Back in his meagre but orderly office above a small graphic design studio off Tottenham Court Rd, a woman comes to see Strike to report the disappearance of her husband, a little-known writer named Owen Quine. Out of pity and curiosity, Strike takes on the case. It soon transpires Quine had penned a poisonous manuscript enraging pretty much everyone he knows, so when the writer's body is found, Strike finds himself at the centre of a brutal murder investigation with endless suspects.
What follows is a tightly stitched updating of the classic tale of the dishevelled but brilliant private dick, smattered with references to 19th century French literature and pre-Levenson sleuthing tactics, alongside well-realised characters, not least a chain-smoking literary agent with an incontinent doberman, who capitalises on the fact that she "awoke in those who were susceptible, childhood memories of demanding and all-powerful mothers".
Over the course of 455 moreish pages Strike tackles the case with the help of his loyal assistant, Robin Ellacott. "Tall, curvaceous, with a clear, brilliant complexion and bright blue-grey eyes", Ellacott was asked to stay on at the end of the previous book, having arrived from a temping agency to help answer phone calls, before proving herself to be a worthy apprentice.
At the centre of this equally compelling follow-up is a significant shift in the relationship between Strike and Ellacott, as her engagement to the insufferable Matthew, which had once "imposed a useful barrier between Strike and girl who might otherwise disturb his equilibrium", comes under increasing pressure.
- Independent
The SilkWorm by Robert Galbraith (J.K. Rowling) (Sphere $37.99).
