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Fisher. ‘If you tell the truth in a grotesque way – not that I’m suggesting,’ he added hastily, ‘that the stuff he’s saying is
true
. It couldn’t be
literally
true. But everyone’s recognisable; he’s done over quite a few people and in a very clever way… It feels a lot like Fancourt’s early stuff, actually. Load of gore and arcane symbolism… you can’t see quite what he’s getting at in some places, but you want to know, what’s in the bag, what’s in the fire?’
    ‘What’s in the—?’
    ‘Never mind – it’s just stuff in the book. Didn’t Leonora tell you any of this?’
    ‘No,’ said Strike.
    ‘Bizarre,’ said Christian Fisher, ‘she must
know
. I’d’ve thought Quine’s the sort of writer who lectures the family on his work at every mealtime.’
    ‘Why did you think Chard or Fancourt would hire a private detective, when you didn’t know Quine was missing?’
    Fisher shrugged.
    ‘I dunno. I thought maybe one of them was trying to find out what he’s planning to do with the book, so they could stop him, or warn the new publisher they’ll sue. Or that they might be hoping to get something on Owen – fight fire with fire.’
    ‘Is that why were you so keen to see me?’ asked Strike. ‘Have you got something on Quine?’
    ‘No,’ said Fisher with a laugh. ‘I’m just nosy. Wanted to know what’s going on.’
    He checked his watch, turned over a copy of a book cover in front of him and pushed out his chair a little. Strike took the hint.
    ‘Thanks for your time,’ he said, standing up. ‘If you hear from Owen Quine, will you let me know?’
    He handed Fisher a card. Fisher frowned at it as he moved around his desk to show Strike out.
    ‘Cormoran Strike…
Strike
…
I know that name, don’t I…?’
    The penny dropped. Fisher was suddenly reanimated, as though his batteries had been changed.
    ‘Bloody hell, you’re the Lula Landry guy!’
    Strike knew that he could have sat back down, ordered a latte and enjoyed Fisher’s undivided attention for another hour or so. Instead, he extricated himself with firm friendliness and, within a few minutes, re-emerged alone on the cold misty street.

7
     
    I’ll be sworn, I was ne’er guilty of reading the like.
Ben Jonson,
Every Man in His Humour
     
    When informed by telephone that her husband was not, after all, at the writer’s retreat, Leonora Quine sounded anxious.
    ‘Where is he, then?’ she asked, more of herself, it seemed, than Strike.
    ‘Where does he usually go when he walks out?’ Strike asked.
    ‘Hotels,’ she said, ‘and once he was staying with some woman but he don’t know her no more. Orlando,’ she said sharply, away from the receiver, ‘put that
down
, it’s mine. I said, it’s
mine
. What?’ she said, loudly in Strike’s ear.
    ‘I didn’t say anything. D’you want me to keep looking for your husband?’
    ‘Course I do, who else is gonna bloody find him? I can’t leave Orlando. Ask Liz Tassel where he is. She found him before. Hilton,’ said Leonora unexpectedly. ‘He was at the Hilton once.’
    ‘Which Hilton?’
    ‘I dunno, ask Liz. She made him go off, she should be bloody helping bring him back. She won’t take my calls. Orlando,
put it down
.’
    ‘Is there anyone else you can think—?’
    ‘No, or I’d’ve bloody asked them, wouldn’t I?’ snapped Leonora. ‘You’re the detective, you find him!
Orlando!
’
    ‘Mrs Quine, we’ve got—’
    ‘Call me Leonora.’
    ‘Leonora, we’ve got to consider the possibility that your husband might have done himself an injury. We’d find him more quickly,’ said Strike, raising his voice over the domestic clamour at the other end of the line, ‘if we involved the police.’
    ‘I don’t wanna. I called them that time he was gone a week and he turned up at his lady friend’s and they weren’t happy. He’ll be angry if I do that again. Anyway, Owen wouldn’t –
Orlando, leave it!
’
    ‘The police could circulate his