’ said Strike. ‘It’s Quine’s wife, Leonora.’
    Fisher looked almost comically astonished.
    ‘His wife?’ he repeated blankly. ‘That mousy woman who looks like Rose West? What’s
she
hired a private detective for?’
    ‘Her husband’s disappeared. He’s been gone eleven days.’
    ‘Quine’s
disappeared
? But – but then…’
    Strike could tell Fisher had been anticipating a very different conversation, one to which he had been eagerly looking forward.
    ‘But why’s she sent you to me?’
    ‘She thinks you know where Quine is.’
    ‘How the hell would I know?’ asked Fisher, and he appeared genuinely bewildered. ‘He’s not a friend of mine.’
    ‘Mrs Quine says she heard you telling her husband about a writer’s retreat, at a party—’
    ‘
Oh,
’ said Fisher, ‘Bigley Hall, yeah. But Owen won’t be
there
!’ When he laughed, he was transformed into a bespectacled Puck: merriment laced with slyness. ‘They wouldn’t let Owen Quine in if he paid them. Born shit-stirrer. And one of the women who runs the place hates his guts. He wrote a stinking review of her first novel and she’s never forgiven him.’
    ‘Could you give me the number anyway?’ asked Strike.
    ‘I’ve got it on here,’ said Fisher, pulling a mobile out of the back pocket of his jeans. ‘I’ll call now…’
    And he did so, setting the mobile on the desk between them and switching it on to speakerphone for Strike’s benefit. After a full minute of ringing, a breathless female voice answered:
    ‘Bigley Hall.’
    ‘Hi, is that Shannon? It’s Chris Fisher here, from Crossfire.’
    ‘Oh, hi Chris, how’s it going?’
    The door of Fisher’s office opened and the scruffy dark girl from outside came in, wordlessly placed a latte in front of Fisher and departed.
    ‘I’m phoning, Shan,’ Fisher said, as the door clicked shut, ‘to see if you’ve got Owen Quine staying. He hasn’t turned up there, has he?’
    ‘
Quine?
’
    Even reduced to a distant and tinny monosyllable, Shannon’s dislike echoed scornfully around the book-lined room.
    ‘Yeah, have you seen him?’
    ‘Not for a year or more. Why? He’s not thinking of coming here, is he? He won’t be bloody welcome, I can tell you that.’
    ‘No worries, Shan, I think his wife’s got hold of the wrong end of the stick. Speak soon.’
    Fisher cut off her farewells, keen to return to Strike.
    ‘See?’ he said. ‘Told you. He couldn’t go to Bigley Hall if he wanted to.’
    ‘Couldn’t you have told his wife that, when she phoned you up?’
    ‘Oh,
that’s
what she kept calling about!’ said Fisher with an air of dawning comprehension. ‘I thought
Owen
was making her call me.’
    ‘Why would he make his wife phone you?’
    ‘Oh, come on,’ said Fisher, with a grin, and when Strike did not grin back, he laughed shortly and said, ‘Because of
Bombyx Mori
. I thought it’d be typical of Quine to try to get his wife to call me and sound me out.’
    ‘
Bombyx Mori
,’ repeated Strike, trying to sound neither interrogative nor puzzled.
    ‘Yeah, I thought Quine was pestering