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The silkworm novel7/5/2023 Strike could hear voices through the gloom, shouted instructions and the growl and beep of reversing lorries unloading the carcasses. The slight unevenness in his gait became more pronounced as he walked down the slope towards Smithfield Market, monolithic in the winter darkness, a vast rectangular Victorian temple to meat, where from four every weekday morning animal flesh was unloaded, as it had been for centuries past, cut, parceled and sold to butchers and restaurants across London. "Smithfield Café on Long Lane," said Strike and rang off. Strike could hear the rustling of sheets. You need this now if you're going to use it."Ī groan. "Culpepper, I've got another client this morning, he pays better than you do and I've been up all night. "You told me," said Strike, stifling a yawn. "How d'you know where I live?" demanded the voice. "It's half past, but if you want what I've got, you'll need to come and get it," said Cormoran Strike. "It's six o'clock in the fucking morning!" The large unshaven man tramping through the darkness of pre-dawn, with his telephone clamped to his ear, grinned. "Someone bloody famous," said the hoarse voice on the end of the line, "better've died, Strike."
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