© J.K. Rowling. All Rights Reserved.
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The Silkworm
33
‘Sorry I’m late,’ said Strike, limping over the threshold. ‘I had an accident leaving the house. My leg.’
He had not brought her anything, he realised, standing there in his overcoat. He should have brought wine or chocolates and he felt her notice it as her big eyes roved over him; she had good manners herself and he felt, suddenly, a little shabby.
‘And I’ve forgotten the wine I bought you,’ he lied. ‘This is crap. Chuck me out.’